Cancer. It has become a word this society is accustomed to, one that seldom merits a second glance.

Feel the ratings on that great show going down? Write in a little cancer. A good twist for the next great American novel? Create a cancerous character.

Cancer is today’s cure-all. It is the disease that is ultimately treatable; who needs a cure when you can undergo intense medical procedures for the same effect? Seriously, who dies of cancer anymore?

My grandpa will. My grandmother may have the hands of a hero, but my grandpa has cancer.

Two weeks before my wedding, my grandpa was diagnosed with prostate cancer, aggressive and inoperable. By midsummer it had spread into his lymph nodes.

Slaving away at a summer camp, I bought my black dress and bided my time.

I was soon joined by my cabin mate, who’s grandfather was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He didn’t have to wait long.

We created the “My grandfather will die any day and I’m just waiting for the phone call to tell me the time, date and place” club. It was how we coped.

Less than a week later she received her phone call. I’m still waiting.

Sometimes I wonder what it is like to not worry anymore, but I’ve never gotten the courage to ask her.

My grandfather is doing well, for his state. He refused any invasive, intense treatments and is treating this disease himself with herbs and vitamins.

So far, so good.

There is a man who has been like a grandfather to me, and he has cancer too. He has housed my family on vacation and fed us with the bounty of his garden.

He loves to sing. And he’s dying. I last visited him several weeks ago, a quick stop with my family because none of us had been there in so long.

He was in a hospital bed in a room that was more of an office, reduced to skin and bones; he was covered in a thin sheet and he was completely bald.

We all pretended there was nothing wrong. Everyone spoke to him in the same loud, cheerful voice I’ve heard my dad use at deathbeds in nursing homes to men and women who looked more like corpses than people.

I thought I was doing fine until it was time for us to go. On the outside of the front door was a hand-painted placard that read “A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.”

The craft had been there so long I’d stopped looking at it. The phrase was mentioned so often I’d stopped hearing it.

But now, with fresh eyes and fresh ears the words were like a slap in the face.

I wanted to take that little piece of wood and throw it into the yard, then stomp on it and scream and cry until I felt better.

Maybe a merry heart does do good like a medicine. Maybe it was one family’s way of reminding each other to look for the best. Maybe they really did believe it.

Those words defined how this near-enough grandpa had lived his life. The same described his family as he dies his death.

 

Sharon Shaw is a senior journalism major who serves as editor for The Tech Talk. E-mail comments to sem010@latech.edu.