Auld Andrew’s Hearth
I’ve seen that look before, the one doctors and nurses give you right before the worst news is delivered. It’s the very briefest of glances, perhaps lasting less than a full second, but it says more than a thousand spoken words. The first time I saw it was after our oldest daughter collapsed at school. We were all in the waiting room at the ER, not knowing why Brianne collapsed or what her fate would be. I saw a man talking to one of the nurses quietly, then they both gave us that quick look simultaneously. The man was a chaplain or priest, I can’t remember, but he came up to our family and guided us into a private waiting room just off the ER.
Even though, very deep down, I knew the truth they were trying so hard not to say, I went into the room anyway, hoping against hope that I was wrong. But I wasn’t wrong, Brianne didn’t ever wake up again and that look between professionals was the equivalent of ”Only a miracle can change this”.
Shortly after my dad finished his course of radiation for the mass in his lung, he went in for an MRI of his brain. Two days later, we went for a scheduled appointment to discuss chemotherapy. After I reminded the doctor of the MRI, he pulled up the results and he was looking at them for the first time. His back was to me, but I could see the computer screen clearly. He scrolled quickly through the images until one of them made him stop cold. His shoulders tensed ever so slightly, he turned his head quickly and gave me that look. It took a nanosecond, but I knew something really bad was coming.
There is a large lesion on Dad’s brain, officially taking his cancer from stage three to stage four. Terminal.
Frankly, the news wasn’t a big shock. We both saw it coming, but it was quietly devastating to have it confirmed anyway. Chemotherapy will have to be delayed again, until another round of radiation treatments on his head is done. We had to decide between Gamma Knife surgery, which is targeted only at the lesion, or whole-head radiation. They both have advantages, both have repercussions and neither will cure him.
Andy is not the type of person to dwell on things he can’t change. He knows he is dying, he’s 83 and he’s tired. But right now, he is still very much alive and he has business to finish. On the way home from getting the news, we discussed the options. Gamma Knife is only one appointment here in town, while the whole-head would require us to resume our daily pilgrimage to Travis AFB for another two weeks. I was in favor of the whole-head radiation simply because I think it offers my dad the best chance of maintaining what he still has. He can still live on his own in his own house and that does more for his peace of mind than anything else I can think of.
But, he has business…Or rather, I do and he’s very intent on getting that business conducted. To me, publishing The Last Prospector is not nearly as important as my father’s health and well-being. Truly, as anxious as I am to publish, the book hasn’t been a factor in making those decisions because it’s just a damned book. I love it, but I love my dad approximately one billion times more.
He sees things differently. From his perspective, the book is much more important because it will outlive both of us. He never fathered any children biologically just as I never mothered any biologically. We are both step parents and he already knows that my step kids won’t be there for me when I get old. He is dying and he wants to know that I’ll be okay when he’s gone, that I will leave a legacy we can both be proud of.
There was a lot of arguing back and forth. A lot. Over the last week and after flooring the accelerator on publishing, The Last Prospector is very close to ready. He can no longer argue that his illness is keeping me from my work. So, after taking that out of the equation, Andy decided on whole-head radiation and we start Tuesday.
Many of the people and places in The Last Prospector are named for people I love. When it came time to name the ancient home belonging to Prospector’s family, I really wanted a name with a lot of resonance and meaning for me. I named it after Andy, after the man who became my father and showed me that all father’s aren’t like the one I was born with. Auld Andrew’s Hearth is my insurance policy, it guarantees that my dad will be with me forever.
Everybody dies, but it’s not how we die that defines us. It’s how we live and the legacy we leave behind after the breathing is finished. Andy’s legacy is me, I am his shining accomplishment and I want to honor that legacy by making sure he lives forever.
Share this:
