Unhappy Anniversary

Twenty-three years ago today, my dad died of esophageal cancer. After he retired from farming, he'd taken a Toastmaster's class to get over his fear of public speaking. He'd been involved for years with soil conservation services, built ponds and wildlife preserves on the farms, and was becoming a familiar figure on the conservation lecture circuit, to the point of testifying on bills in the Indiana legislature.

Early in 1982 he and my mother drove to Phoenix for a soil conservation conference. He was ill all the way home with severe stomach pains and headaches - Mom drove and he slept. He saw his doctor when he got home and was referred to specialists in Lafayette, Indiana, the closest city. Diagnosis? Stomach and/or esophageal cancer.

It was devastating for all of us - we had no way of grappling with this. My sister and I lived away from home so I have no idea what kinds of support were offered by the hospital, the doctors, the nurses, and the community.

He spent a year on an experimental drug and did well; but he could take it only for a year. When that year was up he went into a shockingly rapid decline. He died on what would have been my grandfather's 101st birthday, July 18, 1983.

This weekend while clearing out files at the old house I found a letter from Mom, written in April 1982, the day they got the diagnosis. It still feels raw and painful and I cried when I read it. At the same time, though, I realize how very differently things are handled now. I don't like having the diagnosis I received, but supportive communities have developed magnificently since then. It's easier to hear "the big C" now, somehow ...