My Father’s Cancer changed my life in many ways. It began 1971, when I was thirteen years old and in the 9th grade. The stomach cancer diagnosis came after months of troubles eating meals. The day of the surgery, I sat in class watching the clock for the hour when the surgery would begin. Part of his stomach and esophagus were removed then reconnected to a shortened esophagus, He lived the rest of his life with his stomach located on his left side closer to his heart instead of in the lower middle of his abdomen.

Soon after the surgery, Christmas came and went while he recovered in the hospital. My brothers and I gathered up the presents in a large bag, Like Santa Claus, my brother Johnny threw the bag over his should and we walked through the hospital to Dad’s room. He lay in the bed as we opened wrapped presents and celebrated with as much cheer as we could manage. Mom apologized to us for not having as many presents as usual. She was unable to shop much that year.

Dad always believed that Christmas should be as big and joyous as possible. There was a fresh cut tree decorated with lights and ornaments in the living room. Several years the tree would be anchored to the wall to prevent the climbing cats from knocking it over again and again. Dad had a giant movie camera which he bought in the 1950’s soon after my older sister, Theresa, was born. Every Christmas Dad stood watching his four children unwrapping, giggling, and scurrying about the living room on Christmas morning. Dad with that giant camera and overpowering lights shining into the room, recording everything. His family and his ability to provide comfortable middle-class treasures was his greatest joy.

When Dad came home, he stayed in the bed for a while. I went to church that morning and told everyone he would be home by the time church was finished. Everyone was praying for him and wished us all well. Gradually life returned to normal. My parents returned to work and continued with their lives. Dad still had problems eating because his stomach was moved to his side, it change the way he digested food. He experienced ongoing pain from gas and bloating.

Before the surgery, Dad and Mom decided to make a major life change. Dad sold his small trucking business. Mom opened a arts and craft store call American Handicrafts. It was a chain of store originating in Texas. Dad and Mom began working together to run the store. They had worked together for all my life. Dad ran the trucking company and mom did the books for the company. Mom stayed home with the kids but managed to keep the books in the home office. Many times, I was assigned the task of checking Mom’s math and making sure the giant ledgers balanced properly. Dad owned a small check printing machine, similar to an adding machine. We were allowed to position the dials for the numbers as checked were stamped. It was a family business.

The arts and craft store also became a family business. Many afternoons I was taken after school to unbox merchandise or to price items on the shelves. Mom made sample of the item customers could make if they bought the right pieces. There were decoupage purses, macrame plant hangers, string art pictures, leather crafts, enamels projects for kilns, paint and brushes for artist, copper sheets for molding, stained glass for soldering. The list of things to make was long. Some products were used by schools, other by crafty people, and others by artist.

My younger brother and I would make things to sell as art shows. I specialized in painting, drawing, and macrame. My younger brother, Russ, specialized in string art, Dad made stain glass lamps, and copper enameled bowls. Mom made decoupage purses and plaques. My older siblings were out of high school and had their own jobs and college. Me and Russ were unpaid, legally bonded employees, expected to work whenever we were called,

Dad’s cancer happened after the store opened. It was considered a blessing to have the store rather than the trucking company. Dad was never able to hold a regular job after the surgery. He experienced ongoing digestive issues, fatigue, and the effects of pain medication. Mom became the main earner for the family. Dad went to the store most days and waited on customers as he could. Often, he spent the day in the back room sitting at a desk doing reports.

Before the surgery, Dad was an overweight 43-year-old man with a belly. After the surgery he lost all the weight and became the skinniest man around. Looking at him, it was obvious to others that there was something wrong. He was too slow and too skinny to be considered normal or healthy. As a teenager, I never thought of Dad as being anything other than normal. But he often mentions to me how strangers would sometimes stare. It made me mad that others caused him to feel uncomfortable. There was nothing to do about it.

There were times when my friend’s parents would ask my parents over for dinner just to meet and be social, I always had to make excuses for them. There were so many foods Dad could not eat and so many times eating made him sick. A social event was no longer possible. I tried to explain to people, but everyone insisted it would be alright. They would accommodate his dietary restrictions. His eating habits became so complex and unsettling that social events were embarrassing for him.

My Dad was my favorite person growing up. He was always the strong one. The one who sat on his bedside reading the Bible. The one who talked and tried to get his stubborn little tomboy of a girl to understand and behave. I remember a time when I was arguing with him about something. He sent me to my room until I would come out and tell him why my idea was wrong. I came out three of four times with a ligament explanation only to be sent back to my room to try again. Finally, he told me, “You know what I want you to say. Do not come out again until you are ready to say what I want to hear,”. I did come out again and said what he wanted to hear. But I also added an addendum as to why I did not agree to his opinion. He told me I could disagree as long as I did what he wanted.

