Humor by John Christmann
The Tropic of Cancer
My brother-in-law Dave is sick. Really sick. Stage IV throat cancer sick.
He is way too young and healthy to have cancer. But then, everyone is way too young and healthy to have cancer. It does not favor age or condition or location. It just moves in without invitation. Like a neighbor from hell.
Dave has spent most of his long summer mornings in a snug face mask bolted fast to a table. He grasps a pair of cold, sweat-faded handholds to force his shoulders flat while the business end of a linear accelerator hovers over his face. For seven weeks his head has been bombarded with invisible pulses of radiation which ionize his cancerous DNA until the skin on his neck turns black.
“Am I glowing?” he asks everyone as he leaves the radiation treatment center.
On his afternoons off he reclines in a comfortable arm chair for six hours watching DVDs and listening to music while efficient chemotherapy nurses slowly drip cytotoxic drugs into his veins. On the other days he just stays at home and gets sick.
He hasn’t been able to use his tongue for awhile. There is an inoperable tumor in back. It is swollen and atrophied and painful, making it difficult to talk and impossible to swallow. He reluctantly consumes liquid Ensure directly to his stomach through a surgically attached feeding tube administered by my sister.
He slurs when he speaks. But he makes himself understood.
“Mmmm. What’s for dinner?” he asks, pretending to smack his lips just to raise a smile. It varies by vanilla, chocolate, or strawberry, but he can’t taste it anyway. He says they should make beer flavors.
The day after starting chemo he presented a wad of different colored hair collected from various brushes around his house to my sister as a joke. “Look what came out!” he said like a proud kid losing his first tooth.
After she laughed she started crying. Shortly thereafter, when his mustache gave way to red raw skin, he cried too.
My sister takes care of him. They live in California so I call her on the phone. In a single conversation she will alternately cry and laugh three or four times. I think this is pretty healthy, so I call as often as I can.
Last week I finally traveled to visit them. I took my teenage son with me. He is ready to address the more difficult life lessons head on. Before we left I tried to prepare him for his Uncle Dave’s treatment and condition. And I spun natural encouragement into related topics like prognoses and dice and god.
We talked about every friend and family member we knew who had cancer at one time or another and thought about what they might have gone through. Most are well now. Others are scarred for life and others still engaged in battle. And, tragically, some are gone.
Then we talked about helping people. How sometimes we want to do something but can’t. How sometimes we can help just by showing up, just by being there.
My son didn’t say too much; but his silence was long and thoughtful.
When we arrived at their home in California, Dave greeted us. He was gaunt and boney, and weighed but a little over one hundred pounds. He looked aged and tired. He shuffled about carrying a roll of paper towels and a trash bag. Every five minutes or so he turned away to cough up irradiated mucus.
“How do you feel Uncle Dave?” asked my son sincerely after sharing a warm embrace.
Dave held his right arm in front of him with effort. It quivered slightly. “Well,” he gurgled painfully, “my right arm is pretty good . . .”
There was a long pause as he worked up the energy to speak again. “But my left arm . . .”
We watched apprehensively as he slowly brought his left hand into view. It swung around in grand exaggerated circles before it finally came to rest perfectly still in front of him. “I guess my left arm is pretty good too,” he said.
We could see the silent smile in his eyes. And then we all busted out laughing.
Now, in late August, Dave goops on protective humor like sunscreen as the strong rays migrate south from their zenith over the Tropic of Cancer. And he waits for the sickness to disappear in the lengthening shadows and the drier weather to force out the unwanted neighbor in his throat.
And we all await the end of summer with him.
On our way home I ask my son if he has learned anything. He thinks for a minute, and then smiles. “Uncle Dave is pretty cool.”
He is right about that.
© 2010 Dadinthebox.com