It’s mid-July.

My mom calls in a panic.  The lump on my dad’s tongue, the one he noticed a few months ago, the one that’s grown noticeably larger, the one his doctor immediately biopsied, the one I’m just learning about is in fact cancer.

It falls to me to take him to meet the oncologist. The man is the definition of detached medical professional. “I’ll remove about four to five centimeters of the tongue,” he drones. “I’ll also remove the lymph nodes on the left side of the neck … just to be conservative.”  

Almost as an afterthought his assistant inquires about my dad’s medical history and asks about his smoking. “I used to, but I gave it up.” And, when did you quit?  “Three weeks ago.”  And, how long did you smoke? “About … sixty years.”

The drive home is quiet. I give my mother the news straight, but spin the story.  This doctor is one of the best. He says it’s a routine operation, and a good chance of recovery. This cheers her up.

The day of the procedure I drive dad to the hospital, stand by him as he is prepped for the OR and talk with the surgeon after the procedure.  The prognosis is fairly positive all things considered.

I stand by the hospital bed and gaze down at my father pale and prone, tubes in his nose and mouth, IV’s in his right arm, and a series of black stitches across this throat ending in a plastic container to catch draining liquid.  I adjust his hospital gown to cover his exposed body.

Didn’t you see this coming old man?  I did. Do you remember my first field trip to Boston’s Science Museum? I came home that day and told you about the three lungs I saw in the “Hall of Human Life.” The first – the healthy lung – looked like a misshapen pink pillow. The second – a similar fleshy mass covered in dark glistening  patches and black dots like burn marks – was the emphysema lung. The last one was leathery, grey and deflated like an a sad old football. This was the cancer lung removed from a lifelong smoker. It was scary to think this thing was inside someone’s body. Why would anyone smoke if this could happen? I was eight and it seemed so obvious.

That’s the thing about cancer though, its cumulative and takes its time. Maybe the event that triggered it happened decades ago, perhaps it was the same cigarette you smoked the day I begged you to quit back in 1976.

How could I, as a child, project in the future and see the obvious outcome, and you couldn’t?  Did you actively ignore the warnings plastered on every pack and cartoon you bought?  Was there ever some little voice in the back of you mind saying “I really need to stop before it’s too late”? Would you, could you, honestly tell me that all that cigarettes were worth what you’ve endured and lost?

And what about the choices and decisions I’ve made … am I all that different?

Is anyone?