I went to England in the spring. It was kinda cold, gloomy and (just once) snowy. It really was the worst time of year to go back home. To make matters worse it was the first time in 24 months that I'd set foot in the UK.
It wasn't an ideal time to go back.
But, in January of this year, my dad was diagnosed with cancer.
It's a weird statement to type.
But there it is. He was told that he had cancer.
No, it's not a big deal, it's pretty straight forward. It's small. It's operable. I'm sure he'll be fine. Actually, it's a little worse. He has to make some big changes. Chemo, surgery. Surgery or chemo? Overnight stays, medication, taxi services.
It didn't really matter what I was told about his situation. I felt so numb being here. Cancer is not a big deal. Every day cancer is being beaten. It's manageable. Money is thrown at it. My dad is lucky. He's British, residing in the UK with access to the NHS. But there's always a 'but', there's always something scary associated with the word cancer.
I felt...numb.
This was the man who stayed up late 'watching tv' but really making sure that I actually got home after partying the night away.
The man that drove anywhere to pick me up at a moments notice.
The one who polished my shoes, even when I was way beyond it being a necessity (22 is too old, right?).
My dad, the man who took me to the carnival when I was little, fed me toast and cheese because he really couldn't cook and made me wear my party dress back to front when I was 5 because he didn't believe that buttons went on the back of a dress.
The word cancer has such power. I started thinking about those moments, the little memories that made up my entire lifetime. I sobbed. I listened to my sister cry down the phone. I listened to my mum, who has made a career out of managing illness and breaking bad news, struggle to find the right words to say to us all.
Then came the amusing parts. Listening to my dad name parts of his body that none of us, as his kids, had ever needed to hear him say. I tried to be objective and felt rather amused at the difficulty I felt during the conversations about chemo administration. Maybe this is what my dad felt like when I told him about my periods, slightly baffled, somewhat objective and slightly bemused.
It felt like we all took a deep breath and dealt with it.
I veered between staying in Canada and going to England. Thankfully, The Canadian, who is a smart cookie, pushed me into leaving. I booked tickets, boarded a flight and arrived in the UK, to meet my dad, who had driven far too far to meet me at the airport. My dad, who then took me to Tesco to buy all the bits I'd need for 6 weeks. My dad, who bought me car insurance and lent me his car so I could drive him around for the entirety of my 6 week stay, drove me around Leeds for the first week.
I'm glad I went back. My ideas of what to expect from my dad and his diagnosis were so far removed from the reality. I needed to see how he was. I needed to see that he was dealing with it. I forgot, often, that he had cancer. I forgot that he had something that could potentially lethal. It was nice to forget because it meant that he looked the same, and that he was the same dad I had left in 2010.
I drove him to his appointments and back again. I felt like this was the best thing I could do for him. I didn't know how else to show my love beyond doing the things that he had done for me so diligently throughout my 'living at home years'. His appointments changed and their were complications, his treatment had adjusted, and, eventually, they just stopped. The day before I left for Canada, he was back in the hospital having an operation to ensure that chemotherapy could continue.
The last time I saw my dad he was high from anaesthetic and really unwell.
5 months passed and I hear about more surgeries, biopsies and chemo appointments in the interim. After 9 months, you get used to just not knowing much, just hoping and holding on to the hope that they're going to be ok, regardless of the outcome. Everyone else forgets, or stops mentioning it to you. It becomes quiet and insular, a disease that just seems to be in your family, so much so that when people ask me about how he's doing I forget what they're talking about. My dad is fine, of course. Why wouldn't he be? I forget that I've compartmentalised his illness into a box, not from cruelty but from necessity. When it wasn't in it's own box, it became very difficult to think about anything else but his health.
This morning, the phone rang. It kept ringing. Then the answer machine beeped, and continued to beep in its annoying manner to remind me that I had a new message. Eventually I got out of bed, wandered downstairs and pressed play. I heard my dad's voice, complete with it's British/Caribbean accent, tell me that his biopsy results came back and that, actually it's good news, the cancer has, apparently, gone, he feels good.
We'd suspected for a while. But, hearing it, hearing it confirmed by my mum a few minutes later, and knowing that it was no longer a suspicion, was a relief.
I know there is a risk of it happening again, I know that it takes time to recover and there are all sorts of issues that can occur but I am genuinely relieved that for the first time this year, I can say that my dad is cancer-free.
It's bloody fantastic.
Writing this has been cathartic. I didn't realise how much emotion I had pent up, so I finish this with wet cheeks and smile because it was a big deal. It was a long 9 months and it was hard. But mostly, I smile because I am so so proud of my dad for battling through it, for handling it in his own way, regardless of how others expected him to handle it. For being dramatic, in exactly the same way he would have been had he had a cold. He continued to be himself, worrying more about how we were managing it than concerning himself with how he was managing. But mostly, I am proud of him for just going to the doctor, for pushing for tests, making informed choices and for changing his outlook.
