Fear and Crying in San Francisco

I don't cry.

No, really. I am not a cryer. If you're one of the few people that has seen me cry, you're in a special club and should expect your bumper sticker in the mail any day now.

The few times I've cried have to do with the weak and innocent, usually children and animals. Old Yellar? Cried like a baby and refuse to watch it again. Marly & Me? Ditto. The Sarah Mclaughlin ASPCA commercials? Forget about it.

But when it comes to adult human issues, I have a pretty hardened heart. I didn't cry when my grandmother died, even though I tried. Seriously, I tried to feel something for that crazy old bat that mentally abused my father for years, but I couldn't. It seems with me that one has to earn compassion if you're not weak or innocent. And that's a pretty hard thing to do.

So you can imagine how shocked I was on Friday when I answered the phone and immediately started crying within a brief moment's time. It shocked my mom, with whom I was on the phone. It shocked my hubba-bubba, who was sitting nearby. And had my father known, I'm sure it would have shocked him, too.

As many of you know, my father is a cancer survivor. He was diagnosed with stage IV lung cancer in late 2007. After several gruelling rounds of chemo, he was declared to be in remission. His hair grew back, he started gaining weight and he started to, for the first time in months, feel like a human again. We reluctantly rejoiced, hoping not to be too boastful in the face of the cancer, hoping we didn't tempt fate once more, hoping we were not too optimistic.

It appears the cause for rejoicing is over. The cancer is back. It has now, however, spread to his liver and they're afraid it's gone even further.

He goes in for a brain and bone scan on Monday. Then they'll set up more biopsies. At that point, he'll decide if he wants to pursue treatment.

If I'm being honest, none of this was unforeseen. Lung cancer is a cruel and tricky foe. Often times, it retreats only to regroup and attack with more force. The diagnosis isn't what has me crying. Again, that is not surprising. What has me crying is fear.

Am I afraid that Daddy will die? I came to grips with the fact that we all only have a finite of time in this world long ago. No, that's not it.

Simply put, I'm afraid that he's afraid. If you've read the post from my old blog entitled "My Personal Phoenix" (I just reposted it here), you know that my father has always been the pinnacle of manhood for me. The idea that he might be scared is just killing me inside.

What scares me the most, however, is that his fear will guide his decision on treatment.

I spoke with Dad this morning. After a lenghty discussion on policitics (his favorite topic lately), I asked him how he was feeling. He paused. I heard him sigh and finally he said he's not feeling very well at all. He said his hips are hurting and he has no appetite and has started losing weight again. I know that he's frightened that if he starts treatment, all this will escalate. I certainly can't blame him for being afraid. But how do you tell your child that you're scared? He hasn't quite figured that out yet, it seems.

I'm praying that my father can escape the trepidation I know he's feeling, regardless of the outcome. I'm praying that if he can't escape it, he can at least share it with us so that it's one less burden he feels he has to carry alone.

For my entire life, my father has been a major source of strength for me and now, I just pray I can return the favor.