The Day Cancer Turned Royal Blue

His Name Was Phil

His name was Phil. No, his name was Philip, but he went by Phil. He was my father. My name is Kelly. I am his youngest daughter.

This is Phil’s story; the day cancer turned royal blue.

Besides being my dad, Phil was a giant in my eyes. When I was young and we would go into stores together, my dad always had me hold onto his index finger so I would not wander off and get lost. I didn’t hold onto his whole hand because his hand was so large that my hand would only fit around his finger. Even as I grew older, my dad loomed large in my eyes.

My dad was a hard-working man. He worked as an electronic repair technician at NCR. That is also where he met my mom. As she told the story, Dad was the floor supervisor then and she would shoot rubber bands at him to get his attention. He noticed her all right. Six weeks later they were married until death did them part. (Read: The Day Cancer Turned Pink)

Five Kids and Two Adults

Dad worked the night shift for the extra night shift differential pay when our family began to grow. He seldom ever missed work. He wanted to make sure that he provided for his family.

We went on vacation in August each year because the “shop”, as Dad called it, shut down for two weeks each year in August. I have many memories of the camping trips we took each year.

We started out camping in tents, then years later my parents bought a used trailer. Five kids and two adults in a small travel trailer. The accommodations were tight, but the memories were worth it.

Scheduled For Surgery

For a long time, my dad would complain of either being constipated or having diarrhea. I am not sure what prompted him to go to the doctor. It was determined that the bleeding was coming from internal hemorrhoids.

The surgeon scheduled my dad’s surgery the same day as I was to take my first test in nursing school. I couldn’t miss the test.

I went to the hospital before my dad’s surgery to see him off to surgery then went to the college to take my test. After school, I went back to the hospital expecting to see my dad sleeping, or at least very groggy. When I entered his room, he was sitting up in bed fully awake and smiling. I asked him how the surgery went, and he said he was just fine. He also said that he did not have surgery after all.

Something Was Wrong

I was confused by the tension in the air, and I knew that something was wrong. My brother, Phil Jr., said to me, “Kel, let’s take a walk.”

Why was my brother taking me for a walk? Why did my dad not need surgery after all?

Dad Had Colon Cancer

As we walked out of my dad’s hospital room, my brother told me that it wasn’t that dad didn’t need surgery, but that they couldn’t do the surgery once they got in there. What they thought were internal hemorrhoids turned out to be a mass in his colon. My dad had colon cancer. This was the day cancer turned royal blue, the color of colon cancer.

Because of my dad’s size and where the tumor was, they did not have a surgery table in the city large enough to accommodate the position they needed to put him in to do the surgery.

He went to Sloan-Kettering Hospital in New York to have the surgery because they had an extra-large surgery table. It was one of the few hospitals that had large tables at the time. The only good part about that is my dad was from New York. He and my mom stayed with my dad’s brother in the house the boys grew up in while he recuperated from surgery.

The Colostomy

After two months, my parents returned home. The surgery he had involved removing his colon. He now had a colostomy.

This was a whole new experience for all of us. My parents were great. They showed me how to change the colostomy bag and appliance so I would know how to help my patients who had colostomies when I graduated from nursing school. I liked how they treated me as a daughter when appropriate, and as a student nurse when opportunities presented themselves.

New York

For two years my dad returned to New York every six months for checkups, and then once a year. All had been going well for five years…or so we thought.

He got routine abdominal x-rays each visit. Because my dad was so large, when they did the x-ray, they also got the lower portion of his lungs in the image. And that’s when the doctor found it.

In the image the previous year, there was a speck on the lung, but the doctor did not think it was anything significant. This time the x-ray revealed the speck again, only now it was a full-blown tumor. The colon cancer had spread to his lung.

My dad returned home.

Nothing Was Going to Cure Him

The oncologist treated my dad with stronger chemotherapy that he had not used previously. He looked strange to me when he lost his hair this time. Not because he was bald, but because he looked vulnerable to me for the first time in my life. My giant of a father was shrinking into a sickly-looking man. His upright posture was now stooped from illness and worry. He realized that nothing was going to cure him. He knew he was going to be leaving my mom and the rest of the family.

When there were no more traditional chemotherapy drugs to use, the doctor asked my dad if he could use an experimental drug on him. The doctor explained that the goal was no longer to cure my dad, but maybe give him some more time and the medical community more data on this new drug. Knowing that he was going to die, my dad agreed to the experimental chemo. He said that even though he knew it would not help him, it might help someone in the future. My dad was like that.

I wonder if what they learned in that trial was something that helped me twenty-nine years later when I developed breast cancer. Thank you, Dad, if your sacrifice did help me. I know you would have done it for that reason alone if you could have. (Read: The Day I Met Cancer in the Mirror)

My dad was the first person I knew with cancer. His mother had had cancer, but she died a few months before I was born.

