The Debra Haiku

Debra A. Franco
Was her name when I met her
I miss her so much

The worst of times, the best of times

So I was at hanging out at home one night when the phone rang. It was Deb. We had only been dating a couple of months at this point.

She sounded awful. She wanted me to come over because she had been puking all night and she wanted to go to the emergency room.

I raced over. When I got there, she looked ragged. Dark circles around her eyes, stringy hair and ... well, she smelled.

The effort to get up to open the door brought on more nausea, so I helped her into the bathroom and stood by as she puked some more. She kept apologizing for how she looked and smelled. I told her I knew what I was getting into when she called, that I didn't expect her to be all dolled up or anything.

She grabbed a plastic grocery bag in case she puked some more, and we headed to the E.R. It was a slow night there, and we were only there for about three hours. They diagnosed it as food poisoning (ironically, Deb had been doing temp work at the hospital and had eaten lunch there, so the same hospital that made her sick was now telling her how to get better). They prescribed some anti-nausea medication and sent her home. It was about 1 in the morning by then.

I took her up to her place and tucked her in, then went to get her prescription filled at the 24-hour Walgreens. While I was waiting, I went to a nearby supermarket and bought her some saltine crackers and Gatorade, my usual anti-nausea prescription. Then I went back to her place and sat with her for a while, then went home.

Pretty cruddy night all around, sure. But I remember it for this reason:

Deb said that was the night she realized she loved me.

Not bad for three hours' work.

Survivor

I am a cancer survivor.

No, I didn't have the chemicals pumped through my veins, but I went through chemotherapy.

No, I didn't have radiation shot at my chest, but I went through radiation therapy.

No, I didn't take the drug cocktails, but I went through drug treatment.

I held Deb's hand through the whole thing. I gave her as much of my strength as I could. When she was in pain, I comforted her. When she was in need, I attended to her. When cancer took her away, I felt the loss.

And I'm still here.

I won't accept congratulations for it, though. Congratulations are for those lucky enough to have cancer visited on them and survived. Congratulations are for those who stand by their loved ones and have them to hold when it's all over.

I've had people tell me how brave and strong I was to go through this thing with Deb, how others might have run away. Even Deb would tell me that, and she would thank me for it.

I never accepted her thanks or anyone's applause. That would have been wrong.

I know there are people who have run away and abandoned those who love them at the time they needed them the most. I've heard enough horror stories from being in the news business to know there are people like that.

For me, though, it was never a choice. I loved Deb, and for me to be anywhere else but by her side was unthinkable. Being with her was as necessary for my survival as it was for her to be with me. You can't thank a person for doing what was in their best interest.

The only title or honor I will ever accept is that of survivor. I went through the worst thing that I will ever through, and I'm still here. I don't fear what comes next, because nothing can be as bad as what I've been through. In fact, chances are it'll be better.

I'm a survivor.

Promises

If I had a blog about my father, this would go there. Since I don't, this will have to do.

My father would have turned 89 on July 7. He was 48 when I was born, and back then it was still unusual to be a first-time father when you were that old. It didn't make for a typical father/son relationship. Most of the time, people mistook him for my grandfather. We didn't play catch or go fishing. He worked all the time.

Besides that, he wasn't an easy person to get to know. He didn't talk about his past too much because he was unhappy with it. Even my mother doesn't know all that much about it, and she was married to him for 30 years.

What I do know was he was first-generation Chinese, born in Canton. He came to the U.S. when he was 8 or so, when Chinese immigrants were not welcomed. He came in on a iffy passport that said he was 11. His father already was here, and he sent for his sons.

As little as I know about my father's past, I know even less about my grandfather. I found an old newspaper article in Yuma about his dying. The way my father told it, he had gotten drunk, cut his foot badly and bled to death because he couldn't get help.

My father followed in his footsteps in one respect: he was an alcoholic. He was a functional one, so he could get up in the morning and go to work as a meat cutter, but on his way home he'd buy a pint of whiskey and drink it all. Worst of all, he was an angry drunk. He didn't hit, but he would yell and curse. My sister got the worst of it because she's strong-willed while I just stayed out of the way. Again, this didn't make our relationship easier.

To top it all off, I was a pretty weird kid. I was bright, to be sure, but I was also, as the report cards put it, "super sensitive." I didn't like to be wrong, and took it badly when I was. I spent most of my time reading by myself. I didn't get into sports and I didn't make a lot of friends. At home, I liked to just be in my room, listening to music or, of course, reading. Again, not a relationship builder.

I don't mean to paint a picture of him as the world's worst father. He had his redeeming qualities. For one, he loved Christmas. He'd shout, "Ho-ho-ho, Merry Christmas! Jingle bells, jingle bells, Batman smells!" at 3 in the morning on Christmas day. It was never a matter of waiting til morning to open presents with us. When he started yelling, it was time to rip 'em open.

Sometimes he'd tell me he loved me. Not often, but he did. And when I taught myself how to read when I was 4, he trotted me down to the store where he worked and showed his co-workers by having me read the poster showing the cuts of meat. I knew he was proud of me.

But still, when I grew up I got out of the house as soon as I could. By that time, the drinking had caught up with him. He stumbled around a lot, finally using a cane and then a walker after he fell down too many times and broke a hip. He'd pee himself sitting in his chair. When he couldn't get the alcohol anymore, he stopped drinking, and became a little more lucid. But he was also mostly deaf, and you had to shout to talk to him.

Those last few years before he had the stroke and died were hard to bear. But it was during those years that I found the piece of my father that I carry with me to this day.

About a year before he died, he broke his hip again but refused to go to the hospital. I would come over and stay with him while my mother would go shopping. Mostly he'd just sleep, calling out when he wanted something to eat or drink or help to go to the bathroom.

One time when he called out, it wasn't for that. When I got back to the bedroom, he told me, "I want to tell you something."

What, I asked.

"Don't be afraid of living."

It was the first time he'd ever said anything like that to me.

"You spend too much time by yourself, living in your own head. You can't live life in your room. You have to go out your front door to do that."

I didn't know what to say.

"Promise me you won't be afraid of living."

I promised.

I don't carry many great memories of my father, but I carry that one.

There are three great promises I have made in my life. "Til death do you part," I fulfilled. I promised Deb on her deathbed that I would be OK, and I'm still working on that.

The promise I made to my father, though, is the one that's closest to my heart.