Cancer, Race for the Fridge!

Got to admit, cancer is not funny, but some of the things that go on around it seem to be good for a laugh or two to me. This is in no way to poke fun at the many persons who have had to deal with cancer in their families or themselves. So forgive me in advance for offending anyone, but it is my way of dealing with the disease that has targeted my wife, and her incredible strength and dignity in accepting and fighting it, has made it possible for me to wax silly. It is really meant to be a husband's feeble attempt to try to understand why so many good people are effected by the disease and why the worst in our society, child molesters, politicians and lawyers never seem to come down with anything worse than herpes.

The first thing men need to know about what happens when their wives, lovers or significant others get that terrifying diagnosis is that they will immediately notice that we, as the macho moron of the species have deprived ourselves of the most significant weapon in the arsenal against any illness and that is friendship. I don't mean the kind where you sit around drinking beer, grousing about how bad the Browns are or discussing the relative merits of various makes and models of automobiles. All the while scratching various parts of their bodies, as satisfying as that is. I am afraid to say, we as males we are doomed to go through life without the type of bonding that women seem to be able to form like so many drops of rain.

For example, my wife decided to keep the illness fairly private. Ha ha, she is so funny. Within nanoseconds anyone who has ever crossed her path started coming out of the woodwork to offer support. People whose name she could not remember started calling, sending cards and smooching her on the lips. Now this was nothing compared to what happened AFTER her surgery, because everyone, and I mean everyone started sending cards, emails, all manner of roses, vegetables, candy, full meals, gift cards, books, magazines and various power tools. AND THE FRUIT!! MY GOD THE FRUIT!!
Then came the requests to visit. I think her appointment calendar is filled through March. Of 2018.

I only bring this up, not because I am insanely jealous of the attention, but to make my first point. Compare the response of Sandy's support group, to mine when I had a stroke. When I was hospitalized the door to my room started looking like the set of the Munsters. I got so few phone calls that the phone company actually owed me money after my stay. Now before you all whip out your air violins and hum "Hearts and Flounders", to be fair I blame myself, for being so trim, handsome, underarm pure and cool in general that most mere mortals find it difficult to approach me. YIKES! That lightning bolt just missed me!

But my point is that men do not build support systems as well as women. I mean, in my wife's circles of friends news of her illness circulated to millions in less time than it takes a congressman to take a bribe. Meanwhile, 5 years after my stroke I had what I consider my closest friends (both of them) asking "Stroke? What stroke?" To further illustrate, men seem to be the only ones that need "How To" books to teach us how to handle the terrible diagnosis when it comes so as to be a pillar of support for our mates. Believe it or not, and I know I should know better, having dealt with lawyers the better part of my adult life, some males are about as sensitive to a spouse's cancer as Hitler was to bar mitzvahs. My thoughtful brother in law Brian bought me one called "Breast Cancer Husband" thinking foolishly that it my keep me from winding up in Lake Erie wearing Portland Cement wingtips.

My one bone of contention with the book is that it is very comprehensive but fails to prepare the male for where he will be spending most of his waking life for several months when this happens. As a preface, you need to know that your life will be a constant parade of your wife's friends, relatives, neighbors, pre school teachers and anyone she has ever said "hello" to in the past thirty years. They will constitute a revolving door of bearers of food products sufficient to nourish the First Marine Division for 6 years. Most of these folks will of course be female and virtually all will state unwaiveringly, when they come through the front door, that they can "only stay a minute". Three weeks later, they will glance at their watches and say "My God, is that the time? I really have to get going!" And sure enough they will scurry out the front door roughly 6 days later.
This influx of meals and their containers means that the male WILL BE SPENDING 99% OF THEIR TIME WASHING DISHES. Not that I'm bitter.

Keep fighting the good fight, Sandy. I need it.

Love
Dad