I heard the familiar voice as I walked down the hall toward the hospital exam room. “My little girl took me to more games during the 2011 season than I ever took her to in her entire life.”
My dad was showing the clinical trial coordinator photos from that season. He had been telling his clinical trial team stories of the 2011 season, and he promised to show them the photos.
He looked at me when I opened the door. “How many games did we go to in 2011?” he asked me. I told him it was in the 30s, and that wasn’t counting the three postseason games we attended. His coordinator looked at me like I was insane.
I’ve attended games with my dad since I was a baby, but somehow 2011 was our year. Tickets were plentiful, thanks to generous friends and generous ticket deals from the Cardinals. When I was a kid, going to three games a year was a big deal. In 2011, we often went to that many games in a week.
We braved cold weather, rain and broiling hot temperatures, but we never missed an inning. We always met at the Stan Musial statue, like everyone else, and my dad was always amazed that I no longer ate hot dogs. I was always amazed that he could never eat anything without wearing it. We once spent a warm Sunday afternoon sitting behind the Cardinals’ dugout while my dad consumed his weight in nachos and hot dogs. Our section was frequently featured on the video board, and there was my dad with mustard all over his face for the entire stadium to see.
Later during that game, a foul ball headed our way. I sat there, frozen in fear. It was headed right to me. “Daddy, that ball is going to break my nose,” I managed to say. He looked up, pushed me out of the way and caught the ball. Barehanded.
Another game, we were sitting on the third base line when the opposing team’s pitcher threw the ball near us during warm ups. The catcher ran over, grabbed the ball and offered to sign it for us. I handed the ball to my dad, who took one look and said, “I think this is for you.” The catcher wrote his name and number on the ball.
We took the entire family to the final home game of the season against the rival Chicago Cubs. The Cardinals were trying to make the playoffs. As the Cubs imploded that afternoon, my dad sat there with a huge grin on his face. “There’s the Cubs being the Cubs again!”
The last game we attended was the second game of the World Series. Three months later my father would be diagnosed with stage three colon cancer. Treatment made him to ill to attend a game during the 2012 season. I went on without him, grateful for my friends who stepped up and took his place. I cried at every game, still holding out hope that we’d make it back to the stadium.
The Cardinals made the postseason again in 2012, and I managed to get tickets to game one of the World Series. That game was dedicated to the nonprofit group Stand Up to Cancer, and I wanted to take my dad to that game and honor him. But the San Francisco Giants had other plans. I sat in my living room and cried and cried as the Giants won the pennant and the World Series trip. I wasn’t going to be able to stand up for my dad.
But my friends Maggie and Kathryn, who are lifetime Giants fans, did it for me. They went to game one with a sign honoring my dad, and they even managed to get on television with it. He saw it. A framed photo of them with the sign is now in his baseball memorabilia cabinet.
We have a new routine now. I take a photo as soon as I get to my seat and text it to him. He always has the same response: “Nice seats.” If the game goes into extra innings, he’ll text and ask if I’m still there. When I say yes, he always responds “that’s my girl.” I call him when I get home and we discuss the game. We still watch games together on television when I visit.
The 2013 season is underway, and the Cardinals have their first home game tomorrow. I will be there. My dad, who just started another round of cancer treatment, will not.
Tom Hanks was wrong when he said, “There’s no crying in baseball.” But I have faith that someday, those tears will be tears of joy.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
Saturday, March 2, 2013
As Hard As I Can for As Long As I Can
We crammed into the room in the doctor’s office. There weren’t enough seats for all of us, so my brother offered to stand.
My parents, older brother and I were waiting to meet a surgeon we invited to help in my dad’s battle with cancer. A year after the initial colon cancer diagnosis, we learned the cancer had spread to my dad’s liver.
When he spoke to my dad on the phone a few weeks ago, he was optimistic, full of confidence and even used the word “cure.”
We huddled together, anxiously awaiting his arrival and hopeful that surgery would be an option. Surgery meant cure.
