Sam the Mighty

Shortly after my daughter began walking, I adopted a three-month-old puppy. He was the last of a litter of purebred Golden Retrievers. At the time, no one wanted him because he was light-colored and had an overbite. Turns out, you cannot breed a dog with an overbite. The owner, after not finding a buyer, offered him to me for adoption. I did not care about his abnormal occlusion, but I did care about giving him a home. And it did not take long. Within minutes of meeting this loveable pup—after he peed on the carpet—my little Doodle Bug and the soon to be named, Sam Beckett, were instant pals. Whatever my daughter did to him, he accepted lovingly. Usually this consisted of her laying on top of him or crawling inside his dog house with him. Sam attached himself to her and became her lifelong protector and faithful companion.

For the first three years, the biggest challenge was keeping up with his growth. How quickly, it seemed, did he morph into a full-sized Retriever. With his size came his power, which was increased by his daily exercise. Every day or evening, no matter the time, he was ready to play chase, tug of war or wrestle. If I was not around or not ready to play, Sam developed his own form of strength training. For some unknown reason, he started pulling long landscaping bricks to the back of the yard. They weighed a little less than a cement block, which weighs thirty pounds or so. If I set one by the back porch, he would immediately go to it and, while walking backwards, pull it with his front paws to the fence line. He did this for years, thereby, developing a large and thick upper half. He grew so strong, one of our neighbors was worried he might push over her fence.

Except for the occasional careless duck, Sam was friend to everyone he met. He loved children and to be included in groups. He welcomed all with his large snout and wagging tail. Of his faults, his worst were stealing burgers off the grill, jumping up on unprepared guests, bumbling about while inside and having a famously stubborn disposition. Sam's best traits were his fearlessness, his kindness and his calm demeanor. Just watching him out on his perch (the top of his dog house or an outside table) sitting in quiet contemplation gave you a sense of comfort and peace. If not there, his next favorite spot was with his head in your lap—unless of course he could sneak upstairs and hop on my daughter’s bed. Heaven for him, I suppose. Watching them together, though, how could I be mad. They loved being together, and I loved seeing them that way.

Over the past few years, he enjoyed taking long walks or treks down the to lake for a dip. His need for rough and tumble was waning, but not his desire to accompany, to participate and to love. I cannot pinpoint when his sickness began to show. Now, I realize, it started long before I was aware of the signs. Dogs have an amazing ability to mask their pain. They are true examples of long-suffering and unwavering devotion. On a day when he should not have gone, we took his final long walk. Halfway through our paces, he gave out. Even when I loaded him into the car to take him home, you could see his wish to finish it. All throughout the next month, he wanted to keep taking those strolls. It was our time together. He just could not, though. As the disease progressed, just going out to relieve himself was too taxing. Sam's body, once enviously powerful, was now ailing and frail. He was leaving us, and I could find no means of stopping him.

Today, with a breaking heart, I ended Sam's suffering. Purebreds, especially Golden Retrievers, are genetically predisposed to developing cancer and kidney disease. Sam had both. Overcoming one is difficult. Two at the same time is impossible. Of all the animals I have had in my life, Sam is the one who was most like family. My daughter would say, “He IS family!” She is correct, of course. Watching him lose his battle with cancer was similar to watching my father and mother lose theirs. Not much of a difference in watching an animal dye versus watching a person dye. If you love them or have compassion for them, the sense of a life ending is overwhelmingly painful because we feel the tear in our own lives. We are connected to all life. The sense of loss and melancholy we feel after its passing confirms it. And while I still feel remorse and believe it to be unfair, I know the decision was the right one. Perhaps, the more I tell my Little One, “He's in a better place running free and happy,” the more I will believe it as well. Either way, he is truly missed.

SAM BECKETT

January 18, 2006 – September 21, 2012

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The Sublimity of Summer

My childhood summers, while ultimately good in the end, always seemed like a distant formless surreality. As I remember them, each one was its own cocoon for some new metamorphosis in my life. For several summers, I never knew quite what to do with myself. Still they were, albeit strange, drizzled with moments of magic. Even with my early insecurity and moodiness, I found a way to embrace and love them. On those long hot days when the heat subdued me to a maddening level of emptiness and boredom, I managed to whittle the minutes away sitting in front of the air conditioning dreaming of what I would do one day or would like to do today. Paralyzed, though, I just stayed inside overthinking going to the pool. “It would just be too hot and too crowded anyway. Maybe tomorrow.” Then, in the distance, I heard a faint primordial tone. A sound penetrates my lethargy, and I leap quietly to my feet making my way to the window. The adrenaline, by now, was rising through me with such force, I could feel my heart pounding in my temples. This response seemed to heighten my senses, and I could hear it clearly. I knew what it is. It was the sound of sounds for a kid. The one which made me and kids all around the neighborhood jump to attention. The chiming...of the ice cream truck. In the next minute and a half I do not think, I act. My first order of business was kid money. I needed pocket change.

