I was thrown a curveball last week. More like a knuckle ball. Prior to that I went to England to see my oldest friend, Reuben. A year earlier when I’d been to see him, retired at 77 and living in his beautiful house and garden, he greeted me with, “Michael, I have good news and bad news -- bad news is they found cancer, the good news is that they think they caught it early enough to cure."
He was going through chemo and other cancer treatment. That late summer afternoon as we sat in his cherished garden gazing at the trailing rose trellis, watching his Jack Russell barking at the sunlit Japanese Koi in the ornamental goldfish pond, some bigger than him, I related some of what I had read and understood about living for the moment, the present, the now.
We realized that nothing at all could be more relevant given the situation; irrespective of the often-heard phrase, “they think they caught it,” we all know that cancer weaves a long and wicked path and many times comes back to voraciously destroy its unwilling host.
As we talked about the present moment and as I pointed out that whatever happens you must enjoy your life now, it brought a sense of peace to him that had been missing. Earlier that day, he had conveyed an understandable feeling of worry about the future but when I left a buoyancy that was Reuben had returned.
I had met him just after my 14th birthday and although only 12 years my senior, he instructed me in the ways of life, made me laugh, made my suits, taught me responsibility, schooled me in the way of humour and girls and filled in for the father I never had. In the 52 years I knew him, an angry word never went between us.
On returning to Canada I called him three or four times a week and we always talked about life, especially the spiritual side. We were both Jews having been raised in conservative-liberal families and although I had become a Messianic Jew this was not an issue that caused contention, and in fact he always listened to what I had to say and understood that God was his creator.
In the last few months he became weaker and the cancer had indeed returned, the doctors sending him home as, “there is nothing more we can do.” During one of our last calls he said he could no longer go upstairs. I decided to go over to England the last week in March. From London I called his wife. She said he had been moved to a hospice and that he didn’t want to see anyone other than his wife and daughter, not even his son or grandchildren. She said he was heavily sedated, very thin, and I understood of course. But I did go down to the coast to see Sheila. It was a comfort to her I’m sure. I left after half an hour – there is not much to say other than hug.
Two days later he died, ironically on my birthday. The Jewish Cemetery at Waltham Abbey has an oval building near the burial plots, an open archway at each end. On the west side stand the women, and the men stand opposite, about 100 in all. The casket is placed on a pedestal in the middle with the head to the south. The rabbi stands at the head of the casket and recites the prayers. Above the south archway near the ceiling is a large window with a wrought-iron Star of David, the Magen Daved, in the centre.
The many shades of black and white, of coats and handkerchiefs and rarely-worn ties and shawls, of long pale damp faces fitted the very gray day as we listened to the drone of the rabbi’s Hebrew prayers. I stood near the head of the casket and I thought of our conversations and I prayed that God would look favourably on this kind, funny man loved by so many. As I did I felt a warmth on my head and I sensed a light on my eyes. I looked up and the sun was shining through the centre of the Star of David right on me as I thought about my friend. I could not help inwardly and thankfully smiling.
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The curveball? Oh yes. On my return to Toronto my doctor called me about routine tests I’d had before I left. “Michael, I’d like you to come in, we have found some cancerous cells in you.” Strangely enough, I was wondering what my next column might be about. During the last week I have discovered some very interesting facts about cancer which I have a need to write about. If you have it, or know someone who does, you will need to stay tuned here. I’ll show you ways to deal with a curveball.
Michael Vallins is a freelance columnist living in Toronto. he can be contacted at: letters@canadafreepress.com.
