Practicing medicine, I have seen illness, trauma, disease, and death. But cancer is the trump card. It doesn’t attack the old and frail. It doesn’t care who, what, or when. The patient, the family, the supporters strike a confident pose as they enter a fight many know they are destined to lose. Together, they watch as the disease eats away at its victim.
Which leads me to a second story of the origins of this blog – when we come to it.
Jr. (name changed) was a science teacher. He taught middle school. In my mind, a middle school classroom may belong in Dante’s levels of descent, but Jr. thrived in it. He had a sense of wonder when he spoke of science, and his class was aimed to wake that wonder, at least just a little bit, in each of his tween students. I think he knew that middle school science was not designed to drill facts, but instead to ignite an interest. His goal – prove that science could be cool.
Jr. was a traveler and adventurer and our trip to Mount Kilimanjaro was his doing. Taking on the climb is a daunting task, but being in charge of a group of suburbanites, their kids, and their vacation happiness adds a level of stress. Jr. did it with a smile, a joke, and the occasional science class along the path.
Our trip was filled with memories, but Jr. as science teacher in Africa remains vivid in my mind. At night, it gets cold on the mountain. We would huddle in our dining tent and share stories of our hikes and discuss the upcoming day. Ginger tea, bad coffee, and an unusual unsweetened hot chocolate were the drinks for warmth. The mountain air, the trials of the excursion, and the relief at reaching base camp each day led to a bright atmosphere despite the cold. Jr. would talk about the stars. He was so excited to see the stars from the mountain, unspoiled by city lights. And he wanted to teach – to try and ignite another in his passion. Out into the night he and I would brave the frigid air. Armed with a cheap laser pointer that amazingly sent a sharp beam into the night sky, he traced out the constellations and gave me an astronomy lesson in Africa. Between shivers, we gazed.
About 2 months after our return, Jr. found out he had gastric cancer. 15 months after climbing the mountain, he died.
During his treatments, we spoke and emailed. He was always upbeat. He remained committed to his classroom, even during the chemotherapy. Of course, everyone would inquire as to his health, and he unfailingly commented on how blessed he was. Invariably he was more concerned about me and my family then he seemed about his own disease. When discussing the year, he spoke of fellowship, adventures, reaching students, and family gatherings. “It’s been the best year of my life,” was his commonly mentioned phrase.
His obituary contained the usual proceedings. However, the ending struck a chord. It defined Jr. and it helped inspire this blog.
“In lieu of flowers, please consider honoring [Jr.] by having a deeper conversation with someone you love, every chance you can take.”
No flowers. No donations. Just a simple request to take time to talk and explore with someone important. Perhaps by letting the conversation take a deeper turn and sharing in the wonder, passion, disappointments, struggles, and successes of our lives, we can help each other take more from life, conquer an obstacle, or start a new path. Or perhaps, we can just bond a little more. Together, when we come to it.
Thanks Jr. for your passion.