65
Today would have been my father’s 65th birthday. There hasn’t been a day since his passing that I haven’t thought of him, but pretty much since the new year, he’s been on my mind even more strongly. It’s felt like the “Season of Steve” for a few reasons.
Firstly, I took a public speaking course this past semester that was extremely impactful for me. Each week, our professor would ask us to “speak our truth” as we gave our assigned speeches. I admittedly rolled my eyes when I heard him utter that phrase because it sounds so new-agey. I figured I’d pick up a few pointers on how to speak better in front of crowds, something I acknowledge is already something I do well. I didn’t expect to learn so much about myself and others in this class.
As we progressed through the assignments, my classmates opened up. One discussed the isolation of being an international student in America for graduate school, feeling out of place no matter what she did. One discussed her struggles as a white woman in Teach for America sent to a rural, predominately poor black town and realizing she had white savior complex that was detrimental, no matter how well-intended she was. One discussed losing her mother to cancer to 17 years old. Every Monday was soul-bearing, open, honest, and important.
Throughout the entire semester, as I looked through our assignments, I kept feeling like I had to discuss my dad. It just was this burning sensation. I had to tell his story of getting sick, of fighting depression, and ultimately passing away from complications to his 3 cancer battles. Being extroverted, I thrive by sharing my stories (hence me writing this right now). I know it causes me to talk too much and dominate conversations (something I’m working on!), but this class gave me permission to share my stories to a group of people who wanted that honesty. I learned to “speak my truth” and not roll my eyes at the phrase. For our last assignment, we had 10 minutes to give an inspirational speech. My father’s story is not one of triumphing over a difficult situation. It’s not the happy ending that so many people get to share. But I had to share my father’s story. In doing so, I got to memorialize him. I got to laugh at funny stories about him. I got to highlight the real pain of having a sick parent, physically and mentally. I got to keep him alive for 10 more minutes. I got to tell this group of 15 people that lacking a happy ending is truth and from their reactions, many thanked me for being that honest. For anyone interested I watching that speech, it was thankfully recorded.
It’s also felt like the “Season of Steve” for another reason. The week of my 30th birthday, I found a lump in my left breast. This lead to many appointments, ultrasounds, mammograms, biopsies, and months of stress and anxiety. I am lucky, though. I was diagnosed with a radial scar and surgery was required. But the important thing was hearing it was not. cancer. I am so lucky. I had a successful surgery to remove the mass in May and I’ve been healing well. I will have to get annual mammograms, likely for the rest of my life. I now have a higher risk of breast cancer than the average woman so this will follow me for the rest of my life. But it’s not cancer. It’s not cancer, which took my cousin. It’s not cancer, which took another cousin’s best friend at the young age of 27. It’s not cancer, which afflicts so many, including a few of my friends recently. It’s not cancer, which took my father. It’s scary to face your mortality (yes, that’s the understatement of the century). It’s hard to understand what it must feel like to get that cancer diagnosis and know your life has been changed forever. I always struggled to connect with my dad in that way because thankfully I never had to hear those words. Throughout my months from finding the lump to surgery, I really wished my dad could have been around. I still don’t know what he went through and hopefully never will, but I understand the idea of it now. I so wish he was around so I could tell him so. Let him know that he may not have battled cancer the way many do, but he did it the only way he could. Today, I’m going to donate platelets in my father’s honor. Platelets were important to his cancer treatments and I’m eager to do the same for others with my father in mind. I’m listening to blues music today because my dad loved it. And I’ll continue to do what I can to honor his memory, every day of the year. Love you, Dad.