I remember joking with Dad about how he’d outlive us all. He had gone vegetarian 10 years before I was born, never smoked, took vitamins, and asked for a designated driver after his annual Heineken at the neighbor’s Christmas shin-dig. He flossed, wore a seat belt, and looked forward to annual physicals. If I tried leaving our Michigan house in the winter with more than 3 inches of skin exposed, he would follow me to the door yelling “It’s no fun being sick!” We were always working class, but both my parents had union jobs with solid benefits and therefore we were covered by two health plans. Despite our attempts at persuasion, he refused to drop his coverage–the Rolls Royce of health plans, as we dubbed it–in favor of my mother’s plan. “I don’t want to worry about bills” he said, and only dug his heels in after retiring.
Nevertheless, on his 64th birthday my father had an endoscopy, after which the physician looked stricken. Later I saw images of the adenocarcinoma that spread like a hand around the top of his stomach and into his liver. He was supposed to have 3 months without treatment, but things were looking up after a few rounds of chemotherapy. He was tolerating the treatment well, and the spots on his liver shrank. Thank God he stuck to his guns about the insurance, I thought. It was one less thing to worry about.
