No Exception Made

As I pointed out in posts before, our family has always approached everything in life with a little bit (or a lot a bit) of humor. When the cancer hit Dad’s brain, there was no exception made. Everything was fair game. As reference, I submit that he changed my ringtone and I his to the “I’m a tumor, I’m a tumor” song from Family Guy.

Here is just a glimpse into just a few of the twisted moments the first tumor gifted to us:

• Dad: I don’t want to be a slow Joe. You know?
  Me: That rhymes.
  Dad: I’m a poet, and I didn’t know it. Damn, there I go again.
  Me: Too bad it’ll all be over when they remove that brain of yours.
• Dad: Promise me that if they make me stupid you’ll not buy me the same coloring book every year for Christmas. A coloring book is fine. But I know you. *glares* At least mix it up.
  Me: Damnit. I’m going to have to return those 25 My Little Pony books I just bought earlier this week. Now you’ll get nothing for Christmas. …but it’s okay, you won’t even know. What with them scraping part of your brain out.
• Dad: Do you think they use an ice cream scoop when they remove tumors?
  Me: Don’t flatter yourself, man. Your brain isn’t THAT big. They’ll likely use a melon baller. That’s much smaller.

I’m aware that this is neither politically correct nor funny to everyone. But it worked for us. And when the first surgery was over, we were pleasantly surprised to find he was home and sitting in his own chair after less than 36 hours. It was amazing and very welcomed. A little bit of occupational therapy to strengthen up the left hand, a few weeks off work, and everything was back to "normal."

Someday I will have to tell the story about what a great set of parents I have. (Read that how you’d like). Mom convinced Dad, prior to his first brain surgery, that it would be positively hilarious if they could trick me into thinking that something had gone wrong during the procedure. When I walked into his room in the NeuroScience Intensive Care, I asked how he was feeling. And suddenly he broke out into a weird set of disco moves with his hands. (Think Greg Brady dancing with his brothers and sisters and singing back up to little Peter Brady…) They both thought it was side-splitting as I stood there, baffled and wondering if I should, in fact, really pick up some coloring books for his  Christmas present later that year. Spoiler alert: He was fine. Just playing a terrible trick on his child. (And it served to let Mom know he was both alert and fine as well as able to remember information from right before the surgery, since that’s when they devised the terrible, awful, and not at all funny – okay maybe a little funny – plan.)

I can only imagine the fear that runs through your mind when they start to discuss cutting into your brain. My father was always an intelligent, articulate, and creative man. As a human we feel that the essence of what we are is stored in the wrinkles of that amazing (and vital) muscle in your head. Dad was nervous, I know. So we joked. I was terrified that they would take a part of my Dad away during that surgery. So I joked. We laughed a lot. And we enjoyed all the time we had before the surgery. Luckily the first surgery went swimmingly well and there was nothing to fear, as I said.

We had a few years of laughter and terrible jokes between then and the next time the cancer returned to attack his brain. And between that time? We even colored a few times. (What? The man loved his My Little Ponies, don’t judge. And I had to get rid of all 25 copies somehow.)