March 2015:

Sitting at my desk like any other day, I had no idea my world was about to come undone.  My phone rang and it was my mom.  My dad was in the hospital and they have just discovered a mass in his brain.  My heart stopped.  My heart dropped.  My heart broke.  

How can this be?  It can't be right.  I furiously pounded the keyboard for a misdiagnosis.  Hydrocephalus.  It has to be!  Just a swelling of the brain brought on by fluid retention.  That's why he was feeling off at my niece's birthday party the prior weekend.  It has to be hydrocephalus.  

Sadly, over the next hour, I found out it was not hydrocephalus.  It was a tumor.  Life just got real.

I quickly booked a plane ticket to fly the 3,000 miles across the country to be with my family.  Having made this flight many times prior, this one was one of the longest I've ever been on.  It's St. Patrick's Day and everyone on the plane is jovial, except me.  My eyes are a mix of tears and sleepiness.  Every time I close them, I hope when I open them, I'll wake up to me being back in the office with nothing more to think of than how utterly ridiculous this "holiday" is.   Each time my eyes open again, I am greeted with the cold, hard reality of the reason for this trip;  My hero, has brain cancer.

Arriving at midnight in Baltimore, Md, I pickup my rental car and drive the two hours to Pennsylvania.  I let myself into the home I grew up in with the same key I've had since I was in 5th grade.  The house is always the same.  The coal stove radiates warmth and the pictures hanging in the foyer tell a story of our family.  Childhood beach photos of my sister and I in Ocean City, Md., graduations from high school and college, weddings, births of children and photos of grandkids with their loving grandparents.  I take the 15 steps to the top of the stairs and can hear my mom deeply sleeping.  I walk into the extra bedroom, take off my tie and suit coat and flop onto the bed.  I am out.

Waking the next morning was surreal.  Once again, a mix of tears and pinching myself.  Coming down the stairs, I hear my mom in the kitchen, keeping herself busy putting away dishes and straightening up.  We hug each other and engage in small talk about my flight, drive here and work our way into talking about my dad.  We decide to get over to the hospital as soon as possible to see him and be with him.

Driving down Old Harrisburg Pike, my heart is a torrent of emotions.  I hear my mind screaming to be strong and not cry, but my tear ducts are revolting in every sense.  I can't help it.  I am inherently an emotional person and holding things in never works.  Listening to the radio the DJ is talking about St. Patrick's Day events in the city.  I abhor today more now, than ever.   I remember thinking to myself that after I get home I am never going to even say this days name again.  It's irrational and nonsensical, but I can't help it.  My hero has brain cancer.

The coldness of the hospital greets me.  I hate hospitals and nursing homes equally.  The smell of sickness, the feeling of sadness.  Emotions are all over the place.  I want to write.  I want to compose how I am feeling.  I want to get the hell out of here and go back to normal life.  I want my dad to get old and talk to me about life like only an old man can.  I'm only 37 years old.  There is no way my dad has this.  There. Is. No. Fucking. Way.

Walking into his room.  I breath deeply.  "Om Mani Padme Hum", I say in my head.  The mantra of compassion.  Then, my eyes explode.  Vomiting tears and my lungs begin to burn from choking back breath after sobbing breath. 

We hug tightly and talk about how he is doing and about Penn State Wrestling having a great shot at another National Championship.  Time passes slowly waiting for the Oncologist and Brain Surgeon to come for the consult.  

My sister arrives later.  More tears.  More small talk.

The surgeon comes in around 7 pm.  It's cancer.  Without question.  Without doubt.  My whole family and I break down in tears and sobs.  At this moment, I completely cast out all traces of residual faith in "God" (after a spiritual awakening years prior, there wasn't much left anyway).  I never look back.  

We are given a slim chance that it may not be a Glioblastoma, but its slim.  It could be this thing called Primary Central Nervous System Lymphoma (PCNSL), but its a stretch.  

The next week is a hazy cloud of fear, sadness, anger and new found inner strength.  Surgery will happen over Easter.  Flying back east again.

The surgeon is prepping my dad and relaying the news that a steroid course has shrunk the tumor, so she is thinking it is PCNSL.  A mild elation.  Surgery confirms this news.  He will still need chemo and radiation.  I sate my brain in all the specifics of his disease and what to expect.  

The long pathway of chemo and radiation is now 2 years in the past.  My hero is still in remission.  He is beating the odds.  My hero had brain cancer, and like the fighter he is, he is beating it.  

Every day I think about it.  Every day I wonder if or when it will come back.  I am a worrier by nature.  But I know he is a fighter.  The stubborn Italian and German blood in him won't allow him to just take it.  

Every trail I walk on, I walk for him and for me.  I walk hard and know that even if the climb seems too much to bear, if he can fight brain cancer, I can fight altitude.  

He is still my hero.  He will always be my hero.  

My hero had brain cancer, and it became my sadness.

My hero had brain cancer, and he stood his ground.

My hero had brain cancer, and he won.

"Leave nothing but footprints, take nothing but pictures, kill nothing but time..."

Namaste, friends.