Soon I’ll have no choice but to block Middle Sister’s number — she’s the opposite of Elizabeth Taylor’s diamond earrings and never brings me luck. This morning she called and despondently asked “Have you heard about Dad?”
No, I hadn’t heard about Dad, but I remembered the last time she called with a similar question a few years ago. He was on his way to the ER then with what he feared was a heart attack (but which fortunately was not). This time she continued, “I didn’t think so. I only found out by accident and he wasn’t too chatty about it.” He’d just been told by his doctor’s office that he has a melanoma.
My dad’s as white as my mom is olive-complected and rarely uses sunscreen despite spending much of his free time outdoors. He’s covered in freckles and has been told in the past by relatives and doctors alike to have yearly mole screenings. This particular spot has concerned my mother for years but he’s ignored her nagging. When I spoke to him this evening he made no excuses and concluded “I have no one to blame but myself.”
In a separate call hours earlier, my mom tried to pin it on herself: “I should’ve scheduled an appointment when he wouldn’t.” Left to his own devices, he let the mark grow to the size of a nickel before having it checked out. Even then, he was less concerned about the malignancy than a smaller mole elsewhere that didn’t ultimately interest his doctor.
He’ll need surgery to remove the melanoma in its entirety and, because of its appearance, a lymph node biopsy to see if the cancer has spread. Throughout the day he made morbid half-jokes that my mom didn’t want to hear, things like “I finally have to clean the basement — I can’t leave that mess behind for the rest of you to deal with.” Middle Sister was privy to a few of those remarks and felt the same as our mother: she didn’t want to hear it.
What she wanted to hear from me, I sensed, were reassurances I again couldn’t give her. Instead we compared worries and after hanging up I did what little I could to address them, like calling Youngest Sister to ask if she could potentially postpone moving her germ-riddled brood into our parents’ house if the biopsy doesn’t go our way and he needs additional treatment that could leave him immunocompromised.
Next I sought clarification from our mom about cursory matters like whether they have valid healthcare directives and if he has an active life insurance policy. Without him she’d struggle to take care of deferred home maintenance, not to mention Felix and, soon, Youngest Sister. Relaying the answers to Middle Sister helped her relax, at least for a few minutes. It’s rare for either of us to remain footloose and fancy-free for long when it comes to the rest of our family, because we value order and security and they tend to prioritize short-term comfort over long-term safety.
My dad is 64 years old. He’s worked hard since he was a teenager and was finally, after many years of financial uncertainty, allowing himself to cautiously imagine retirement. Now he’ll be distracted by guilt and worry until he’s had his biopsy and knows the results. The cruelty of one possible outcome — that someone could sacrifice most of their life preparing for a retirement that never comes or is shortened by illness or injury — has preoccupied me throughout much of my own existence and strongly motivated an early desire for financial independence.
Countless times over the years, I tried to sell my dad on the philosophy — really, it’s more of a conviction — that you can’t have freedom without security (and vice-versa). Tonight I find myself wishing I’d tried harder. But more than that I hope he’s able to get answers quickly, and that the results are good, and that many years from now he leaves behind a messy basement he was too busy enjoying his retirement to clean.