My dad always carried cash, which meant he always had a pocket full of coins. Each night he came home and dumped it in his special place. I knew where that was, so I did not have to scrounge around the house looking for money. I went straight for the hall bookcase. He hide it in a coffee can on the upper shelf down behind several of his golfing caps. As I plunged my hand inside, I felt some unease because, on several occasions, he had already taken the money to the bank. If I was lucky, however, the can would be full. I would find rolls of quarters all waiting for me. And with as much coin as I could carry, I burst out the back door arriving at the counter just as several of my friends were already placing their orders. Now my only dilemma was to make my decision. Creamsicle, Fudgesicle, Ice Cream Sandwich, Push Up, Bullet, Screwball, Sundae Cone. All the pictures starring down at me resplendent in their oversized portrayal on the side of the van. The vender looking at us blankly waiting for our response. Asking us what we wanted was an unnecessary question. He would just look at you, and your heart lurched in your chest. The real test of summer was to make the right choice. Being bored was one thing, but picking the wrong dessert would ruin your whole week. While I had a couple of favorites, any item looked like it would suffice. Standing there, I wanted them all. They all had their own unique deliciousness. Truthfully, though, whatever I got was wonderful. That I got it at all was wonderful. Still in those days, it was best to stick with the proven winners: Fudgesicle, Ice Cream Sandwich, Push Up.

With treats in hand, I could now sit and eat on my front porch with my friends. You have to eat ice cream truck ice cream outside, or it will not taste right. Tastes better outside. It is a social ice cream after all. From the moment we unwrapped our first purchase until the last drip of our second and third, our lives were otherworldly. We did not argue, scrap or call each other names. We were in Eden. And these moments are what made my summer special. More than pool parties, movies or girl crushes, the ice cream truck experience was transcendent. “Think about it.” When else in your life did you have an ice cream delivery service? It was a true summer phenomenon. You did not have ice-cream trucks during the school year. Sure, we had ice cream parlors, but they only served scooped or dipped ice cream in cones or bowls. All you had to do was walk inside. “Where's the adventure?”

The ice cream truck, in contrast, was the adventure. It stirred in us deep emotions. When I burst out my back door and the truck was driving away, I did not give up and say, “I'll get some next time,” or, “I'll just drive to the store.” No! Absolutely not! I dashed down the street after it. At that moment, I ran with purpose. I ran to win, to succeed, to capture my prey. No better treasure than the one you find by your own effort. I would chase it out of the neighborhood if necessary. I was not to be denied. I was alive. In those few moment of pursuit, I was connected to something. I could feel it. Even better than actually getting the desserts was the chase after it. I knew what I wanted. I knew where it was. I knew how to get it. I just had to go out and do it. It took all my energy, wit and stamina. It was electric. The thrill of making it just in time. “One more!” the others would shout. “We have one more!” They knew it too. This was a collaborative effort. The reward was so great, it must be shared. They knew the cost and what it was worth. The ice cream truck experience was more than ice cream utopia. It was life—it was childhood. It was the hunt, the expedition, the potential for great gain or great lose. Standing there licking our Popsicle sticks clean, we were pure beingness exalted by the thrill of chasing what we loved.

