Twelve Days of Christmas, Part VI: The day Dad told us he had six months to live

Note: This blog was written on Dec. 22, 2018, two days after Dad told us his doctor said cancer had returned and was terminal. Given six months from onset (probably October) to live, the old man lasted more than nine. He passed away on Aug. 5, 2019, at age 74.

It’s been two days since my father told me he had six months to live. There have been plenty of tears, to say the least. I cried so much the day he told us he had bone cancer throughout his body that I had a fatigue headache.

We’re all still processing the news. Though he’d privately battled the disease in 2017 and 2018, he’d managed to beat esophageal cancer and we all assumed dad would live another 10 years.

Six months. What do you say? What do you do? What can I do for him?

I can’t think of more than 15 straight minutes during which I haven’t thought about this for the last two days. I’ve woken up dozens of times thinking about it at night. Several times when I’ve woken up I’ve written his obituary in my mind. I’ve thought, “What an amazing life he’s led.”

And he has. He overcame an extremely difficult childhood. One that included surviving polio before Jonas Salk’s vaccine and running away from home dozens of times. 

Running away from a bad situation at home led to more than a decade of living on the wrong side of the law. He went to jail for the first time at age 14. He spent much of the next 15 years there for non-violent crimes (burglary mostly).

It took the help of a very dear friend who begged and pleaded with a judge and attorney to give him another shot to get him out of jail. And, as he likes to say, the birth of his first child (me) at age 31 was the end of that way of life. He had a reason to live.

My brother came along 18 months later, and he lived the next 40 years of his life for his sons. Only once did that embarrass his oldest son — Dad insisted on wearing a T-shirt with our faces on it that read, “Ask me about my boys!” This was when I was 13.

Living for his boys meant sacrifice. Finding gainful employment after years of incarceration isn’t easy. He worked “for the man,” as he put it for a while, but having three jobs at once (running a print shop, working at a convenience story and cutting wood all weekend) meant little time with the wife and kids.

That led to a career in the crafting business, first in stained glass, which meant living on the poverty line for several years, then in leather. Eventually, the business blossomed.

The career allowed Dad to work from home, even if that meant working 60 to 80 hours a week and traveling virtually every weekend for nine months. He still found time to take us fishing or hunting, and he taught us how to play baseball, basketball and football.

For years, we traveled with him or mom, alternating trips across Missouri, Kansas, Oklahoma and Arkansas. My brother and I saw hundreds of cities, big and small, and we met thousands of characters. Now that I think back on it, we were so fortunate to have those experiences.

I also remember that Dad insisted that we do homework on those trips. He built in time during the schedule for us to get it done. From the fourth grade through high school, Dad demanded that we not receive a grade lower than a B.

“Do not bring me home a C,” he said. “A C means you’re average, and my boys are not average.”

There were some slips. I once brought home a report card with five C’s on it in high school. That happened during the second quarter of my sophomore year. I remember having a difficult time then. Mom was out of town working a Christmas show, and I was lost emotionally, struggling through adolescence.

A few days before our report cards arrived, Dad had given each of us a Christmas card. Mine said, “I love you, son. No C’s!” He was about as mad and disappointed as he ever got at me when the report card arrived in the mail. I will never forget him walking up to me, putting his finger in my chest, and saying, “Don’t ever do this again.”

Dad rarely reacted like that physically. He spanked us as kids, but there was never a slap, punch or hit. I knew he meant business, and I did really well the rest of high school. It helped that he took my car away for six months after the infamous five-C report card.

I think of his lessons often. I have for years, but especially since he had a heart attack in 2012. He’d been extremely healthy until then, and until that point, I just assumed he’d live forever. That forever is now six months.

At the very least, his boys are far from average. Dan has become a wonderful husband and father of five, a man of faith with a great job. I often marvel at the way he handles as much as he does.

As for his oldest son, he’s gone from five C’s on one report card to holding a master’s degree, graduating with honors and a career as a marketing director. More importantly, I’ve taken all the lessons he taught us and applied them in my role as a stepdad. And I married a woman he absolutely adores.

Thanks, Dad. I give you an A-plus as a father.