This was a very confusing time for me. The once-massive man I looked up to I now looked down upon in a hospital bed.

I Told Him I Loved Him

When we were given the news that my dad had only a brief time to live, I went to the Veteran’s Administration Hospital where he was a patient. I sat in his room, just he and I. He was not aware of my presence as far as I knew since he was unresponsive. I thanked him for being my father and for all he had taught me and done for me. I sat with him for a while. I told him I loved him, then I left.

My Final Goodbye

I was a new nurse by this time and was unsure how I would handle my dad’s death. I was concerned that if I were present when he died that I would relive that moment every time I had to help a patient and their family in their final moments.

I left the VA and went to my parents’ house. I told my mom that I had said my final goodbyes to Dad and that I would not be going back to see him anymore. She said that she understood.

Two days later my mom said when she and the pastor arrived at the VA that my dad passed away a short time later.

My Dad Was Human After All

My favorite memory of Dad

I was a terrible math student. My dad insisted that we get good grades. If we did not get all A’s, or at least B’s, then we would be grounded until the next grading period so that we would have sufficient time to study and bring our grades up.

I was in algebra one in junior high school, but I might as well have been in calculus. I struggled greatly. Every day I would take my math book home and try to figure out how to do the problems. My dad and older brother spent hours helping me with my homework every night. With their help, I would FINALLY finish my assignment each evening, but when it came time to take the test, I had no clue what to do. I ended up getting a D in the class. I was devastated, but I just couldn’t grasp the concept of solving for x and y.

I dreaded having my dad sign my report card. As I made the long walk home, I already knew that I was grounded until the next grading period and that night there was a youth group meeting at the church. My sister and older brother would be going, but not me. I was grounded for the next six weeks.

I walked home slowly, trying desperately not to cry in my disappointment. I just walked into the house, handed my parents my report card, and went to my room.

After supper, my brother and sister started getting ready to go to the youth group meeting. My dad passed my room that I shared with my sister and asked me why I was not getting ready too. I looked at him in disbelief. What did he mean why wasn’t I getting ready? I was grounded!

I told him, “I can’t go.”

He asked, “Why not?”

I replied, “Because I’m grounded.”

He said, “Who grounded you?”

“You did,” I said.

“I didn’t ground you.”

Had my dad gone mad? Had he forgotten the rules? He made the rules.

I said, “I brought home a D in algebra, so I’m grounded.”

 “Did you bring home your math homework every night?” he asked.

“You know I did. You and Dan helped me with it every night,” I said incredulously.

 “Did you take all the tests?”

“Of course, I took all the tests. And I failed them!”

“Then you’re not grounded.”

“What?”

“If you hadn’t brought home your homework, and if you hadn’t taken all the tests, then you would be grounded. But, because I know you did your best, and your best was a D, then you are not grounded, so get ready for youth group before you’re late.”

I walked away stunned. I just took it for granted that I was grounded. But my dad saw my efforts, and that was more important to him than my grade. That was the first time I saw such tenderness from my dad. My dad was human after all.

Which Stripe Was Mine?

My dad wrote poetry. My sister, younger brother, and I also write poetry. I believe it is because of my dad’s influence. His favorite poet was Helen Steiner Rice.

One poem he wrote was entitled “Which Stripe Was Mine?” It asks Jesus which of the thirty-nine stripes he received was because of the sin my dad committed. It was my dad’s confession of his sin that caused Jesus to be hung on a cross to die in his place.

I wonder which stripe was mine?             

“Ah Fathuh”

As I said earlier, my dad was from New York. I seldom noticed his accent. Since I grew up with him, he sounded normal to me.

At the conclusion of each church service, the pastor would ask a man in the congregation to say the closing prayer. When called upon, my dad always started his prayer with the words “Our Father”.

One day after the service a girl came up to me and asked, “Why does your dad always say ‘Ah Fathuh?”

I said, “Because he is praying to God.”

“But why does he say ‘Ah Fathuh,” she asked without saying the “r.”

I didn’t notice my dad was dropping the r, nor did I realize that was what she was doing either, so I said, “Because God is our Father.”

She just left, if not even more confused.

My father. My giant. Phil.

Thanks for everything, Dad.

Cancer proved itself an opportunistic thief the day cancer turned royal blue.

Comment below about your favorite memory of the father in your life.

Wishing you all the best,

Kelly

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 Yes, I am a nurse. No, I am not your nurse. The medical topics discussed in this, or any article on this site, are intended to be issues for you to discuss with your medical team if you feel they apply to you. None of the information you are about to read in this article is treatment advice for you from me. I do not have that authority.