Until the referee rings the bell
Until both your eyes start to swell
Until the crowd goes home
What we gonna do ya'll?
Give 'em hell, turn their heads
Gonna live-life-til-we're-dead.
When Dad was going through some of the worst parts of his journey, this song would play on the radio. I can remember driving to a nursing home he was getting rehab at and hearing it in the car. I couldn't help but think of what a fighter Dad was and be proud of having such a great parent.
Three days after Dad died, I was driving by myself and froze when the song came across the radio as I was switching channels. I almost had to pull the car over as the tears started flowing. Every day, as we went through this two and half year limbo of: getting better, going to die, getting worse, better, walking, not walking, maybe it's cancer again, no cancer, we have no idea what's going on: my mom would say to my Dad: "You're the strongest man I know."
It's still true. Even now. That man endured chemo, radiation, brain surgery, removal of his adrenal glands, removal of part of his lung, learning to walk again ... and until the very end? He lived more of a life trapped in a hospital bed in our living room than most people do completely able-bodied. He never gave up, and we never gave up on him. We told him at the beginning of this eight year long battle with cancer that we would fight behind him the entire time. And when he was ready to stop fighting, we would respect his wishes. And he never did. He didn't give up on us. And we were right there, the entire time.
As the song finished, those days after Dad died, I suddenly started to laugh. As a kid, my Dad would say "Hey Dennis, go put on your overalls. I need a son." And we'd build something, or we'd change the oil in the cars. He never treated me like I couldn't do anything because I was a girl. He taught me how to spiral a football, swing a bat, build a deck, change a tire, drive a manual transmission car. Anything and everything that people would say: That's a boy thing - Dad was determined to teach me to do it. This didn't stop at learning how to "fight"....I don't know what he thought happened in private school. But apparently, just in case, I should know.
I was in fourth grade, I believe, when he taught me how to block a punch.
Dad: Put your hands in front of your face.
Me: Like this?
Dad: Uh, no. Less...pansy like.
Me: Uhh...?
Dad: Just block my punch.
Me: I can do that.
He failed to tell me that you had to hold your arms firm - don't let them give when you're blocking a punch. This just resulted in me giving myself my first black eye, as his hand hit my arm and my fist went right up and into my left eye.
Dad: You hit yourself!
Me: No, I did not!
Dad: That's my story.
I can truly say that the last few years of life have been dodging punches, side-stepping blows, and dancing around. I'd imagine that the medical, insurance, and inner demon battles that we fought as a family could constitute as the stinging like a bee part, too. Thanks for teaching me to block a punch, Dad. It's really come in handy lately. Life is full of blows. But you've taught all of us to never give up, and to live life til we're dead. (I'd also like to thank you for marrying another fighter. Mom may have told you that you were the strongest man she knows, but she's got a wicked set of fighting skills, too. Good choice!)
Give me scars, give me pain
Then they'll say to me, say to me, say to me
There goes the fighter, there goes the fighter
Here comes the fighter
That's what they'll say to me, say to me, say to me,
This one's a fighter.
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