Those experiences with dad, definitely affected my dialog with God. I have had many discussions, arguments, and shouting matches with God. God is very insistent that he if the one who is right. The one who knows the best. The one who understands more than I. God is never trouble by my misguided opinions. He always listens and either brings a Bible verse, sermon, or book to my attention, or he lets me suffer through the consequences of my misguided opinions and behaviors. I learned from my dad, that someone will still love you no matter how strong willed and determine I am to do it my way.

There were days when dad stayed home. He was in too much pain to go out. As a teenager I would come home to find dad still in bed usually watching TV and dozing. Dad would lay on top of the covers with his knees bent and his feet flat on the mattress. We owned a black cat named Midnight. who like to sleep with dad. Sometimes, the cat would walk back and forth under dad’s knees to be petted while dad slept.

Sometimes, I would lay in bed beside him and watch TV. There were an endless number of times I asked him to move his feet because I could not see the TV. We enjoyed watching the Billy Graham crusades and discussing the state of the world in the late 196s and early 1970s. It was a time of great turmoil. Dad and I often discussed the cause and effect of things. Dad was older and saw the protest, riots, and governments through a more conservative lens. I was younger and eager to promote change and challenge the statuesque. .We agreed that Billy Graham provided the best solutions and that only God could soften hearts and teach us to make better decisions.

Dad’s pain was treated with codeine, which is addictive and frequently made him sleepy. There were times when dad would change pharmacies to prevent the pharmacist from knowing how much medication he was taking. Dad sent me to a different pharmacist to have prescription refilled. The pharmacist refused to fill the prescription and explained to me that dad was taking to much of the medication. He was becoming addictive. I began to understand how dad was manipulating doctors and pharmacist to obtain more medications that was necessary for pain. The first doctor believed dad would not live long after the surgery and was liberal with his prescriptions. The type of surgery usually kept people alive for less than five years. Dad lived almost seven years.

He was ashamed of his need for more and more medication. We knew dad was addicted but in the 1970s, we did know how to handle the problem. We had family discussions, No one knew the best course of action. The doctor became more involved with the addiction and change dad’s medications which helped. But I believe dad remained addicted until he died.

Emotionally, I felt a deep sense of sympathy for everything dad went through. I also felt anger that he was no longer the strong father figure I knew as a child. I wanted to be a normal teenager with a dependable father. While I was angry, I felt shame for not having enough compassion. Cancer took much from him and left him with many new problems. We all suffered and struggled emotionally as we watched the last seven years of his life.

Dad died in October 1978. He suffered an anemic heart attack. His eating problems prevented him from receiving sufficient nutrition to keep his heart beating. He died at home in mom’s arms. He was sick all day. Mom can home after work to check on him. He got up from the bed to go into the bathroom and turned around collapsing into mom’s arms. She yelled for my older brother to come help. Johnny could not hear her. She managed to reach the phone and dialed the operator, asking the operator to call back to the house so my brother would answer, and mom could talk to him, Johnny called the paramedics. Who tried to revive him but finally decided to take him to the hospital. They were not able to revive him. Rather than telling mom there was no hope remaining they told her to go to the hospital,

I was studying at the library with my boyfriend. He brought me home and walked me to the door. Before we could kiss goodnight, my neighbor opened the door and pulled me into her arms. She held me while telling dad was taken to the hospital. She pulled me inside and I collapsed on the couch. I was stunned. We knew that five years was the benchmark used for dad’s surgery. We assumed when he made to seven years he would survive. He was feeling better most days and beginning to consider some type of job. But in the end the cancer and surgery took too much from his health. His body could not go on.

My sister and her husband flew in from Florida. Mom and Johnny came home from the hospital. My young brother was out with his friends and the last to come home. We all set in the den talking and staring at each other. Not really knowing how to react. I remember seeing my younger brother sitting on the couch with his hands clinched at his side.

The next day neighbors came over with casseroles and cakes. I kept looking at the birthday cake granny made for dad’s birthday. He died two days before his fiftieth birthday. I did not know if we should slice it without him being there to celebrate. I told my sister, and she made the decision to slice it.

After the shock of his death wore off, I felt relief. Relief for myself to not have to care for a sick father. Mostly relief and happiness that dad was not suffering anymore. The funeral was a few days later. I stood in the funeral home, staring at the closed casket. When my sister asked me what I was doing, I said, “just wondering if dad’s feet were pointed up or sideways so we can watch TV with him.” We just stood there wondering.