White Trash Kennedys

The day we were told that my father had cancer, we sat in a cramped, sterile room on the 4th floor of the Cancer Institute on the “Elvira” medical campus.

Both of my parents call the hospital “Elvira” when, in fact, it is the Avera Health System. I have tried to correct them with subtle humor, but their lips seem to easily exchange an “E” for the “A” Maybe it is their love of country music or an homage to the Oakridge Boys

Elvira, Elvira My heart's on fire Elvira Giddy Up Oom Poppa Omm Poppa Mow Mow Giddy Up Oom Poppa Omm Poppa Mow Mow Heigh-ho Silver, away

My parents slip the extra “l” in automatically. If my family was to sponsor a letter on Sesame Street, it would be the letter “l.” Lillian, love, laughter, lefsa…are all important “L” words in our home.

So here we are. Mom is on my left, Thad on my right, Dad on the examination bed in front of me (and Jen on speed dial). I have described my family as the white trash Kennedys. We live, love, fight and move in a pack. For almost thirty years we loaded up the Winnebago to travel cross country for track meets, basketball tournaments and football games. Furthermore, not a baptism, birthday, funeral or Sunday at Grandma Sievers’ was missed by our Schetnan entourage.

If my mother had it her way, my brother and his family, me and mine and my sister would all live on the farm like a Minnehaha Hyannis Port. I am proud of my white Kennedy status. When I say we, I mean we- aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins (second through fourth removed), we are quite a clan. However, my proud waving of our white trash status came to an abrupt halt last 4th of July when my mom overheard me taking to my friend Neil on the phone. “No…no big plans. It is a typical white trash Kennedy holiday. We are heading out to my cousin Denny’s barn to drink Budweiser and blow shit up.” With tears in her eyes mom told me she never wanted to hear me say that again. I am not sure what upset her the most the “white trash” or the “Kennedy” part.

Scott Baker, my father surgeon, enters. He has a stoic wit, which makes him an immediate hit with the clan and a welcome partner of crime for my father. Also, he is cute as the day is long, which is important when dealing with the ugliness of the situation. Okay, so maybe it just helps me.

There are words that are just funny … Punxsutawney Phil, masticate, lisp, Louisiana, squeegee and thespian. There is nothing funny about the words cancer or malignant. Unfortunately, Baker’s delivery fell flat; his timing was off.

First my father looked right at my mother. I have never seen my parents look at each other like that. It was focused. It was loud. It was heart breaking. It was unnerving. Beneath their constant picking and bitching, are two people who have fought the good fight together for 45 years. I do not know who was looking to whom for reassurance.

My father’s visceral (another really good word) response was, “I am so glad it is me. “ He said this three times. The comedic rule of three did not work here either. It was met by silence. I was the next to speak. “Okay, listen to me old man; you are going to make some changes. There is a 16 year old at my house following you around just hoping you will drop him a crumb of time and affection. You have been too hard on him, and it stops today.” He just nodded.

A month later, my dad’s first oncologist informs us that of the 19 lymph nodes removed, 5 are packed with cancer and have oozed through the colon lining. This results in a stoma that looks like someone’s lips have been turned inside out and attached to my dad’s stomach. For some reason, I called it “Petey.”

No time for adolescent jokes about Petey farting; I wanted to know numbers, statistics, and percentages…things that are anything but funny. In his slow foreign accent, the doctor delivered deadpan, “There is a 50-50 chance of survival in five years. How does that sound?” Who says that? “How does that sound?” I retorted, “It sound terrible. It sounds unacceptable. In fact, it sucks.” The WTKennedy’s did not look up. This was not a class act response from their Carolyn-in-training. He had a medical degree and was treating our father and her husband, where was my class? My pedigree? He answered, “Yes, it sucks.”

My last conversation with the oncologist was after my father suffered his second heart attack on his second chemo treatment. I was in Whole Foods in Union Square in NYC. Between the organic grains and the sugarless canned fruits, I asked him, “Why can’t you cut back the chemo power and go more time?” In short, I was told to stay in theatre and let the cancer drama to the experts.

The next lines (via phone):

Dad: “Hey.”
Me: “I talked to the doctor, and he is worried about your heart.”
Dad: “It is fine, but I am stopping treatment.”
Me: I cannot understand that there are no options. My god, there are options for everything…everything.
Dad: I would rather die slowly from cancer than tomorrow from a heart attack. I am done. It is fine.
Me: No, it is not fine. I am 2,000 miles from kicking butt and taking names.

Today, almost a year later, I was – again – in a small room of dad’s second oncologist (when all you got is a “yes, it sucks” as a retort, you are going to lose your audience). My father, for the first time in his life listened to someone else’s opinion….which was to get another opinion. Dr. McHale’s assistant read us the Petscan. “It is clean.” Clean. Clean. Clean is not a funny word, but it certainly rolls easily off the tongue. My Dad worked the room. He was like an actor reading rave reviews after opening night. He was – dare I say – giddy (a very fun word). He hugged nurses and offered a plethora (a hall of fame fun word) of thank yous.

Before blowing the chemo popcorn stand, Dad had to get one more blood pressure read. It was up, but he confessed that he may have felt some anxiety over the prospect of the diagnosis. That was fair. I am sure even the real JFK broke a sweat when the reports came in during the Bay of Pigs or when Page 6 of the Times featured him and Marilyn. My mother’s reaction was odd. She got very quiet. She still had that same scared look on her face that she had almost a year earlier; a look of fear for the future. However, in the spirit of Jackie O., my mom suppressed her feelings, painted on a smile, and through her gracious (my number one favorite word) silence, reminded us all that she is the first lady of white trash royalty.