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Please, Don't Speak

Children have this irritating habit of telling the truth. We are, at this age, still somewhat primal. We are genuine beings, and the idea of tempering our tongue has not registered with us yet. In fact, for all of our early years, “You must tell the truth!” was imprinted in our brain's neural pathways. Our mothers and grandmothers drilled it so deep into our consciousness, it broke through to our very subconscious. We children are so excited by life, we know nothing of decorum. Our truth telling builds confidence and character; yet, it also leads us to dangerous places. Like the boy who boldly walked naked into his parent's dinner party and declared, “I have a penis!” Our the girl who jumped up into her grandfather's lap and said, “Your breath stinks!” After a few embarrassing situations, our parents adjust course and begin teaching us restraint. We learn we must govern not only our choice of words, but there time and place of delivery as well. Some people learn it brilliantly. These amazing verbalists can, in an instant, say an appropriate insightful comment or refrain from mentioning a hurtful or offensive one. They accomplish this with grace and ease. I marvel at them, for I am not such a person. My words must be thought over and edited with caution before I speak. If not, the worst could happen. My gift of gab was somehow corrupted. I open my mouth, regardless of the thought in my head, and what comes out is—well—adverse. My mind's teleprompter reads, “Hey! How are you? You look nice today!” My mouth translates this into, “Sporting that corporate look, today. Have an interview?” This was, obviously, not my thought or intention. It is, however, what I once said. My sentiment was complimentary, but my words were insensitive. A subtle insult without the gentle underbelly of subtly. Painfully, I have dealt with this sort of ill-chosen-word-demon my entire adult life. My daily conversations and greetings are, shamefully, incongruous. Anything which requires me to vocalize my thoughts is subject to the perverse contortions of my mental translator.

As a boy, one of my infuriating habits was not to talk. Even when my father yelled at me, I refused to respond. “Why did you do such and such?” he would demand. I would just stare at him. My younger brother would have to beg our mother to force me to speak with him. Most of the time, I just did not want to be disturbed. With my dad, perhaps, I knew discussion was futile because punishment was inevitable. I have no defense really. My not speaking seems to have had the opposite effect of what happens when most children do speak. They say the wrong thing, and their parents instruct them on its incorrectness. They, therefore, learn to communicate politely and appropriately. I did not speak, so, I had less corrective teachings; hence, I did not learn to speak politely and appropriately. When I finally did give into speaking regularly, I failed to notice how disrespectful my words were. It literally was years, before I realized how many times I had offended others. In almost all cases, offense or slight was not my intent. I could not understand why, until I realized what I thought I was saying was not what I was saying. Seeing I had no natural talent for diplomacy, I forced myself to be more aware of my daily speech.

Since, I have acted in plays, taught a class or two and spoken in front of different groups. These activities are not so difficult, as long as you plan and prepare. Public speaking has helped my conversation to evolve into a less atrocious ordeal by helping me to stay focused. Unfortunately, this is not always easy. For most of my neural activity is predominantly centered elsewhere. I can be doing one thing, while my mind is in several other places. It will stay there, until my inner radar reminds me I need be social. Pulling me away, however, proves difficult for I need my far away places. My sense of balance needs it. My writing craves it. What tends to happen is I speak before I completely leave this state. In so doing, I might say anything. It is likened to talking from a dream, where all your thoughts and images are simultaneously darting to and fro. You reach for meaning, only what you get is not a logical string of words but a jumbled mouthful of perception—or misperception. For me to communicate well, I must keep my topics straightforward and specific. This, like any medicine you may take, has its side effects. It can make me seem more different than I actually am: guarded, aloof or distant—possibly even strange and crass. This personal reformation of mine—this learning to integrate my various strata into an authentic representation of self—is an ongoing project.

Luckily, my writing seems to act as a form of therapy. If I have been constant in my writing efforts, I tend to have greater control over my spoken words. The practice helps me smooth out most of my misshapen phrases. Still the other place calls. Even with the work, it is nearly impossible to slow down the thoughts which bombard my mind. Nor do I want to, I suppose. Hiding behind altered meaning may mean something more than a broken tongue. It could be a mechanism for me to cope with the exposure caused by writing, thinking and sharing in the world. Maybe my awkward phrases are a metaphorical growl to remind myself, as much as the world, “I am alive!” So what happens to all the true sentiments left unsaid? Where do they go? Do they disappear? Have I lost the opportunity ever to say them again? Most do not matter in the context of mine and my listener's life. For the ones which do matter, I wish I could send rewrites of what I said. “Here's a better version, replace the old one with this one. Have a good memory of that time.” Well, no Undo, Redo, Overwrite or Stop button exists in the physical world. To those painful memories, I can only apologize for not saying what I meant to say, and strive to communicate better next time. And to my future conversationalists, should I seem uncommonly quiet, please forgive me. I have either mentally disappeared or chosen—for the good of us both—not to speak.

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My Existential Christmas

“So this is Christmas and what have you done,

Another year over, a new one just begun.”

