Hi there Pop/Dave- can I call you Dave? Still no? Fine/Dad…
I know you’re tired. I know you’re frustrated and depressed about fighting such an unfair uphill battle. And I know how much you’re hating it that I’m blogging about something a father and his kid should never have to discuss, especially not on the interwebs, but there you have it. I don’t make the rules.
I mean, I made this one, but other than that? No power.
Because if I did, I’d sure as heck use up every last bit of that power to obliterate your cancer and all of the hardship that goes alongside of it. I’d make it so that your two options weren’t choosing between a downright nasty treatment and throwing in the towel. But I’m telling you right now, even with that craptacular hand you’ve been dealt, you can’t give up. For so many reasons.
Not the least of which is because my father was always super upset when we threw in the towel, both psychologically and physically. (Four kids flinging wet towels? Bad scene, man.)
Also? If you stopped fighting the fight, here’s what you’d been ruining for me: Music. Can you picture me never again being able to listen to Abbey Road? Boston’s Third Stage? Not to mention James Taylor, Lyle Lovett, John Hall, Garth Brooks, Vince Gill, The Irish Rovers, Santana, Steely Dan, Etta James, B.B. King, Stevie Ray Vaughn, King Harvest, all of that classical stuff you played during dinner each night, Chuck Berry (which, honestly, wouldn’t be that big of a loss, since you’ve done nothing for the past 3 decades but tell me that he’s kind of a jerk), anything played on the Sirius XM Classic Rewind (and Vinyl) station, and everything we listened to on road trips as dusk fell and you and Mom desperately tried to sooth us with B-sides. Oh! And the entirety of the Beach Boys catalog. Remember when we danced to God Only Knows at my wedding? Remember my wedding? (You paid for it, after all.) Please don’t ruin my wedding which happened six and a half years ago.
Then there’s food. If you give up, I’d have to live in a world where I could no longer eat fettuccine Alfredo. Chicken on the grill. Strawberry soup. Corned beef, cabbage, and Irish soda bread (with raisins). Crepes and waffles and pancakes. Coffee Coolattas because of that brief summer where we had like three a week. Ice cream in frighteningly large amounts with any number of crazy toppings. Pie. PIE, DAD. Those egg and tuna sandwiches- which no one’s really made for me since you stopped packing my high school lunches- BUT THAT IS SUPER NOT THE POINT. And I can’t even begin to delve into the world of the drinks which would be no good at all anymore…except to say that if someone were to offer me a vodka tonic with extra lime, I’d have to say no. Am I frightening you with my crazy talk?
You, with your favorite. We all know it’s true. Shh, you don’t have to say it.
I’d probably become a real jerk if I had to smell cookouts, sawdust, and Canoe- the manliest of colognes- without you being right there with me.
Have you thought about what would happen to my Mystery Science 3000 viewing habits? You’d be hard-pressed to find me enjoying The X-Files, The Twilight Zone– especially the really weird ones- anything involving James Bond, John McClane, or anyone who has ever carried a Tom Clancy plot line. What about PBS? Would you really expect me to watch PBS? And while we’re at it, those mystery anthology books would lose all of their instant-gratificationy fun.
Flannel shirts wouldn’t be half as cozy, Dad. I wouldn’t like seeing cowboy boots.
Or guitars.
Or delis and amplifiers and every single car ever manufactured. Jack Handey. Liverwurst sandwiches. All of the ceiling fans in my house. Albums on vinyl and beach vacations. Lilacs and pools and lawnmowers and clubhouse sheds and greyhounds and tie pins and goddamn IRELAND.
I know how sick you are, Dad, and how sick of being sick you are. But we’re not ready for a Dave Flynn-sized hole in our lives. So you keep up with your chemos and clinical trials and shamans and anything else you’ve yet to try. And I’ll keep up with all the reasons you’re the best guy I know.
I’ll probably be here awhile.
You’d better be, too.
Love,
Keely
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