A simple questions

from Joe's FB 3/11/14

There are a lot of parts of the cancer experience that I think most people can empathetically extend themselves to understand: Insurance company fights. The nervousness the week before scans. I think people can even instinctively understand the internal struggle of facing one’s own mortality. But last night I got caught by a sucker punch that I didn’t see coming, and the nonchalance of it has had me reeling for the past 18 hours or so.



Last night, I went into the boys’ room, and all three of us independently read silently for a while – Mark, a Star Wars book; Joey, a Wimpy Kid book; me, another book shattering the legend of Douglas MacArthur. Mark finished his reading first, and in a chipper voice, completely unconcerned, said:



“Dad? Are you going to be alive when I’m ten?”



I don’t think he meant it the way I perceived it. Frankly, I don’t think he completely understands what we’re fighting, certainly not in the way Ellie or Joey understand it. It caught me completely off balance. I answered,



“I sure hope so, buddy.”



“Are you going to be alive when I’m 16?”



“I plan on it.”



“Are you going to be alive when I get married?”



“I sure hope I am there for that, pal.”



I have tried very hard to be positive throughout all of this, and I still believe deeply that I *can* win. There are times I’m cocky enough to know that I’m going to win. I also know full well that NONE of us can promise that we’re going to be around tomorrow, much less 20 years into the future. But his questions last night absolutely cut to the core of my greatest fears.



What if I’m NOT there when they turn 16?



What if I’m NOT there when they get married?



All of these questions first crossed my mind three years ago at the end of this month, on the second floor of Wood County Hospital, as a doctor told me I had a large tumor, that was almost certainly cancerous, and was too dangerous to be operated upon locally. At first, my concern was completely self-centered. *I* didn’t want to miss being at all of these things. Later, my concern drifted to them – kids, both natural and extended, growing up without a dad. The sorrow that would be in the corner of every joyful moment they’d have. The sometimes unspoken “I wish Dad was here to…” Maybe I put too much stock in fatherhood, there are plenty of great mom-led families I know. Maybe it’s an inflated sense of self-importance, and they’ll be just fine without a dad.



At this point in this journey, I think that’s the only thing I’m truly scared of. Actual dying? I suppose that’s the easy part. It’s imagining the twinge of sadness that it will bring to their lives that really shakes me.