—John Lennon

Each year Christmas enters my consciousness with an unrivaled confidence. One brought on by years of experience and presence. It feels good at first almost intoxicating with its cacophony of sounds, its sights and its smells. It even fills me with a sense of purpose. At least it does until it supplies me with a fair amount of ...well...discomfort. Somewhere between the humming of carols and the drinking of hot chocolate, the ether settles and I am overcome with a soft quiet panic. As I have grown older, this process seems to happen quicker each year. This irrational stress is bursting with oscillating emotions. Whether festive and happy or lonely and absent, Christmas evokes an involuntary emotional response in me. Just a week into the season, and I am already barraged with little Christmas chants vibrating over the airwaves. “It's for the children.” “It's better to give.” “Put Christ back in Christmas.” “Twenty shopping days until Christmas.” “Free Shipping!” I often wonder what it is I am reacting to. Why does December put me in such a rush? Is it the tradition, the shopping, the obligatory giving, the believing or, perhaps, the mad dash until January 6? Pick your poison, but it all starts with a party. The party at work, at your partner's work, your boss's party, church party, school party, friend's party; and, if you are really lucky, your own party. As these come to an end, you have a day or two before you must focus on the family. There you have a Christmas Eve party, a Christmas dinner, and, then, the all important after-Christmas-with-the-family party. Pause to breath. You work three more days before the big party or parties of New Year's Eve. In a few weeks, I will be back at work; it will be January; and I will be wondering where the year went. Whew! Just with all that, who has time to worry about anxiety or reasons for something? On a broader scale, who has time for meaning? Christmas should have meaning, after all, “It is Christmas!” I hear it all the time, “It's Christmas,” like just by saying it remedies all the negatives brought on by this great big machine of seasonal commercialism. You know, the one hurling us along fueling our need to spend all the while filling us with heightened anticipation—the anticipation of me getting something for Christmas. So, I ask myself, “What is my expectation? What do I hope to get? If I took the time, I might even ask what does Christmas mean to me?”

When I was a five, it was about Santa and seeing him fly through the night sky. By seven, eight and nine, I was staying up late to try and catch him in the act. As a teenager, it was time off from school. I still liked getting presents, but I was more concerned with how embarrassing this year's batch might be. I was worried more about the after Christmas chatter back at school. “Hey, Man, what did you get? I got this really cool thing-that-amazes-us!” says my classmate. “Wow! That is cool! Let's try it out,” I say hoping he does not flip the question on me. Then I would have to say, “Hey, I got these great boxers from my grandmother—they are the same kind my grandfather wears. Awesome! I also got socks, pants and another sweater.” In my family, the extravagance stopped when we moved from house A to house B. House A had lots of toys, bikes, sporting equipment, stereos and music. House B had undergarments, outer garments and other garments. During those years, though, meaning was mostly left up to a Christmas play or two and a few seasonal services. “It's about the baby Jesus anyway! What more do you want to know?”

Luckily my attitude changed as I grew older. My expectations were intentionally shifted from wanting stuff to helping others. This had to be the true message of Christmas, surely. To prove my conclusion, I studied the history and tradition of Christmas. Looking at the pieces, though, I began to have doubts. We have Christ being born, and He is the Son of God. Some even say He was born in December. We also have these pagans who have this birth-of-the-sun thing, which happens in December on the winter solstice. All of these are really important, therefore, we cannot leave one out. So, some historical people took this calendar and that event, factored in nine months, something, something, something, a little Yen and Yang for good measure; and, “Voila!,” *they* successfully merged two holidays and a celestial event. (For our purposes, we will ignore the Eastern Orthodox Christians who celebrate in January.) What about the other side of tradition—the guy in the red suit? How does he fit into all this? Aside from the original St. Nick story, Santa has become Christ's biggest competitor for Christmas focus, attention or props. If you think about it, they should actually work in concert with each other. I suppose they do in a way. Christmas is about giving, “Right?” Santa brings Christmas magic and Jesus feeds the hungry. What about our giving? What if you cannot give? What if I do not want to give at Christmas? Or what if I want to give you a gift because it is Tuesday or because I happen to like you as a person. Giving is a personal act. Charity, in general, should be a part of who you are. If so, you should give year round. Course, this takes some effort. You have to train yourself to do it. It does not come easily. Even then, you forget or get behind or let it slide, that is, until Christmas rolls around, and you feel the annoying sense of guilt about all you are not doing that you should be doing. Maybe Christmas is a giving reminder. We give now and throughout the rest of the year. Oh, I believe I have heard something about Christmas lasting the whole year. Still, is it just about giving?

