Cancer diagnosis strengthens family bonds

By Molly Lyons

updated 1:21 p.m. ET June 21, 2009

Last spring, after a lifetime of racking up athletic consolation prizes such as the Team Spirit Award, I finally discovered a sport I enjoy: golf. My dad has always been an avid player, but I ended up on the course by accident, when I promised to let him teach me the game. It was safer and more fun than talking about his new diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.

The aggressiveness of the disease sent us all — my parents, my brother, my sister-in-law and me — down a dark rabbit hole to Cancerland, where worst-case scenarios beckoned like carnival barkers and grief and hope undulated like a Tilt-A-Whirl. I’m a worrier on the best of days, and now I couldn’t sit still or sleep without imagining the future minus my father. He is, after all, irreplaceable: kind, reliable, occasionally short-tempered; a devout believer in social justice, Jesuit education and baseball; someone who balances good humor with Irish gloom; a man whose car is always washed, whose desk is always tidy and whose shoes are always shined; a generous mentor, a steady friend and a loving husband and dad. The specter of his absence elbowed out everything in its path. He had a job he had worked hard for. He and my mom were looking forward to a trip to Hawaii. He was only 59 years old. It was too soon to be talking about tumors.

As my mind churned over what-ifs — What if the surgery goes wrong? What if the chemo doesn’t work? — I tried to live by the advice of a seasoned oncology nurse: “Keep your head where your feet are.” Unfortunately, staying in the moment has never been my forte.

During his first stay in the hospital, Dad told us he got through the long nights following his surgery by playing famous golf courses in his head, shot by shot. It seemed unfair that the year he had joined one of the more beautiful clubs in New Jersey, he wouldn’t even be able to shoulder a bag. So I announced I wanted him to teach me the game. On weekends when Dad had enough energy, we’d drive to the range, pull an Adirondack chair close to the tees and proceed with the lesson. The plan allowed him to combine two of his favorite things: dispensing wisdom using as many sports metaphors as possible and kibitzing with the staff and other members of the club.

I had thought our time together would consist of me whacking balls while Dad critiqued my form, followed by a break for hot dogs. I’d forgotten whom I was dealing with. My father arrived at our first lesson having formulated a curriculum, including but not limited to drills, golf philosophy, golf history and golf strategy. He’d even gathered ancillary reading for me, such as golf magazines and classics by Ben Hogan. On the days he didn’t feel well, we’d watch tournaments on the Golf Channel.

Our lessons would not be a diversionary tactic, he decided: I was actually going to learn to play. I didn’t protest; it was infinitely easier to chat about birdies and bogeys than the various types of cancer cells and their degree of deadliness.

My dad’s lessons were comprehensive: how to grip the club, how to line up a shot, how to stand, where to put your weight, how to turn your hips, how to bring your arms back, how to keep your head down, how to do it all in reverse and not forget to follow through, how to let the club do the work, how to use the strength of your core, how to relax, why not to sway, how to stay coiled, how to keep your eye on the ball, how not to lift your head until you’ve swung through. Oh, and how to do all of this at the same time, every time, until you’ve hit about 100 balls.

And yet instead of getting frustrated, I got hooked. My dad was a gentle and earnest teacher; I felt terrible that I wasn’t always able to execute what he so clearly wanted to do himself. He looked small to me, sitting in the big white chair wearing a baseball hat to protect his now bald head. The rare times he got up to demonstrate a swing, I worried. “Don’t bust a gut!” I’d say, thinking of all those stitches, as he hunched over my short club. “Damn!” he’d mutter when his shots went awry. “Not bad,” he’d say with a grin when they didn’t.

MORE FROM CANCER

Cancer Section Front

How to avoid common cancer-causing agents Your body’s 10 weirdest health clues Many high-risk women reject breast MRIs Maine to consider cell phone cancer warning First gene maps created for 2 deadly cancers Study: 15,000 will die from CT scans done in 1 year Poor turned away from free cancer screenings Chemo aids cancer survival in older women Drug combo lengthens breast cancer survival Study finds benefits of soy after breast cancer Cancer Section Front   Add Cancer headlines to your news reader: