Cancer of the Heart

It's Sunday Storytime.

I don't know that I have enough stories to tell one for every Sunday of The Big "C"'s life span, but I know I have one for today.

It involves my old school buddy, Larry. I met him in sixth grade, when I transferred into the Catholic school in town. We lived in the same neighborhood, so for three years, every day after school, we walked home with a group of about 8 kids. Larry was one of the stars of that show, had us laughing all the way home. Those walks constitute one of my favorite sets of memories. I hear people bemoan Junior High as a wretched time. I've only ever thought of my Junior High days as a great time.

Of course, high school sucked. But Larry was there, too.

(Necessary aside: We went to IC high school. This stands for Immaculate Conception. Everyone who went there was from the area, obviously. So we'd all grown up knowing about IC high school. We never thought twice about the name. My 4 older sisters went there, so the name "IC" had been in my venacular since I was born. Then I went to college.

Help me out here, fellow IC grads. Did anyone else give a moment's pause to telling someone the name of your high school? I'd be talking to people--OK, it was really just when I was talking with guys--and the subject would come up, and I'd say, "Yeah, my high school was called Immaculate Conception."

I couldn't say it with a straight face.

Are you kidding me? Who names a high school--by definition, a place chock full of teenagers--something like Immaculate Conception?)

So, yes, Larry and I went to high school together, too. He was one of the good guys. He treated people well. Wasn't beholden to one particular group. Larry had a knack for really appreciating the unique thing about each person and somehow communicating that value. I don't know anyone else in high school who did that or does that as well as he did, and that certainly includes myself.

The summer after our first year of college, his Dad came into the shop where I was working. He asked if I'd talked with Larry yet. I hadn't. Then Mr. Reedy told me that Larry had come home from school early. That he'd had "some problems."

"What's wrong?" I asked.

His face was so grief-stricken. All he said was, "Give your buddy a call."

What could this mean? I quickly narrowed it down to 2 plausible options:
1) Larry was on drugs or
2) Larry had been drinking too much.

I was betting on #2. And before I called, I mentally rehearsed all the supportive things I would say--like, good for him for seeking treatment.

I called. We made very small talk. Then he told me, "Ferrone, I have ventricular cancer."

Oh my gosh. Ventricular cancer? Mental wheels race. I quickly figure out that this must be cancer of the heart, of the ventricles.

Larry filled the silence. "But it's very treatable. They say if you're going to get cancer, this is the kind to get."

What I said was, "Wow. Well. . .I mean, I guess that's a good thing."

But what I thought was, Dude. They are lying to you. Cancer of the heart??? That must be a really horrible thing and they've told you it's treatable just to give you hope in a hopeless situation. Fricking cancer of the heart, Larry! How is this "the kind you want"?

I must have mumbled through the rest of the conversation. We eventually hung up.

A few weeks later, Sarah and I went to visit him the day after his operation. I didn't know what they had done. Where he was in his treatment. What we would find. And I didn't ask Sarah either, because I remember feeling, at the time, that cancer was "The Thng that shall not be discussed."

We got to his room, and he looked pretty good for someone who'd just, presumably, had his heart operated on. There were a few other friends already there. No one had anything to say.
And you know me. Even in a situation like that, I was compelled to fill the silence.

I asked the one burning question I'd had since that first phone call with Larry:

"How did you know you had this cancer?"

And he said, "I was playing with myself."

Silence. Mental wheels churning. And not coming up with anything. Still silence. Heads swivel to me. I register this look in their eyes that there's something they get that I am not getting. Smoke is coming off my brain, it's working so hard. And still: nothing.

"Ferrone," Larry said, "I have testiticular cancer. They just cut my ball off."

OH! Riiight.

I burst into a huge grin, and clapped my hands once and shouted, "You don't have cancer of the heart!!"

I would have started up a round of high fives, but the others were not in the same state of relief and euphoria that I was. So then I had to explain why I was talking about heart cancer.

Turns out Larry's cancer was very treatable. He's now 15 years down the road, and he and Gwen have a beautiful baby girl named Lily. Tomorrow I'll post an e-mail he wrote me that has some pretty great insight from someone on the other side of the cancer walk.

God bless Larry and Gwen, and their pursuit of Baby #2. :)