Medcalf: What my father’s cancer diagnosis taught me about time

Just over a year ago, my father sent me a text message: “Hey, son. When you get a minute, give me a call.”

In my father’s lexicon — and that of the men in their 60s, 70s and 80s I know — “a minute” is not an actual minute. It’s a request for an opportunity to talk, whether that’s a short or long conversation. With my father, I also know that these days, those texts mean I have to brace for the possibility of life-altering information.

“The doctors did some tests,” he told my family that night on a Zoom call. “I’ve been diagnosed with prostate cancer.”

He later told us the news was positive because they had caught the cancer early. But I do not remember all of the words he said. I only heard “cancer.” That seemed impossible to me. The man who wrestled with my brothers and me and played Atari 2600 with us in the basement of our Milwaukee home in the 1980s couldn’t have cancer. The dad who once surprised me with World Championship Wrestling tickets for a show that featured Sting, my favorite wrestler, could not have cancer. The guy who used vacation days sometimes to attend every track meet and football game I ever had in high school could not have cancer. Right?

It was also a vivid moment for my family.

I paused, alone in my car, after the call because I realized I don’t know how many more tomorrows I’ll have with my parents.

At 41, I am accustomed to those phone calls about significant events in the lives of friends, family members and colleagues. The picture-perfect couple that posted every affectionate interaction on social media? She filed for divorce. The high school buddy everyone loved? He died of an overdose. The friend who was healthy and vibrant just weeks ago? She’s now dealing with a critical illness.

That’s life, yes. It’s always more surprising when it happens to younger people because youth is supposed to be a protector. But as people age, there is an expectation that tragedy lingers nearby, always. Those in my circle have also endured a journey that’s rarely discussed: caring for and cherishing our parents in their later years.

I know people who’ve devoted their lives to their aging parents. They’ve hopped on planes every week to be there for them. They’ve taken them to appointments and become their caretakers. They’ve sacrificed themselves for those who gave them life. All without a manual. They learned, they’ve told me, only from the experience.

My parents live more than 300 miles from my house, so I’ve always envied those who have had their parents within driving distance. But my daughters and I take family trips to Milwaukee every year to see them. When they were younger, my parents would come here, too. The last year has been a reminder that it’s much easier if I go to them now, because the travel is now too burdensome.

As they get older, I worry that I’m not doing enough. That I’m not calling enough. That I’m not taking enough trips home to make sure the girls can see the people who raised me. That I’m not doing enough to support them.

I also, more recently, had to acknowledge another emotion: Fear.

Because I’m scared about my father’s diagnosis.

I don’t know how this all happened. And I don’t know if I valued the time with my loved ones enough before a cancer diagnosis altered our lives. I don’t know if I’ve created ample opportunities for my daughters to have an abundance of the only thing we ever get to keep from those we love: memories.

But I only have today. And every day, I value my time with my parents more than I did before cancer. I’m also more aware of the uncertainty of life and the vulnerability of those who once seemed invincible to me.

My latest trips back to Milwaukee have involved checkups, appointments and surgeries for my father. He is doing well and all signs have been good thus far. He still goes to the gym every week, and the stubbornness I inherited from him remains.

On a recent visit for a surgical procedure, I pushed my father out of the hospital doors in a wheelchair. Once we were home, I helped him get into the house and into his favorite chair.

The doctors told him he was banned from climbing steps until he recovered. But my father had his own ideas.

“I can go upstairs,” he said. “I’m fine.”

I had to remind him about the doctors and their instructions. After some contemplation, he agreed. It was best to stay downstairs.

I’d “convinced” him.

But the next morning, I had to drive back to Minnesota. On that five-hour trek home, I was uneasy. I kept thinking about time and its limitations.

I also felt betrayed: no one ever told me Superman could get cancer.