Lung Cancer

Integrated Humanities II, 8:00 am // A personal history I wrote during junior year when I was 16. We had to retell a memorable moment from our lives, then explain the way we wrote it.

Autumn of 2018

“It’s already that advanced?” A pause, “I wouldn’t be surprised, fifty years of smoking will do that to a person.”

I am eleven, seated in a whiny old computer chair behind a clunky monitor in my parents’ room. The vent through the wall, the thin wooden door to my right, and my irrepressible nosiness all render it impossible for me not to eavesdrop on my mother’s phone call. And although I only get her side of the exchange, I’ve heard enough to infer that my grandfather is very ill.

A month later, my siblings and I are packed in a minivan bound west. Irritated at how unbothered my family seems to be and wanting to be alone with my thoughts, I hide in my headphones the whole six hours there.

We’re a couple hours out from Port Orchard when my mother turns around in her seat to address us. “Remember that grandpa hasn’t been eating much, so he’s going to look pretty different.”

“Like a skeleton,” Adds my father reassuringly.

A morbid image pops into my head and refuses to leave, and with it returns the gnawing in the pit of my stomach. This anxiety is my constant companion all the way from a Denny’s booth in a little mountain town, across the Tacoma Narrows, and right through the doorway of what I’ve always called my second home. Upon arriving I greet my grandmother and hesitantly creep into the dimly-lit living room that has long served as my wheelchair-bound grandfather’s bedroom. The dust hasn’t moved since I last stepped foot here, and as always, the only light in the room is that of the TV. The smoke-stained walls boast tarnished medals and yellowed certificates. The La-Z-Boy closest to the window has been replaced by a bleakly skeletal hospice bed. The bedsheets hang from my grandpa’s bony frame, which, although emaciated, is still far from the macabre spectacle I had feared. Despite his sorry state, he still has the same familiar blue eyes as my father and I, and the same scraggly silver beard I played with when I was little.

The rest of the visit is spent at my grandfather’s side. If we aren’t silently watching one of the wilderness reality shows through which he lives vicariously, he’s telling me stories. I hate to admit it to myself, but I know this will be the last time I ever hear them from him. He tells me about monsoon season in Vietnam, and how, as a boy, he shot his brother in the leg with a BB gun and never received his forgiveness. When grandpa is too tired to tell stories, I hear them from the rest of my family. These fragments of history lend color and texture to the great expanse of his life I never got to see.

The day we leave my grandparents’ house is always bittersweet; this time it feels like I’m being ripped away. Yet my tongue betrays me; I can think of nothing more to say than ‘I love you’ and ‘I’ll miss you’. My final memory with my grandpa doesn’t play out like a movie scene; there are no words of wisdom imparted nor heartfelt goodbye speeches. I hug him, and before I leave he gestures at something behind me.

“See that jacket?” He points shakily to a Cherokee patterned red hoodie on the back of the sofa. My grandmother fetches it for him and hands it to me.

“You can keep it.” He coughs. “It’s nothing like what I ordered. Looks like a car ran it over.” The patterns across the front do look a little like tire tracks. When I put it on the hem comes down to my knees, and he laughs. And that’s that. All that I have heard, said and seen today are the finishing pieces in a mosaic; nothing more can be added, it has become the sum of its pieces. After this I will have only memories.

* * *

Despite the geographical distance between us and the sparsity of our visits, I always looked up to my grandfather. And being his first grandchild and only granddaughter, I often got the lion’s share of his attention (this was also thanks to my little brothers’ shyness around him).

I chose to begin this story the very moment I learned about his cancer diagnosis to put the reader in my shoes while providing as much background as needed for the trip to my grandparent’s house that takes up the remainder of the story. Everything is narrated in the order it truly happened. I did not have the writing space here to share childhood memories of him regaling me with stories from Vietnam on our front porch, or the many Christmas mornings I spent opening presents at the foot of his wheelchair. Nor could I include all the second-hand tales of him from my father that illustrated his noble character and sparkling wit.

The last ten years of his life were a far cry from the one he lived before. I wanted to capture the tragedy of his decline in the lightless room, dusty Navy artifacts and the stark contrast between the man he once was and the man he became. To accomplish this I also intentionally linger on what was while lamenting what is (hence why the narration is in the present tense but focuses mostly on old stories and things). I hoped that I could emphasize this feeling of a lost past by telling it from my own perspective, because I grew up hearing about his golden days without ever having witnessed them myself. I was very young when he badly injured his leg and was confined to a wheelchair. I have no memories of him walking, only one of my mother telling me he had been hurt while I sat on her lap, and another of visiting him in the hospital. After this, much of his life was spent in and out of doctor’s offices, on and off different medications, and he became a prisoner to his poor health. He gave up on recovering his old lifestyle and for a decade sat hidden away in that dark, smokey room, eyes glued to the television.

Another topic I would like to have included is my attitude towards religion at the time. This rough patch in my life forced me to contend with my spirituality and had a heavy hand in my conversion later on. I considered myself a closet Christian; I believed there was a God, and I talked to Him, but that was the extent of it. Past experiences and impressions made me leery of prayer’s validity and I couldn’t understand the idea that God has a plan that works for His glory rather than my own. Yet sitting at my grandfather’s deathbed, I did feel compelled to share the gospel with him. But, unsure of how to tell him about a God I barely knew myself and dreading mockery (whether from him or an eavesdropping relative), I kept my mouth shut. To this day this is one of my biggest regrets. Although my beliefs shaped the way I dealt with the process of loss and grief, I felt that delving into it here would have been opening a can of worms and didn’t want to create a diversion from the main topic.

For much the same reason, many of the people involved are mentioned only in passing; my mother and father, siblings, aunts and uncles, etc. In minimizing their roles I do not mean to underplay their grief, but in a story that orbits around one person, namedropping can be a distraction.

Despite the tragedy of this history, I hope that my narrative captures even the smallest bit of my grandfather’s spirit for the reader — his sense of humor, his sardonic gruffness, and the kind heart that lay behind the facade.