As a father, Christmas has a different responsibility. The most important being, “How do I share it with my child?” “What do I say?” The first few years are easy, for it is about my child's experience. Christmas is these wondrous early years of discovery. The first one being, “I get presents at Christmas?”, which morphs into, “Who is Santa Claus and why is he coming to town?” and “Why is baby Jesus in the barn?” A few years go by, and you learn you have to reign in the gift giving lest you spoil the apple. The only problem, though, is I have totally convinced her Santa Claus exists. Well, me and a dozen other sources (a masterful conspiracy). Now that she has bought into the lying part of Christmas, I spend the next few years trying to determine at what age I should tell her it is all a fantasy? “Should I even tell her?” If you take away the fantasy, though, you take away the magic (some of the magic). At some point or by the time she asks, I have to know what it means. What do I say? “Well, Pumpkin, it's about this fictitious character, the baby Jesus, the tilting of the Earth, shopping, traveling, and overeating, which somehow all comes together preternaturally.” “Do I leave in the magical—Santa magic not Jesus magic?” Pull away the shimmering red curtain, and what do I have to give her: Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Purple Wednesday, the shopping malaise in general and—of course—traffic jams? Should we have a moment, we might stop and think of the birth of Jesus. Still it does not matter what I say. For years she has seen stress build up in me—in the atmosphere around me. It is this penetrating drumbeat calling me deeper and deeper into the seasonal abyss. I resist and resist until my breaking point where I humbly accept my embarrassing defeat and acknowledge I am minutes away from Grandmother's Christmas Eve party standing in a CVS buying soda, Q-tips, and a Christmas card for Aunt Bessie. But wait, before I leave the store, I will instinctively shout, “Oh, look! Here's a little Christmas knickknack-stuffed-pickle-thingy we can give second cousin Ceasie's little boy.” At this moment, I am lost. All my goings on about the meaning or spirit of Christmas are thwarted by my ridiculous actions at Christmas.

The strength of the Christmas machine is too great. We all fall under its weight at some point. So, I guess what I want is for the pressure to abate. “How do we do this?” “Could we change the tradition a little?” “To what?” Hard to say. The centuries of Christmases past have generated this garland giant. How can you even touch such a beast, let alone change it? If we cannot, then maybe all we can do is hang onto the spirit of the thing and share that with others. Maybe it is like politics, you have to take the good with the hypocrisy. Honestly, I find Christmas to be pleasant and good in spite of its flaws—and mine. How I quantify it for my daughter is a work in progress. Then again, I could be trying too hard. Sometimes, the miracle comes when we are looking the other way. Last week, I was driving home with her. Amidst our chatting, I turned on the local Christmas station. In a matter of seconds, she started singing along with the carolers. Hearing her belt out “All I Want For Christmas Is You,” I began to smile, then laugh, and, eventually, sing with her. All the way home, we murdered half a dozen Christmas tunes. It was wonderful! It was the first time all month, I had thought about Christmas as truly a time of joy. No matter what I, or anyone, says it means, its true essence is only tangible through experience. You cannot put it in a stocking or wrap it in a box, you just have to wade through it yourself. Whether it comes from divine intervention, animal spirits or cosmology, the illusive nature of Christmas has the capacity to represent our potential for goodness. It gives us human beings a chance to be kind, to share what is in our hearts, and to love all those around us.

Happy Christmas!

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Evan The Mighty

Yesterday, I learned some distressing news. Impending as it was, I was not quite ready for it. The message said, "Evan passed this morning." By the age of five, he had developed a rare form of cancer called High-Risk Neuroblastoma. The year was 2006; and, being Stage 4, he was predicted to live two to five more years with treatment. On Thursday, scared and still fighting for life, Evan finally succumbed to his disease. Like so many who have died from this plague of cancer, he lived his remaining years with dignity and strength. Cancer battles are not easy or sightly, but their fighters, survivors and victims are a tough and beautiful group of people.

Evan was the son of my friend Melissa. She and I had traveled together just that summer in between her mother's death and Evan's discovery. We went with a group to Russia where we help support a local orphanage about six hours northeast of Moscow. Most of that trip is a blur to me now shadowed by the news she got shortly after returning. Since then Melissa, her husband, and their two boys have been through hell. From tests, medical trips, chemo and transplants, this family has endured great physical and emotional hardship. Now it has ended, but at such a devastating cost.

