as featured in Desert Exposure Magazine
“Only love can break your heart.”
I had bad news for my father
His younger brother, whom I wrote about back in 2015, had lost his battle with cancer.
I went into my father’s bedroom. He was awake, just looking at the ceiling.
“Aren’t you going to get out of bed?” I asked.
“Can’t,” he said. “I’m dead.”
“What makes you think you’re dead?”
“Because I woke up and nothing hurts.”
That reminded me of how I first heard my uncle was sick. I was sitting by my father in the den, me on my laptop and him watching TV.
“What're you doing?” he wanted to know.
"Research,” I told him. “On Google."
"What's a google?"
"Well,” I explained, “Google is a search engine. You ask it a question, and it gives you the answer."
"I don't believe it."
"It's true."
"Any question?"
"Any question," I assured him.
"You know, my brother’s sick,” he told me.
“He is?” I yelped. That was news to me.
“Yeah,” my father replied. “Ask Google how he is."
Later, when my uncle ended up in the hospital, I offered to take my father to see him.
"What for?" my father said. "He's sick, not dead."
"He's not doing well," I told him.
“You think he's not doing well," my father complained. "What about me? I haven't gone to the bathroom in a week."
My father finally relented when my wife interceded.
"You never know," she wisely nagged.
"All I know is my laxative’s not working," my father grumbled.
When we got to the hospital, my uncle was asleep, so my father sat in the chair next to him and began helping himself to some peanuts that were there. My uncle woke up just as my father finished the entire bowl.
"Sorry, hermano,” my father laughed, “but I ate all your peanuts."
"That's okay," his brother answered. "I don't like them once I've sucked all the chocolate off."
My uncle was happy to see us, but he looked frail. There was a plate of uneaten food nearby. I’m surprised my father didn’t help himself to that.
"How are you feeling?" my father asked, concern in his voice.
"Not too good," his baby brother admitted, lifting a weak hand.
"You think you don't feel good," my father told him, "I haven't been able to go to the bathroom for a week."
"At least I don't have that problem," my uncle perked up. "I'm regular, like clockwork. Every morning, at exactly 8am, I empty my bowels."
"Yeah," my father joked, "but you don't get out of bed until 10."
Then my father reached over, took his brother’s wrist, and pretended to take his pulse.
"Either you're dead," he told him, "or my watch has stopped."
We had a good laugh over that one because we were all big Groucho Marx fans. The Marx Brothers made some of the only movies my father and I have been able to bond over.
Sadly, my uncle didn’t stay cheered for long.
"It's not good news," he told us.
"What is it?" my father asked, but he already knew.
"Cancer," my uncle said.
My father nodded his head in sympathy.
"Do you think there’s anything I can do?" my uncle asked.
"Well," my father said, "I could take you to TRC for some therapeutic mud baths."
The town of Truth Or Consequences is known for its natural mineral springs. A lot of people go there for a dip in its hot, healing waters.
"Do you think that would help?" my uncle asked.
"Probably not," my father admitted, "but it'll get you used to lying in the dirt."
My father must have regretted his bad joke, because he quickly said, "You know, I'm pretty sick myself."
That was news to me. I go with him to all of his doctor appointments and he’s always given a clean bill of health. For his age, that is.
"You're not sick," I corrected him.
"Yes, I am," he corrected me back.
"No, you're not."
“Yes, I am.”
My poor uncle laid there looking at us arguing like two kindergarteners. His head swiveling back and forth as if he were watching a ping-pong tournament.
"Well, I'd better be sick," my father growled, “because I'd hate to be well and feel this crappy."
That’s when my uncle’s oncologist came in.
“How am I doing, doc?” my uncle asked.
"You'll live to make many more payments to me," his doctor said.
Everybody's a comedian.
When the oncologist left, a male nurse came in to take some blood. My uncle's eyes grew wide at the sight of the syringe.
"Hey!" he yelped. "What's this all about?"
"Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little prick," my father teased his brother, referring to the procedure.
"Not him,” my uncle snorted, misunderstanding. “The NEEDLE!”
Meanwhile, in the present, my wife and I were wondering how we were going to break the bad news to my father when he finally joined us in the kitchen.
“Don’t bother,” he lamented. “I already know.”
I don’t know how he knew, but he did.
My father is not one to cry, but I could see his eyes were red.
"Why do people have to die and ruin my day?" he said.
George Duchene
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