I get tired of thinking and writing about the disconnection I feel with my family. By now I think y’all get the point: I’m not as close with them as I would like to be.
In an attempt to close the gap and be of some use, I am venturing down to the suburbs to see my father today. Regular readers will recall that my dad was recently diagnosed with lung cancer. The “good” news is that his condition has been downgraded from the ultra-dire Stage 4 to the less dire, but still unfortunate Stage 2. The bad news is that he still has to get treatment for the cancer. This means chemotherapy and radiation treatment, two very unpleasant courses, but necessary if he wants a chance at life.
For 10 years, dad and I were out of contact. In 2002, we reconnected and repaired our relationship. Despite this wonderful event, we’ve probably not seen each other as much as well could have. I live 35 miles away and without a car, it might as well be 35,000 miles. Going the distance seems to be hard for both of us, for whatever reasons.
When he was initially diagnosed with emphysema a couple years ago it was a wakeup call. Both of us hit the “snooze” button. He didn’t stop smoking and I didn’t step up my efforts to try to see him more often. Now he has lung cancer, which is an alarm bell neither one of us can ignore.
Distance is an obstacle, but it’s not an insurmountable one. I called him last week and asked if I could come for a visit. During the week, dad has chemo and/or radiation treatments every day. Their friend/neighbor, across the street has been driving him the clinic everyday, as his wife Cherie has to work. I offered to come down and give the friend a break for a day. It’s not much, I know, but I feel like I should be doing something to help out. Cherie sounds so exhausted and I know this is extremely taxing for her mentally, emotionally and physically.
This visit is more for me than it is for them, as weird as that sounds. I’ve been too removed from the situation and have not seen him since he began his treatments. I guess I feel like I need to see him to try to get an idea of what he’s going through. Perhaps I need to experience this to know that this is all real, that this is all really happening.
It feels cruddy that it’s taken this life threatening disease to bring me closer to my dad. But I suppose it’s better than no action at all. I’ve often felt throughout our sometimes-tumultuous relationship that I have had to make all the effort. Right now he’s not making the effort because he’s unable to. If I want to be in my dad’s life, I have to do all the work. It’s going to be like that for a long time, I fear. These treatments last until August.
Tomorrow morning at 9AM I will be driving him to the Community Hospital of Munster, Indiana. I’ll sit with him for five hours as he gets his dosage of chemotherapy; I’ll wait in the waiting room has get irradiated for a half hour. I’m help him in and out of the car, make sure he makes it up the stairs and to his bed. In short, for a day I’m going to be his caretaker.
It won’t be easy or pretty. But I feel it’s important that I be there. –fin-