Death is not kind, but it is definitely poetic. I have seen no greater courage from individuals than I have from those facing their oncoming demise. Friends with HIV, my grandfather, my father, my mother, and now Evan, all walked boldly into their dark future. They knew it was coming, still they faced each day with optimism and intention. It is we who continue to suffer. We carry the death with us. We carry it like a stone affixed to our backs. Seems cruel, I know; but, perhaps, it is preparing us to face our own death courageously.

For now, though, the pain is ineffable (the way great pain always seems to be). It is intensified when I think of how they must feel. The duality of this tragedy—loss of a child and suffering cancer— burns me to the quick. It reminds me of my own loss, and how this kind of pain becomes a part of you as memory, as history, as aspect. It serves as a catalyst of transformation, turning the love you felt into something different. A permanent ache. A tremor. A true and primal agony.

I apologize for the sadness of this post, but I needed to write something before I exploded. I had hoped this would be elegant, which might make it more bearable to read. Wishful thinking on my part, for death is death. I can, however, say I remember him as the happy boy running and laughing up and down the hall. I can still feel his infectious personality and the joy he still managed to exude. Even with all his treatments, Evan had really good days; and he did not waste them. All cancer patients do really. We as their caregivers must learn to make the most of those days as well. And when this thought is not enough, I pray we actually do have another journey awaiting us on the other side. A new life where we never die, where angels fly, and where we can daily come face-to-face with the presence of God.

Please pray for Evan's family. If you would like to read some of his story, you can do so here. Should you like to make a donation, you can give to CaringBridge and/or St. Jude Children's Hospital. These two organizations do tremendous work for families and children with cancer.

Postscript

For this, I will say, “War Eagle!”

While many of his days were excruciatingly painful and frustrating, many were not. One of his happiest days was just weeks ago. Evan was given V.I.P. access to Auburn's game against Mississippi State. Auburn sent an RV to pick him up. He got to meet Aubie, Coach Chizik and the entire team. Here is a link to the Auburn Every Day Show where Evan is featured starting at the 7:20 mark. I applaud Auburn University for their kindness and treatment of Evan. I know it meant the world to him.

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The Imaginary Scientist

As I was making my transition from high school to college, I had a clear vision of what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to find a cure for cancer. At the time, I was a chemistry major with plans to go to medical school and then into medical research. Already at that age, I had seen the devastating effects cancer has on people and their families. My grandmother had died of stomach cancer and my dad's brother had throat cancer. Years later both my father and mother died of cancer. He of lung, and she of colon.

I did not follow through with my original plan. Still, I watch closely the progress of researchers around the world hoping, one day, cancer will be curable. I long for the time when we can stop torturing people with chemo, families with death and alleviate the fear of getting cancer. Had I stayed on my original course, I wonder if I would have been apart of the new developments coming out of modern cancer research. Would I have had some part in the story below?

Three days ago, The New Times posted an exciting article, on William Ludwig's cancer treatment. He was part of a new experiment, whereby, billions of his T-cells were withdrawn, reprogrammed and returned to his blood stream. Gene therapy, which began in the early '70s, is the replacing of genes or the introduction of new genes into a person's blood stream with the dual purpose of targeting/destroying cancer cells and remaining in the body as part of its new DNA—should the cancer cells come back. Before it was just a theory, but now we have evidence it could become a medical reality. Should this new method be discernible and repeatable, many lives will be spared what so many have already faced.  While I am sad to have not been apart of such a discovery-come-to-fruition, I applaud all of those who were—and all those who are still working diligently every day to end this plague of cancer.

Let us keep our fingers crossed!

For more information on the recent breakthrough visit here and even here.

Giving opportunities:

American Cancer Society

Abramson Cancer Center

Cancer Research Institute

Cancer Treatment Centers of America

You can also give to your local medical facility or cancer center.

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The Duke

For the first ten years of my life, I was a complete fan of  John “Duke” Wayne. Whenever I watched a Wayne film, I felt stronger, stood straighter and believed in my own ability to be brave. He was more than just my hero. He was the model of what a man should be: honest, direct, loyal, dependable, decent and full of presence. As a “Duke” man, you respected people because of their character, you honored family, you were well-mannered in polite company, and you expected others to be. When you needed to speak big and loud, you did while others listened. John Wayne was the man who made a difference who neither flinched nor gave up. If he got knocked down, he jumped back up. You wanted to be on his side because you knew your were on the right side.