I saw the doctor when he opened the door. My first thoughts were that he looked like an old college classmate, and I hoped Mom would not say anything about the dandruff flaking on the shoulders of his suit jacket.
He was friendly and pleasant, introducing himself to us before sitting down to talk to my dad. After asking several questions about his disease and treatment, he pulled up my dad’s scans on his computer.
He started counting the lesions on my dad’s liver. I stopped counting with him when I ran out of fingers. He eventually counted 15. I knew surgery would not be an option before he said so out loud. There were too many lesions, and they were literally everywhere.
I fought tears when he told my dad he had a 15 to 20 percent chance of survival. Cure was replaced by phrases like “extending your life” and “making sure you’re comfortable.” When I realized the doctor received a six month old scan to review and not more recent scans, I wanted to punch someone in the face. He originally thought surgery was an option based on the old scan. The old scan showed three lesions, not the 15 the new scan found.
My dad was calm and accepting until he was told chemotherapy was the only option. He struggled with chemo and wanted to avoid it. The look on his face was one of defeat and sadness.
I found my voice. “What else?” I asked.
The doctor looked at me. “What else do you have?” I asked. “All I ever hear about when people mention this place is how cutting edge you are and how you take chances. Show me how you take chances. What else?”
He thought for a moment. There was a clinical trial, he said. He walked us through the protocol. My dad would still have to take chemotherapy as part of the trial, but the two treatments combined could possibly shrink the lesions enough so that the doctor could operate. Surgery might be an option after all.
My dad looked at me and nodded. Go get the paperwork, I said. The doctor left the room. My brother was livid that old scans were sent to this doctor. My dad shook his head and reminded us of how our grandma always said everything happened for a reason.
The doctor came back with not only the paperwork, but with the clinical trial coordinator. I went into what I call “delegation mode.” My dad calls it “being bossy.” Within a few minutes, we had a plan. I also had everyone’s phone numbers, including home and cell. Communication errors and not being able to handle simple tasks were no longer an option. Not when you throw around figures like 15 to 20 percent chance of survival.
I walked my dad through the plan, making sure he understood. He nodded. “I’m going to fight as hard as I can for as long as I can,” he said.
As we put on our coats to leave, my dad looked at me. “Thank you for being bossy,” he said.
I smiled. “Anytime, Daddy.”
My parents, older brother and I were waiting to meet a surgeon we invited to help in my dad’s battle with cancer. A year after the initial colon cancer diagnosis, we learned the cancer had spread to my dad’s liver.
When he spoke to my dad on the phone a few weeks ago, he was optimistic, full of confidence and even used the word “cure.”
We huddled together, anxiously awaiting his arrival and hopeful that surgery would be an option. Surgery meant cure.
I saw the doctor when he opened the door. My first thoughts were that he looked like an old college classmate, and I hoped Mom would not say anything about the dandruff flaking on the shoulders of his suit jacket.
He was friendly and pleasant, introducing himself to us before sitting down to talk to my dad. After asking several questions about his disease and treatment, he pulled up my dad’s scans on his computer.
He started counting the lesions on my dad’s liver. I stopped counting with him when I ran out of fingers. He eventually counted 15. I knew surgery would not be an option before he said so out loud. There were too many lesions, and they were literally everywhere.
I fought tears when he told my dad he had a 15 to 20 percent chance of survival. Cure was replaced by phrases like “extending your life” and “making sure you’re comfortable.” When I realized the doctor received a six month old scan to review and not more recent scans, I wanted to punch someone in the face. He originally thought surgery was an option based on the old scan. The old scan showed three lesions, not the 15 the new scan found.
My dad was calm and accepting until he was told chemotherapy was the only option. He struggled with chemo and wanted to avoid it. The look on his face was one of defeat and sadness.
I found my voice. “What else?” I asked.
The doctor looked at me. “What else do you have?” I asked. “All I ever hear about when people mention this place is how cutting edge you are and how you take chances. Show me how you take chances. What else?”
