Cancer diagnosis strengthens family bonds

‘Everyone is struggling with something’
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?) I gripped my clubs lightly but held tight to memories of him teaching me other things: how to ride a bike, how to field a grounder, how to edit a story, how to interview for a job, how to tell a joke, how to take a leap of faith. 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. We’d always had common interests — a passion for reading, the same taste in movies and a fondness for bad puns. But athletics were my brother’s territory, and my parents and I would happily and proudly cheer from the sidelines. On the range, I discovered that being in the game was even more of a thrill.

Plus, it felt as if Dad and I were getting away with something, as if we were keeping the cancer at bay one whack at a time. 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.”)

Every so often in the car on the way back from the club, he’d start to thank me for being there with him and I’d cut him off. “Where else would I be?” I’d say, fiddling with the air conditioner vents, which I knew would annoy him. I was in some way ashamed that he was thanking me, meanwhile I couldn’t come close to articulating how grateful I was to be his daughter.

“You know, it’s funny,” he said one day when we were sitting at a table overlooking the 18th green. “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.” I wanted to tell him how proud I was to know a man like him, but he didn’t pause before pointing out another golfer: “Now look at how that lady there sank that putt. 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 could live with cancer, not just die from it.

Around Labor Day, my father told me that I was ready to play the course. We chose a day in October, when he would be well enough to take a cart out, if not actually play. 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 strong — and ended up with a par. “How do you like that?” he said, smiling.

For once, my mind stopped whirring. The course was challenging, so you had to hit your ball accurately or you’d be (sometimes literally) lost in the woods. I concentrated on shot after shot, and the holes sped by. I could tell my father was excited to be out there. As we approached the last green, I felt as if I’d woken up from a deep, pure sleep. Suddenly, I had room in my head for a little bit of hope.

My father’s battle with cancer is not over; 14 months after his diagnosis, we still don’t know what the future will bring. “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. But when I feel overwhelmed by what-ifs, I think back to our time together on the golf course and remind myself to keep my head down, swing and trust that the ball will land where I want it to.

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