December 26, 2011

Rare is the person dedicated to oncology – be it at the bench, bedside, or support group table – who has not been personally touched by the disease. For many, a parent’s painful struggle or the loss of a childhood friend served as the impetus to pursue a career in medical or radiation oncology, cancer nursing, or social work.

My own journey as a psychologist committed to treating cancer patients began long ago, in the dimly lit living room where my Canadian grandfather lay dying of lung cancer, his cobalt treatments failing to provide the miracle people hoped for in those days.

I was a Colorado sixth grader, whisked with my family to the far northern Saskatchewan town of Prince Albert during Christmas break for the bleak farewell to my father’s father.

My memories of the trip are few, but I well remember that the temperature hovered at 40 degrees below zero. I saw the Northern Lights through chattering teeth. People plugged their cars into parking meters to keep the engines warm. We ate Christmas dinner at a Chinese restaurant, where fortune cookies followed pumpkin pie.

We always returned, though, to my grandparents’ stuffy home, with its smells of medicine, damp wool, and leftovers.

My grandfather Alymer, once a muscular construction foreman, lay crumpled under a hand-stitched afghan, dimly aware of the holiday din. To me, he had always seemed a little bit scary, a gruff but kindhearted grandpa who didn’t think girls should fish. Now, he was scarier still, deathly quiet except for racking coughs and cobalt-induced belches that ripped through the room like thunderclaps.

My young cousins were there, from Calgary: tiny Brenda, who seemed like a doll come to life, and Brian, a boisterous energy machine of about 4 years of age, constantly being told, "Shhhhh!"

In what was to become a family legend, Brian went running through the living room, perhaps waving a toy airplane, when he stopped in his tracks as another endlessly guttural burp emanated from the couch.

"Say excuse me, Alymer!"

At that moment, everyone laughed.

In its innocence, the etiquette lesson of a 4-year-old broke the dismal spell of hopelessness and certain death that had gripped a grieving family.

That night, Christmas Eve, we returned in the bitter cold to our roadside motel.

We opened the door, turned on the light, and saw Christmas.

Hugh Adams, a childhood friend of my father’s who ran the local bookstore, had gotten our room key from the front desk – everyone assumed the best of each other in that town, in those days ‑ and filled our hotel room with evergreen boughs, red bows, and gift-wrapped books.

Whenever we talk of Christmases past, my family remembers our Canadian Christmas with warm nostalgia.

Against the grim reality of cancer, we found laughter and love.

My dad’s friend Hugh died this year, after a horrifically long and difficult struggle with bladder cancer.

I am sure he will be remembered for many kindnesses and accomplishments, but to me, his legacy was one of bringing hope to a fragile family far from home, planting in one small girl the idea that cancer’s power should never undermine a family’s spirit or define their memories of the past.

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