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The pact

On a mission to raise Mo money for Movember

When our daughter was born seven years ago, I made a pact. She would have me as long as I have had my father. Thankfully, the number of years that I have to keep on living rises by the day as my father is going strong at age 78.

There are a number of factors contributing my father’s longevity. Heredity certainly was not one of them. His mother died at 38 and his father at 53 to cancer. So when at 50 it was discovered he had a tumor in his jaw, we prayed for the best but prepared ourselves for the worst. Thank God, the tumor was benign and my father recovered fully.

This brush with death set him on a path most men don’t travel. He actually paid close attention to his health. He was never one to not see a doctor like so many men (“nothing wrong with me”). But this made him stick to a regular schedule of checkups and alerting his doctor if anything seemed awry. That’s why his prostate cancer was detected early.

Doctors will tell you if you contract prostate cancer past a certain age you will most likely die from some other cause. With all the nerve endings in that part of the body, there’s a certain risk that removal can create a number of other side effects, like incontinence. Dad weighed all those things. In the end, his doctor’s words probably made the decision for him:

“You will probably die from something else, but I would feel much better with that tumor in a jar in my office than in your body.”

Decision made, he went through with the surgery. It was a fairly short recovery time. The procedure took place just after Thanksgiving. At Christmas, he enjoyed the holidays with his family, meeting my girlfriend and her two children for the first time.

I’ve made him aware of the pact over the last few years. It’s something that goes into each birthday card. Besides wishing him a happy birthday, I encourage him to keep raising the bar. He has and I vow to do the same for my children.

Prostate cancer robs too many grandfathers, fathers, brothers, sons, uncles and friends of their time on this earth. Movember is about making prostate cancer a blip on the screen rather than a life-ending result.

Please help by donating to my Movember campaign. The last day is on Saturday, Movember 30. Thank you, in advance, for your help and support.

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His name was Al

The Mo after 14 days.

Actually, Albert. I’m not sure really what the thought process was, but he ended up naming one of his sons Albert, after him, and Alfred. Not sure if that name was chosen because of one or two relatives named Alfred. But let’s just say when his family attended our cousin’s brunches at Luciano’s at Lake Pearl and you yelled, “Al”, several guys turned their head.

At this year’s brunch, there will be one less Al, as Albert passed away, another victim of prostate cancer.

I can’t say I know all that much about Al other that what was obvious. He was married to a wonderful woman named Francis. He had three sons, one of whom he had the decency not give a name where “Al” might be a nickname. And, most importantly, he was just a good guy, who made every family event.

That might not sound like a huge accomplishment, but you have to know the dynamics of my father’s side of the family. He was an only child who lost both parents by the time he was 17. What made that even more difficult was that he had emigrated to the States just five years earlier.

There were a few first cousins; many of those relatives were cousins once, twice, three times removed or cousins by a second marriage. Al was a cousin by marriage (his wife Francis was a second cousin or deeper, I’m still not sure). The point being, it would not have been considered a slight if Al did not make one of our family’s events. He, Francis and the boys always did.

News travels slowly on this side of the family. It’s not unusual for people to not know about a serious illness until it’s too late. Maybe it’s generational or part of the Italian culture, but nobody wants anybody to worry about them.  On the surface, that’s seems noble. But it makes it difficult to prepare yourself for bad news. That was the case when I received an e-mail from my father telling me that Al had died from prostate cancer.

As has been the case with other relatives on that side of the family, you actually hear more of their story whey they are gone than when they were still here. That was true with Al. At funeral, I found out that Al and Francis were but a month away from their 50th wedding anniversary. It had been a double wedding with Francis’s sister and her husband. Al was the only one who did not make it.

In a few months, Al’s first grandchild will be born to his youngest son. I’m going to guess that boy or girl will have a name where he or she can be called “Al” for short.

Sadly, dare I say tragically, he will not be there for that event or his grandchild’s life.

I’m growing a moustache this Movember to raise money for prostate cancer awareness and research. There’s probably an Al in all our lives and they deserve to be around for 50th anniversaries and first grandchildren.

You can donate to Movember by visiting http://us.movember.com/mospace/1515062.

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Cancer picked the wrong guy

When I found out somebody I knew from my youth, a friend’s father, had prostate cancer the only thing I could say was, “cancer picked the wrong guy.”

That wasn’t said because he’s such a good person and that it’s completely unfair that he should have such a condition. It’s because cancer picked a worthy opponent.

As a youth, my friend’s father was the stuff of neighborhood legend. He was a mason whose muscles had muscles. He struck an awesome and unusual figure in the summer when he joined us in the pool, those muscles bronzed from hours out in the sun and his legs pale from wearing pants in the searing heat.

The legend was more than about physique. It was about an indefatigable work ethic. Hours upon hours of laying brick and then home to do more yard work. It was not done haphazardly. No, everything was measured and done with a purpose, the correct way.

His garden to this day is something to behold. In addition to the quality of the vegetables there’s quantity, enough to supply a farmer’s market.

Yes, cancer picked the wrong guy. Even after years with the condition, the garden still grows. The lawn is still immaculate. And the driveway is cleared within minutes after snowstorms. He even asks fellow neighbors if they need any help.

This Movember, I’m growing a moustache and raising money for prostate and testicular cancer and it’s for people like my friend’s father. He would never take the help for himself. But he would want it for others.

Cancer has robbed this neighborhood ironman of his physical strength. It has not and will not take what was his true strength—persistence. As was said in the movie Shawshank Redemption, “get busy living or get busy dying”.  To my friend, living means doing what he loves—gardening, taking care of his lawn and home.  And he’s still doing that today.

Yes, cancer chose the wrong guy. Help me raise money for when it chooses someone who can’t quite put up the same kind of fight.