(DISCLAIMER: I know- I’m being extreme. I can’t help it. Sorry.)

Today, I started my (mandatory, 1/3 of the year) health class. My teacher, as is required, went through the syllabus, listing topics that we will cover as the year wears on. “Drugs and alcohol, human sexuality, mental health, cancer prevention.“
I honestly don’t know if I’ve ever felt such high-voltage resentment. Immediately, I knew I wouldn’t like her. How dare she? How dare she suggest that there was something I could have done to prevent this from happening to my father? Let me paint you a picture of his health.

Army Ranger (reserve). Government-examined tip-top shape. Biked up mountains with his daughters. Always was tall, always strong. Always ate healthily. Never worked with carcinogenic substances for extended periods of time. Never lived near a nuclear plant. Always wore his sunscreen. Resting pulse of sixty bpm or so. All in all, incredibly healthy.

It’s not that I don’t believe in safe existence. Don’t chug formaldehyde. Wear your sunscreen- it lowers your chances of basal cell carcinoma, a very very treatable skin cancer. Don’t bathe in radioactive waste. Don’t smoke (did I mention that my father has never taken so much as a drag on a cigarette?). I just got the last of three Gardasil shots.

But there are no catch-alls. There are flukes.

He was extremely healthy.

And now, he has endured 742 days of treatment (I count). 30 pounds lighter and two inches shorter. He gets winded if he walks more than 40 feet or so. He can’t swallow solid food, subsisting (barely) on liquid nutrition. Take your blessings where you can, I guess- in the beginning, he was on a feeding tube that led directly out of his stomach, through his abdomen.

Truth is, no one is comfortable saying he’ll live to see me graduate. And that makes me want to scream and cry and tear my hair out at the roots, swinging my fists like a savage. But I can’t. I can stand up straight and grit my teeth and smile, moving on with my life.

Realizing that he’s my first memory. The first thing I remember is my father’s standing over my crib, singing the baby-me to sleep.

Realizing that he was his college’s Teacher of the Year last year, even with all the treatment effects.

Realizing that he is the most amazing father. He always came to events, except my middle school graduation. I was getting an award from the state- Hevesi had recognized me as one of the smartest kids, and one of the most involved. My dad was anaesthetized.

Cue the screaming and hair-tearing.

Cue the stiff upper lip. I can’t let this drag down my school life; I have my own things I need to accomplish. I need to get into a good school eventually! I need to get that internship at the lab in CA! I need to have my own life, damn it all. But this is hard, and it’s not fair. The doctors were so optimistic. And (*knock on skull*) he’ll be okay, he’ll survive, it’ll all be okay. He’ll go back to teaching fulltime. We hope. No one knows anything anymore, five different types of chemo and two different radioactive therapies and god knows how many surgeries later. I don’t even remember how many surgeries… two thorocotomies? Three? A bilateral neck dissection, too.

How dare she. How dare she say I could have prevented this, I could have saved my family from this, we could have made it not happen, we could have kept things on an even keel, my father then would be my father now. No. Not fair. That cuts me to the goddamn core, to the quick. I can’t take that. I’m crazy enough on my own. I love the hell out of my father, please don’t tell me that this was optional. It’ll just make me cry. I’m okay as I stand. I’m stable and mostly happy; I get really good grades. I have friends that I adore and would do anything for. I’m okay, because someone has to be. I’m also pseudo-parent A. Please.

You have no fucking right to tell me about so-called cancer prevention. Prevent this.

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Relatedly: Don’t forget your self-exams, folks. Early detection is the best medicine. I know it’s awkward to talk about, but (guys) a testicular exam and (girls) a breast exam are crucial. Please. Get in touch with your body, and for the love of god call a doctor if there’s anything out of the ordinary. Prevention can’t really happen, but catching it early could make all the difference in the world.