During those early boyish years, I knew him as the legend—the cowboy legend. He was the “real” cowboy sitting tall and broad in the saddle. If a Wayne picture was on, I was watching it. I lived for those scenes when Wayne's character decides to take matters into his own hands. These were the moments when a man did what he had to do. One such classic scene is the showdown in True Grit. Wayne as Rooster Cogburn stares down Ned Pepper's gang while out in the open on horseback. After a minute or two of warning, Cogburn jams the reins between his teeth and gallops full speed toward the four criminals some hundred yards away. He fires his guns, one in each hand, while riding head first into his apparent demise. Cogburn shows no thought of death or of fear or of losing. He only displays his sheer determination to defeat his enemies, which were, of course, my enemies.

Even now as I watch these films, especially the westerns, I still feel a certain giddiness. A reflex, for sure, from days long gone. Films like The Searchers, Cahill, Big Jake and The Sons of Katie Elder still rekindle my childhood fondness for him. If I watch them for too long, to be honest, I begin to see the parody in them much like you see in old Elvis movies. And, yet, amid this adult view of who he is and was, I have never really understood why he was the chosen one. Why not Humphrey Bogart, Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart (The Lone Ranger or Batman for that matter)? I grew up watching old movies. I have probably seen Bogart, Grant and Stewart as often as I have seen Wayne. So, why was he the one who made the biggest impact on my young mind? In the broader spectrum of my existence, does it truly matter? Not much, I suppose. Then again, it could mean more than I realize. Perhaps, it is the key to discovering something new about myself. Too much of my life, past and present, is enigmatic and frustrating. By knowing this one thing, I will know (at least) something concrete about myself.

A few weeks ago, I was not focused on this question at all. That changed when I learned Joel and Ethan Coen were remaking True Grit. After a hesitative moment of disbelief, my mind was flooded with defensive questions about the nature of the production and, of course, the biggest question: “Who could possibly replace John Wayne as Rooster Cogburn?” Really, how could anyone follow in his giant footsteps. “What a risk,” I thought. The boy in me was rushing to his defense. "You can remake some things, but not a Wayne picture—not this picture." Rooster Cogburn was John Wayne, and John Wayne was Rooster Cogburn. From his Academy Award performance in the "real" True Grit to the reprising of his role in the sequel Rooster Cogburn, John Wayne had solidified his ownership of this character. It was like saying my dad was my dad. "Who could replace him?"

This news preoccupied me for a few more days, then I began to laugh it off. "This was silly," I thought. "It is just a movie, and, besides, I really like Jeff Bridges. He is one of my favorite actors." So, having come to peace with my younger self, I went to see the new version of True Grit. As I chose the day I would go, bought my ticket and made my way to my seat, I felt consumed with anticipation. I was concerned with the story and what might be seen without the added difficulty of looking past Wayne. In fact, the film was great—definitely worth the time. I laughed, winced and held my breath at all the right moments. A pure treat. As I watched the credits, I prepared to leave. A smile was on my face as I replayed the movie in my head. I stepped out into the aisle, down the stairs, turned left, and left again walking the corridor toward the light—the exit. During these few steps, without any provocation, I was struck with a thought—an epiphany—regarding my relationship with John Wayne. "It was not his life, which had made such an impression on me. It was, instead, his death."

When John Wayne died, I cried. In my tender heart, his death was devastating. It was, on that day, comparable to my father dying. He was bigger-than-life, so too were his characters. He was (they were) not suppose to die. He had, though, died on screen several times. In The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, he died of old age. In The Cowboys, he was murdered. In The Shootist, eaten with cancer, he chose to die through a gunfight. None of these deaths were acceptable to me. In my mind, he was not allowed to die a natural or an unnatural death. It was simply unbearable. The legend of John Wayne was too great for me to fathom his absence. For he was not just an actor or a man, he was something more. An icon. A symbol. A transcendental figure. As a boy, he taught me about manhood and being a man. As a man, he has taught me about boyhood and being a boy. Walking down that corridor, I remembered the heartache of that day. How I ran outside to hide my tears. While I cannot recall the first death I clearly understood, his death was the first one to cause me to feel loss. His death was when I first understood the mortality of a man. It was when I learned people, even the most dear ones, will leave.

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