The Bear

The chemotherapy waiting room was crowded this morning, the most crowded I’ve ever seen it. Every chair was occupied, there were three men in wheelchairs, and three more leaning against a wall in the hallway until a volunteer hauled chairs from some other room.

Later, one of the nurses explained that the lab held up some blood work which meant the pharmacy couldn’t mix the chemicals on time and then some new patients showed up. The bottom line was that the whole system was screwed up.

I bring a crossword puzzle with me every time I come to the hospital, one of the old Sunday puzzles I have in a collection put out by the New York Times. I’m usually able to keep myself occupied long enough to get through the visit without getting bored. Today was different. The puzzle was just too hard. I had to quit.

So I was sitting there looking around when I noticed a guy sitting across from me. For a moment, I couldn’t figure why he caught my attention and then I realized that he looked just like my old man, dead now for more than a decade. Really. This man looked enough like my father to be his twin, enough like my dad to give me a momentary chill.

My dad was quite a guy. I think, sometimes, of how he’d have managed cancer. He’d have faced it the same way he faced everything, with his fists cocked, ready to punch back, but enjoying the fight. We called him "The Bear" not because of his looks but, rather, because of his willingness to scrap.

That’s the way he was.

I’m adopted, so I’m not physically like my dad. He was a longshoreman, much like the working stiffs in "On the Waterfront." He had arms as big as some men’s legs and hard as tree trunks. I’m tall and skinny and a writer.

He was tough enough to start with nothing, retire at 55, travel the world with my mother, raise three sons – a doctor, a lawyer and me – and overcome two heart attacks with enough steam left over to die doing yard work.

I think he was cynical as I am. He expected trouble in his life and was rarely disappointed. But his cynicism gave him a sense of humor that can only be described as a little dark. Like mine.

Not long before my dad’s death, he and my mother were watching television when a report was aired about Pope John Paul II, who himself wasn’t in real good shape.

"It’s easy to tell he’s not married," my dad – a lifelong and reverent Catholic said.

"How that?" my mom asked.

"If he was married, his wife wouldn’t let him out of the house looking like that."

Now, that’s funny.

He also told us all to make sure we didn’t do anything extraordinary to keep him alive when he was at the end of his life. We agreed. Then he said, "But make damn sure you don’t let me go even one minute earlier than I’m supposed to go."

I remembered those two things he said while I was waiting for my chemo. I smiled. And I also gained some strength. Like my old man, I’m ready to go, but I don’t want to be early for the departure.