The Good, the Bad, and the Irony

“This is a story about a family and, as there is a ghost involved, you might call it a ghost story. But every family is a ghost story. The dead sit at out tables long after they have gone.”

― Mitch Albom, For One More Day

Faced with a choice of one topic that carries a lot of emotional weight for me, cancer is the perfect candidate. Why? I am a cancer orphan. It has profoundly affected my life since I was an infant. My dad died a week after his 26th birthday, creating a shadow to be present in every important time and place. This piece is about what that means for me. There will be thoughts known to my friends, and some I have longed to express but never found the right words.

To start chronologically, I remember no particular moment of realization that I was missing a parent and that this was something tragic. The normal was my mother, sister and I, and this did not seem unusual until I became old enough to really notice that most kids had two parents. This was when I started asking questions, and also when I stopped asking questions, discovering there were words that stirred emotions that were too overwhelming to process. My information came from photo albums and listening in on conversations between adults on a rare evening of melancholic reminiscence. For the sake of context, I should add that I grew up in a culture where funerals are attended in much higher numbers than weddings, and grieving is considered a form of respect for the dead. The death of a young person is mostly regarded as the ultimate tragedy, and often too unbearable to even talk about. There is usually a change of tone when someone says the word "cancer", as if speaking about a monster that might wake up if you cay its name.

Even though part of me always wondered why it is such a big deal to have a single parent, and things always seemed to work well for us, the shadow was always there. Not talking about it seemed only to intensify the feeling, as if our unified avoidance somehow made it more real. Make no mistake, this was not the spooky kind of shadow. It was the warm, comforting kind, reminding us that we are the most tangible part of this presence that most can only remember.

By the time I was ten I felt that I had a fairly good grip on things. I had reassured my best friends that it is perfectly fine to talk about their dads, and my whole life up until then was more than enough time to come to terms with this. And then there was a time when a teacher was filling out information about the parents' occupations and he had the students get up one at a time and say their parents' names and what they did for a living. I did have that slight feeling of dread, but I was still sure it would be OK. When it was my turn I got up and said my mother's name and job and said my father's name, but when asked the other question, I could not bring myself to utter a sound. This incident pretty much destroyed my hopes of not being treated differently, and eventually resulted in a conclusion that this is something I can't change and a decision to try not to waste energy being frustrated about it.

Growing up, I imagined all my future relationships would be fatally flawed, and vividly saw myself going to a fertility clinic and looking at donor profiles to start a family on my own. I was wrong, and found myself fiercely in love, married, and aching to have children as soon as possible before I was even out of college. Being a chronic over-thinker, this blissful happiness brought about thoughts like "This is what it was like for my parents before everything changed." There were still difficulties, we had to make hard decisions like many young newlyweds. Still there were many breathtakingly happy moments and I frequently thought how my parents were given less than two years of that. When my son was learning to walk, I thought about my mother watching me do the same and feeling the void next to her. There was also the irrational fear that one of us (my husband or I) might not live to celebrate our second wedding anniversary. Of course we did, and have witnessed many milestones together. Then there was the time when I got heartburn for the first time and obsessively googled symptoms of gastric cancer. My research told me the same thing my doctor confirmed at the annual check up the year I turned (you guessed it, 26!), that the genetic factor is far less significant in increasing risk than lifestyle factors, which put me in the lower than average risk bracket.

I am now a few years older than my father ever was. Mostly because I find it makes people uncomfortable, I rarely talk about him, but I still remember being told what high hopes he had for me. I imagine how he would proudly foster my son's obsession with cars, adore my daughter's smile and curls and find much to talk about with my husband. There have been other family and friends who were diagnosed with cancer, most of whom have reached remission. Melodramatic as it may sound, every one of them is my personal hero.

As an incurable optimist, I have to admit that this entire struggle is what has fostered my ability to value every scrumptious meal, every "I love you" and "I'm sorry", every hug and smile and even every argument. It is horrifying to admit that for this talent that makes me a better wife, mother and friend, I have to thank this one human affliction that I most passionately loathe.  It is horrifying, but my friends, you just have to appreciate the irony.