While there weren’t many systemic treatments available for my father’s rare form of cancer, he was able to have several surgeries and treatments which provided some short-term relief. My brother called this the “whack-a-mole” approach– every time a tumor popped up, we nuked it – either through surgery, chemotherapy or radiation. And that worked, for a short while.
During one of his many surgeries, we heard of a Jewish man in the hospital who was alone and without family. My father urged us to go visit him, while he was in surgery. When we protested that we wanted to stay nearby, in case he needed us, he insisted, “There’s no better thing you can do for me.”
Before another one of his surgeries, I was in the room when the anesthesiologist was reciting his required script of risks created by the anesthesia for consent purposes. “There is a risk of stroke, cardiac arrest, etc.” He droned on. “Of course the risk is minimal, but you should be aware that you can have these side effects…” My father interrupted him. “I want you to know, if that happens, it’s not your fault!” The anesthesiologist stopped in his tracks. He looked at my father, stunned. I don’t think in the thousands of times he recited this speech, he ever got that response.
One particularly grueling surgery resulted in a recovery period where my father was not allowed to eat or drink. Not a morsel of food, a chip of ice, nor a sip of water for about 8 days. The day it was finally allowed, he rejoiced: “Do you know what a miracle a sip of water is?” I will always remember that moment, when he transformed what could have made him bitter into a blessing expressed to God with all his heart.
And in the midst of all the darkness, there were indeed glimpses of light. There were treatments that worked for a tantalizing few weeks; there were promises of other treatments that never materialized. At a very low point, we received word that my father may be accepted into a very exciting clinical trial at the National Cancer Institute in Bethesda, Maryland. The treatment offered was considered to be very rigorous, but with a potential outcome of full remission. We sent my father’s medical file, and eagerly awaited their decision. Expecting a call from the doctor, I was surprised when my father called me instead.
It seemed the nurse from the Cancer Institute accidentally copied my father in her email response to his doctors, letting them know they would not be accepting him. After breaking the news to me, my father’s first words were: “I’m calling you because I know you’ll be upset. I want you to know: I’m not upset. Not at all. And I don’t want you to be either. It makes no difference to me if I am sitting in Bethesda, Maryland or Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital or in my living room. It all comes from God. Everyone else is playing their part.”
Coping with Suffering
I will not even attempt to describe my father’s suffering as his condition worsened. I had never before seen such suffering up close on another human being, and hope to never again. For those who don’t know, may you never know. For those who do, no words are necessary.
Yet my father drew closer to God in those days of suffering than he was in his prior years of comfort and health. He knew that everything that was happening to him was being personally directed by God. He knew that God had an eternal plan, and that he was not privy to the details, but he trusted in it. He accepted the good and the seemingly bad with equal serenity, and boundless faith.