He thought for a moment. There was a clinical trial, he said. He walked us through the protocol. My dad would still have to take chemotherapy as part of the trial, but the two treatments combined could possibly shrink the lesions enough so that the doctor could operate. Surgery might be an option after all.
My dad looked at me and nodded. Go get the paperwork, I said. The doctor left the room. My brother was livid that old scans were sent to this doctor. My dad shook his head and reminded us of how our grandma always said everything happened for a reason.
The doctor came back with not only the paperwork, but with the clinical trial coordinator. I went into what I call “delegation mode.” My dad calls it “being bossy.” Within a few minutes, we had a plan. I also had everyone’s phone numbers, including home and cell. Communication errors and not being able to handle simple tasks were no longer an option. Not when you throw around figures like 15 to 20 percent chance of survival.
I walked my dad through the plan, making sure he understood. He nodded. “I’m going to fight as hard as I can for as long as I can,” he said.
As we put on our coats to leave, my dad looked at me. “Thank you for being bossy,” he said.
I smiled. “Anytime, Daddy.”
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
A Change of Plans
Last year, when I decided to make a list of goals I wanted to accomplish before I turned 40, I put “run a marathon” on the list. I developed some criteria. It needed to be memorable, take place before my 40th birthday, and it needed to allow me to raise money for a cancer charity in honor of my dad.
After some research, I decided on the San Francisco Marathon. It met all of my needs, or so I thought.
While the race is before my 40th birthday, the date for 2013 was moved to accommodate another event. This year’s race is on Father’s Day. I have to be honest and say that I have mixed emotions about being away from my dad on Father’s Day, especially now that his cancer has spread.
When I signed up for the San Francisco race, a cancer charity was among its list of charities. I later learned that not only was that list for 2012, but that particular charity did not rank high with agencies like the Better Business Bureau. I wasn’t comfortable asking my family and friends to donate to an agency like that, so I decided to wait for the marathon organizers to announce their 2013 charity partners. The announcement was supposed to happen in January. Then it was pushed to February. As of this writing, the 2013 charity partners still haven’t been announced.
So today, when the Chicago Marathon announced registration was open, I decided to change my plans. I’m going to run the Chicago Marathon in October and raise money for the American Cancer Society. This marathon is 29 days after I turn 40. That’s ok. Raising money to beat cancer is more important, especially now that we found out my dad’s cancer spread to his liver.
So, I’m asking you to join me on my mission to Beat Cancer and support me as a member of Team Determination. In return for your donation, I promise to work hard, train, and do my best to finish.
Thanks in advance for your support. It is greatly appreciated.
After some research, I decided on the San Francisco Marathon. It met all of my needs, or so I thought.
While the race is before my 40th birthday, the date for 2013 was moved to accommodate another event. This year’s race is on Father’s Day. I have to be honest and say that I have mixed emotions about being away from my dad on Father’s Day, especially now that his cancer has spread.
When I signed up for the San Francisco race, a cancer charity was among its list of charities. I later learned that not only was that list for 2012, but that particular charity did not rank high with agencies like the Better Business Bureau. I wasn’t comfortable asking my family and friends to donate to an agency like that, so I decided to wait for the marathon organizers to announce their 2013 charity partners. The announcement was supposed to happen in January. Then it was pushed to February. As of this writing, the 2013 charity partners still haven’t been announced.
So today, when the Chicago Marathon announced registration was open, I decided to change my plans. I’m going to run the Chicago Marathon in October and raise money for the American Cancer Society. This marathon is 29 days after I turn 40. That’s ok. Raising money to beat cancer is more important, especially now that we found out my dad’s cancer spread to his liver.
So, I’m asking you to join me on my mission to Beat Cancer and support me as a member of Team Determination. In return for your donation, I promise to work hard, train, and do my best to finish.
Thanks in advance for your support. It is greatly appreciated.
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