I forget, as Dad, my brother and a few others probably do, that we’ve been living with Dad’s “Big Reveal” for longer than some of you just coming around these parts. For that, I apologize. I forget because it’s become the new “normal” (which is not the same as “mundane”) and this is the theater in which we operate now. I also forget who we’ve told and who we haven’t, how much we’ve mentioned and in what context.

But we know what it feels like to have the weight of it revealed. We were devastated when we heard the news. We’re still working within the parameters of “devastated,” with perhaps a little “accustomed to” and “working with” thrown in. That is the gift of time only. We haven’t had that much time in the big scheme of things, but just enough to get used to the reality of Dad’s little Klingon.

For the benefit of people just getting used to Dad’s new identity (no, no NO! He is not a “cancer patient” or anything cliché like that; let’s invent something else–like “fabulously unrestrained by social mores” or “fulsome old goat laughing at absurdities,” or more clever, that rolls easily off the tongue… but nothing so banal as “cancer patient.”) I will go over the basic facts (some of which were laid out in the Glossary of Dad) so that we can all catch up:

• Dad was feeling a little off-center for a couple of months. Complaints of “getting old is a bitch” and “I used to be able to piss better” and “I just don’t feel like eating right now” became fairly common; unfortunately these same complaints sound like every other person I’ve ever met, so no alarms were raised. [Note to self: Non-specific symptoms are still symptoms. Just because something doesn't have a ready explanation or easy description does not mean that it doesn't mean anything. We learned that the hard way.]
• Dad came to my fortieth birthday. He was feeling less than pluck, but he pulled it together pretty well, entertaining my friends with his “fabulously unrestrained by social mores” identity (see how I worked that in?). What I noticed was that he was wan, a little thin, and not hitting on all the hotties. I should have known then that something was up. (My brother may have more to say on this period since he was staying with him.)
• Three days later he asked me to take him to the doctor. He did not say, “RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT! I’M GOING TO EXPLODE,” lord only knows why. He should have. By the time I took him he was so miserable I screeched (see: maybe not quite ’screeched’) into the parking lot just to get him some relief. The catheter goes in (see: Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag) and trips to the loo are a wholly different gig from here on out.
• This is a period marked by a hazy Doctor-Go-Round, where I was not always involved. We didn’t know at this point it was too serious, so I hadn’t yet shoved my way into Dad’s appointments whether he wanted me there or not. We still believed in some way that it was less-than-sobering. Silly humans, hope springs eternal.
• I got wind of things from Dad but don’t quite remember how–I know that he mentioned elevated this-and-that-thing in something-or-another-fluid–and it sounded serious enough that I wanted in on the ground floor. I began going to Dad’s appointments with him so that we all had an extra set of ears. By this time, we know that he has “prostate cancer;” we still don’t know how much. All we know is that Dad’s urologist, a cute thirty-something doc has “taken an interest in my case.”
• More tests, more doctors and weird antechambers, including the moment when I think it all became a bit more clear to me personally: the waiting room of Nuclear Medicine. If two more unlike words can be married in the same phrase, the jig is up and there is clearly a problem. This is where Dad has his “Bone Scan.” This can’t be a good sign.
• Bone scans, CT scans, blood work. We’ve now been briefed by a number of doctors, all with new assessments to add to the pile. The pile has grown rather large at this point, but we’re still (Dad and I) parked in Primary School. Blame it on the shock.
• We go to the oncologist. I think by this time, both of us know that his problem is widespread, but the oncologist explains it in terms that make it much more clear. Now his little Klingon has a name: Advanced Stage VI Prostate Cancer. It doesn’t roll off the tongue, but our cheekiness hasn’t had a chance to recover from the blow, and we leave the Klingon with that relatively uninteresting moniker.
• Word has been trickling out; I tell some people, my brother tells others, and Dad doggedly makes a point of telling people personally those he loves most dear. It is a mark of Dad’s unwillingness to stoop to crass impersonality that he takes on this task without asking us to do it on his behalf, though we offer.

So, in a rather cumbersome nutshell, that’s it: we are come full circle.

But that is mere science; what is important for everyone to understand is how Dad is, not how he’s ill. And that is harder to chunk together when the story is intertwined with the experiences of going hither and thither to this doctor and that scanner.

But he is good. Dare I say, great? He’s no dummy, so he knows he’s not at the height of good health, but he also knows what he does have, and that includes his rather healthy dose of irony and a withering toughness in the face of adversity.

But more than that, he has a great calm about him. He is happy. He may not be comfortable, or necessarily okay with his little Klingon, but he is at peace with the situation. He takes it day by day, and we go about our business. He is creative and painting, reading and going out to eat. He is relishing the sun on his face, and the beauty of his garden. He loves his family with deep, heart-felt affection every day–and shares it with us. We are all striving to deal with it with the grace he has mustered. He laughs at the base indignities and absurdities the cancer has wrought because it’s better than the alternative, and we share these jokes willingly. He goes to the store and comes back with bags and bags of fruit.

I told him the other day that people were calling and writing to me with heartfelt concern after they read some of what was written here, and at first he brushed it off. “I don’t have any control over how people deal with it,” he said. It seemed callous, but it really wasn’t. He thought about it a bit more and then laughed a deep, hearty belly laugh (those who know him know that he can knock down walls with his throaty guffaws).

“If I can get used it, they can too!”

We’re all just getting used to it, but Dad has done it: the way he’s approached it is a calm certitude in who he is, what is important, and what he’ll do with whatever is left. And there are no guarantees in anything in this life, so the old goat may just kick around forever.

We are all swimming in the sea of fortune; Dad has washed up on foreign shores and is making his way. He doesn’t always know the language or recognize the surroundings but he knows what it means to be himself, and at that he excels. And it is enough.

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