I haven't posted in a long time (this blog isn't called the Overscheduled Mom for nothing!). I promise to have something of my own to say very soon, but for today, these are the words of my brother, Kevin August. I warn you...this will bring tears, but it's a good kind of cry. Thanks, Kevin, for sharing y(our) story.
Not many two year olds can pronounce the word “cancer.” Even fewer grasp the concept of rampant cell division that ravages its host’s body in a persistent campaign to kill it. And, yet, there I was: two years old, repeating every word I heard, exploring my newfound ability to create havoc, and visiting my dad in the hospital every few days.
I had two-year-old eyes and a two-year-old brain, so I only noticed two-year-old things. He was in bed all the time. He couldn’t walk. He had black blisters the size of sand dollars on his feet and needed a wheelchair to get around. He was skinny. His hair sat in unconnected clumps on his head. He didn’t laugh much.
My dad was a young man when he got the news nobody wants to hear. Barely 28, with three kids under five and a 23-year-old wife, he was diagnosed with Ewing’s Sarcoma, a particularly deadly brand of cancer that typically affects children (64% of Ewing’s diagnoses occur between the ages of 10 and 20). Of all the deflating stats his doctors threw his way, this was the bleakest: more than seven in ten stricken with Ewing’s were dead within five years.
Ewing’s tumors grow on bones and soft tissue; my father’s tumor was located in the bones of his back. Before his 29th birthday, he had already endured all the misery of cancer treatment: multiple surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation, and fleeting hopes dashed amid endless weeks frittered away in a hospital bed.
The effect on our family life was dire. Our finances dwindled as doctor bills piled up and the sole breadwinner missed long periods of work. My older sister was in elementary school, but my brother and I were still too young for school, so my mom stayed home to take care of us. Meanwhile, my dad spent nearly two years in and out of remission, living the volatile life of a patient battling to beat the cancer odds.
Odds that, it turned out in the end, were simply too steep.
A cancer patient’s condition can change fast. My dad was outside with his brothers throwing a football on Thanksgiving in late 1979, but he was a paraplegic fighting for his life in a hospital bed three weeks later. The prognosis wasn’t good. Even after countless surgeries and treatments, his cancer was taking over. It became clear to everybody involved that his life expectancy was short (days? weeks?), and his doctors’ focus shifted from enacting life-saving measures to ensuring his final days were comfortable. Christmas was coming, but Santa wasn’t dominating our family’s thoughts. We’d be lucky to get the chance to visit him in the hospital, because that would mean he was still alive.
That was before we knew that little miracles sometimes happen. And while we’d all prefer the big ones, sometimes the small miracles have to be enough.
Most people can’t pinpoint their first memory. Maybe it was riding a donkey at the zoo, or seeing a baseball game for the first time, or helping mom wash the dishes, but it’s not likely they know the exact date. I’m not one of those people. Mine was December 24, 1979, six weeks before my third birthday.
My mom was near hysterics as she walked toward the front door of our small house. My sister and brother were next, creating enough commotion to bring me with them to the front yard. And that’s when I saw it: an ambulance was parked in front of our house. The back doors were open, and two men were lowering a hospital bed to the ground. Lying on that hospital bed, coming home to spend Christmas with us, was my dad. He was still beaten down and weak, but he'd improved a bit. His doctors thought he’d benefit by surprising his family with one last Christmas at home.
Thirty years later, still clinging to that first memory, I assure you they were right.
What came next was even more surprising. A bounty of gifts was dropped at our doorstep while we slept. Through the unrelenting altruism of people who spend their lives boosting others, three young kids awoke to a Christmas beyond their imagination. The local Masonic organization got word that our tree would be bare and spoiled us with the fruits of their toy and food drives. For a few glorious hours, our family’s impending doom slipped quietly into the background while we celebrated the magic of Christmas.
And that was the miracle. The doctors didn't have to send my dad home. The Masons didn't have to bring us gifts. People don't have to take care of each other, but something inside inspires us to.
It wasn’t long after that I learned that bad things happen in threes. Three months after that magical Christmas, three days after my mom’s birthday, and 42 days after I turned three, my father drew his last breath. He was 30 years old.
Now 33 and living my life to the fullest, cancer is never far from my thoughts. I’ve spent 30 years coming to grips with its implications, and my experience is far from unique: cancer is the second biggest killer in America, causing nearly a quarter of all deaths.
On November 7, I will be running the New York Marathon in my dad’s honor, and in celebration of that last Christmas together 30 years ago. Based on my own knowledge of how small miracles can create lifelong memories, I ask you to help me reach my goal of raising $3,000 in support of Team Continuum. That's $100 for every year of his life.
Team Continuum creates small miracles every day by assisting cancer patients and their families with basic needs, by paying bills (rent, electric, phone, water, gas, etc.), tutoring, giving toys, computer access, transportation, and other incidental needs that arise during treatment. So, until there’s a cure, and no two-year old has to learn the word “cancer” ever again, please join me in helping ease the financial and emotional burden for families like mine.
To donate toward my goal and learn more about Team Continuum's mission, go to www.teamcontinuum.net and type my name into the "Donate to an Athlete" box. If you'd prefer not to donate online, please see the attached flyer for additional details.
No amount is too small.
Thank you,
-Kevin
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