Pap

I published this piece a few years back, in the first issue of the Holiday Café actually. This February marks the 25th anniversary of my grandfather’s death… I cannot believe it has been 25 years… all the things he missed seeing…

To update the first paragraph of the original story… I found the statistics for 2018 on the National Cancer Institute’s website … In 2018, an estimated 1,735,350 new cases of cancer will be diagnosed in the United States and 609,640 people will die from the disease. We need a cure and we need to end this horrible disease.

Over 1.5 million people will be diagnosed in 2010 with some form of cancer and nearly one out of every four people in the United States will die from cancer. Shocking statistics, perhaps, but the number of those who die from this horrible disease is dropping. Medical advancements and early detection are keys to going into remission and beating cancer. Unfortunately, the medical advancements were not as they are today back in 1994.

When I was a toddler both of my parents worked, which meant I obviously had to have some sort of adult supervision during the day. Mom would drop me off at my grandparents and then she would catch the bus downtown to go to work. I think I was pretty fortunate to have my grandparents watch me when I was a youngster. Especially since I am sure daycare was not as popular back in the late 1970’s and early 1980’s and not as regulated and managed as they are today.
It’s weird the things that you remember from childhood. I remember watching my mom walk to the bus stop from my grandparent’s place. And other things like my grandmother making me lunch and creating a little table out of a chair so I could watch TV and eat my lunch in their living room, or begging my grandfather to play Barbie’s with me or the very distinct layout of their home, even how there was a mirror above where the sofa was located.

I also vaguely remember my grandfather getting sick for the first time. I remember things like him lying on the sofa and my grandmother changing his bandages. I remember the word CANCER being spoken in the house. I didn’t know what all this talk of cancer was though… I wasn’t even in Pre-school yet… I was just learning my “near” and “far” thanks to Grover on Sesame Street. I could tell it wasn’t good but I just didn’t know how bad it really was. I was kept in the dark about it for the most part, mostly due to my age. My family didn’t want to tell me all the gory details, and I don’t blame them. At the age of three I wouldn’t have been able to comprehend what was truly going on or the severity of it.

I would think to myself, my grandfather is a strong man, he is very tall and he fought in WWII, he will fight this cancer thing too. Like I said, I had no idea the severity of cancer so I thought it was just like a bad cold or an infection or something of that nature; I had no idea that he had a tumor the size of a grapefruit taken out of him. For the most part, I was right about my pap fighting cancer. He went into remission after several chemotherapy treatments.

For the next 14 years my grandfather would go in and out of remission. Every time the doctor would give my family the bad news, I would just tell myself that my grandfather is a fighter he will survive this, he did it before he can do it again. He won’t quit, he won’t die, he just won’t. He went into the hospital, and we would visit, I always hated going to the hospital – something about that disinfectant smell that freaks me out. It makes me ill, that smell, makes me queasy almost paralyzed. When I was young the doctors wouldn’t let me go into his room. I sitting in the waiting room at Montefiore Hospital as my mom and grandmother would take turns visiting my pap. I also remember a stuffed animal in the shape of a cat that I was given to keep me occupied. Over the years every morning mom and I would go see my grandparents before she would go off to work and I would go off to school. By this time, I was in high school rebellious and angry at the world like all teenagers. We found out that pap had cancer again and he wasn’t getting better this time; he was getting worse and could barely get out of bed. In all the years I had never seen him this sick before. Not eating, not drinking, and not moving. It wasn’t the cancer that was killing him; it was an infection that he somehow got while in the hospital. He was given hospice care and could stay at home.

I remember that cold February day like it was yesterday. My sister and I didn’t go to school that day; it was cancelled because of snow/ice/freezing temperatures. We stayed at my grandparent’s house, I remember locking myself in my old bedroom, curling up in his chair (that was moved there when I moved out) and crying a lot, streams and streams of tears running down my face. I didn’t want him to die but this would be it, this would be the end of his fight. I knew it and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I remember the nurse patting me on my shoulder, telling me it was going to be ok. I didn’t believe her. How could it be ok? I was about to lose my grandfather…

My father came by and took me for food. I would just go home afterwards because mom said she and my sister would be going home shortly. I got home from dinner and mom was still not there. Then the phone rang. It was my sister; I could hardly understand he over the violent crying sounds she was making. She told me to sit down… that is when I knew it… that our grandfather had just died. It was all very surreal, like a scene out of a movie or something, when the bad news is about to come, you tell the person to sit down. Why? It didn’t help me take the news any better. We were both crying hysterically on the phone. Neither one of us wanted to hang up the phone.

I knew he would not be suffering anymore, that this was a better alternative than going through all the radiation and chemotherapy treatments, but damn it I am a little self-fish. I didn’t want him to die. I wanted him to be there when I graduated, when my sister graduated, and for all the other important events in our lives. I knew he would not be suffering anymore, that this was a better alternative than going through all the radiation and chemotherapy treatments, but damn it I am a little self-fish. I didn’t want him to die. I wanted him to be there when I graduated, when my sister graduated, and for all the other important events in our lives.

We buried him on that Valentine’s Day.

It has been 18 years since that fateful day in February. It’s funny the things that remind me of him even today, a TV show re-run or seeing a train from the line he worked, or his birthday. A few years back a friend was having a psychic party, and I went to just see what it was all about. Not that I believed in such things mind you. The woman was very spiritual; she told me a few things about my grandfather then mention that his spirit is with me. Whether she was full of malarkey or not, it was comforting to hear.

Nicole Leckenby is co-founder/editor of The Holiday Cafe. She works full-time at the University of Pittsburgh and she has two amazing boys at home that keep her busy, along with a whole host of other things.