It was safer and more fun than talking about his new diagnosis of pancreatic cancer.
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-ifsWhat if the surgery goes wrong?
Unfortunately, staying in the moment has never been my forte.
So I announced I wanted him to teach me the game.
I’d forgotten whom I was dealing with.
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 toplay.
And yet instead of getting frustrated, I got hooked.
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.
he’d mutter when his shots went awry.
“Not bad,” he’d say with a grin when they didn’t.
I practiced and studied, but I couldn’t keep my head down.
The second I heard the clubface hit the ball, I’d look up to see where it went.
“I’ll watch; you just follow through,” my dad promised.
But I couldn’t resist.
I was still having trouble keeping my head where my feet were.
My mind raced to the next few months of my dad’s treatment, to my someday wedding.
(Where would my father be?)
If I couldn’t even learn this golf swing, how would I be able to remember everything else?
Despite all this anxiety, I had fun.
My swing slowly improved, and I loved sharing sunny afternoons with my dad.
On the range, I discovered that beinginthe game was even more of a thrill.
We rarely discussed life-and-death things.
We covered the everyday: politics, the Yankees, books.
We scouted golf outlets for sales and picked out my golf wardrobe.
(“You wear too much black.")
“Where else would I be?”
I’d say, fiddling with the air conditioner vents, which I knew would annoy him.
“Everyone keeps telling me that cancer makes you appreciate the little things.
But I have always appreciated those things.
What cancer really does is make you more aware that almost everyone is struggling with something.”
See how she was steady and even, like a clock?
Now watch this guy…”
It’s moments like that when cancer surprises me.
It took me most of the summer to realize that you couldlivewith cancer, not just die from it.
Around Labor Day,my father told me that I was ready to play the course.
I recruited my mother and Ashley, my college roommate and golfer extraordinaire.
Our foursome was set.
The day was crisp and bright.
Still, I was worried when Dad decided to play and teed off on the first hole.
He swung strongand ended up with a par.
“How do you like that?”
he said, smiling.
For once, my mind stopped whirring.
I concentrated on shot after shot, and the holes sped by.
I could tell my father was excited to be out there.
Suddenly, I had room in my head for a little bit of hope.
“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it,” he says.
I can’t tell you that I don’t worry about what “whatever” will be.
Photo Credit: Courtesy of subject
