A daughter helps her widowed father after surgery. Help that no nurse could give.
Cancer. To Pete it was the ugliest word he could think of, uglier than any profanity he could utter. Cancer. The disease that had taken his wife Jenny five years before. Cancer. And now the word he was going to have to say out loud to their daughter Olivia.
As the news from his urologist sunk in, as he read and waded through the biopsy report, he realized that his high PSA count hadn’t been an accident. The CT scan hadn’t been wrong. He had prostate cancer and he had to deal with it. But as the news sunk in he realized the disease wasn’t the worst part. Telling Olivia was.
Five years. Five years since Jenny died. Five years of grief and emptiness. And it was a long time before Pete realized and understood, blinded by his own grief, that Olivia, their only child, was hurting almost as much as he was. No; hurting even more, as her marriage to Andrew finally ended. “Short term pain for long term gain”, she’d said, smiling through her tears as she told Pete. “Dad, it had been coming for a long time. Andrew seemed to withdraw more and more. First it was his job; he seemed to bury himself in his work and I think it was an excuse to avoid us. Then I think - no, I know - it was something…or someone…else. It didn’t surprise me that within a couple of months of leaving he’d moved in with one of his secretaries.”
And there it was; Pete thought back to those first years after Jenny’s passing, how despite her own grief, despite having to deal with her separation and divorce, Olivia was always there for him, always checking in to see how he was doing, always sensing when he was having a particularly bad patch, quick to be there with him, smoothing over the pain. It took him a while to realize how precious she was, how much he was loved. And how much he loved her.
She had stayed with him for a couple of weeks after the funeral despite Pete’s assurances that “…I’m fine. I can manage on my own; I took care of your Mom for the last couple of years, I think I can take care of myself.” But, smart woman that she was, she ignored him and helped him reestablish a level of domestic routine until, satisfied that he was ok, Olivia and the boys returned to her house.
But a regular, comfortable routine began; most Fridays after school Olivia arrived at Pete’s home. Pete welcomed the visits and seemed to settle quickly into the routine, as Pete cooked for them and Olivia relaxed at the kitchen table with a glass of wine, recounting her week’s teaching adventures. Sometimes after dinner and a movie she returned home, but often an impromptu sleepover occurred, especially if more than usual wine had been consumed and Olivia returned to her old room, largely unchanged since she’d left. Her wall posters were the subject of many jibes from Pete, a welcome injection of humour as the years progressed.
Then, on those early weekends that she was particularly happy to relax with wine and dinner at Pete’s he said “don’t get me wrong, Ollie,” (his pet name for her), “I love having you hear and I’m happy to listen to your feelings about Andrew and her, but don’t you have, ummm, a friend, another woman to talk to? Maybe another woman who might understand?”
“Nonsense, Dad; you’re the best friend I have, always have been. And you know me better than anyone alive, probably. No, you’re my shrink, Dad, my confessor” and with that she took another long sip of her wine.
And with that a new routine arose; on virtually every Friday evening Olivia would arrive; always with an overnight bag, their unspoken assumption being that she would spend the weekend. And the new routine settled on them both like a warm duvet; domesticity grew between them (“It’s almost spousal”, Olivia remarked one afternoon as she prepared lunch while Pete vacuumed. “Spousal, that is, if Andrew had ever vacuumed” she laughed.) And the domesticity expanded as they began to shop together, go over her financial planning regularly; she was an excellent money manager - had to be, after the divorce - but valued Pete’s expertise. Right out of school Pete had established his own engineering firm, nurtured it as it grew, realized the potential of computers almost immediately and patented several innovations that proved very remunerative indeed. And as others built on and incorporated his patents the income grew over the years.
Finally, as Jenny’s illness struck, Pete was able to sell his firm to other junior partners and retire comfortably in his early 50s. For two years Jenny’s illness filled his time, but after her passing his days were one long vacuum. It was, as usual, Olivia who realized the problem and, in the quiet and gentle way of a, well, spouse, slowly persuaded him to take up other interests. “You know the hospice very well, Dad,” she said, “I’ve also got to know them pretty well. They have an excellent board of directors and are always looking for recruits. Why don’t you think about that?” And, with a couple of introductions by Olivia to smooth the way, Pete was soon on the board and soon immersed in operations and developments. And the hospice valued his engineering-trained logic and rigour of thought as the board confronted issues from time to time. And it helped with his grief and loss, to see that he shared that pain with many others.
But now Pete knew that time was against him. Yes, he had to deal with his diagnosis, but weighing even more heavily on him was knowing he had to tell Olivia. It’s not an exaggeration that that was more worry to him than his own health. So he made quick plans; he would tell Olivia the following weekend. “I’ll do the cooking, he decided, to keep busy and not let too much show before I’m ready to talk to Ollie”, he thought. “A couple of glasses of a good chablis for her will help.”
With that he set to work, shopping for her favourite meal, filling the firewood box in his living room so that a fire in the grate might offset the November gloom and the news he had to impart. As Friday arrived the short ribs were in the oven long before Olivia’s arrival, slow cooking to perfection. By late afternoon he had fresh-baked bread on the cutting board and vegetables peeled and ready. The fire was crackling in the fireplace and he’d even thought to turn a light or two off in the living room; not dark, not even semi-dark, but quiet and inviting.
“Oh, fantastic smells, Dad,” called Olivia as she let herself in Pete’s front door, quickly peeling her wet raincoat off, slipping off her boots and easily slipping into her slippers, always waiting near the door. She took her overnight bag to her room and then walked quickly into the kitchen and, finding him busy at the stove, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek only to be met with a quick and, to her, surprising hug from Pete. A hug that might have lasted just a bit longer than was usual with them. “Everything all right?” she asked, stepping to the fridge and drawing out the chilled chablis.
“Absolutely,” he smiled, “couldn’t be better. Hungry?”
“Famished. I had ‘behaviour issues’ with a student and had to skip lunch. But ribs - my favourite - easily worth skipping lunch.” And with that she took her customary chair at the kitchen table, watching Pete efficiently prepare their meal. As the vegetables were cooking he drew a small plate of charcuterie from the fridge, poured himself a glass of pinot and sat at the table.
“White wine me, red wine you; are we actually compatible, Dad?” she laughed.
“We are so compatible that it’s ridiculous,” he smiled, and then, almost to himself, “we’re like an old married couple; we can almost read each other’s thoughts” and felt the warmth of her hand quietly settling on his as they each sipped their wine.
Dinner was even better than he’d hoped. He discovered that he, too, was hungry and their mutual enjoyment of the meal covered any unease he felt at their impending conversation. Dinner done and dishes in the dishwasher, he poured another glass of wine for her, topped his own up, and led them to the living room. As Olivia settled into one corner of his old, comfortable leather couch, he tossed a couple more logs on the fire and settled into the other corner. “It’s now or never,” he thought to himself.
“Ollie…” he hesitated and immediately her senses were alerted. “Ollie, ummm, I saw the doctor this week…” Olivia waited, fearing the worst, and it came with “…and, well, I’m sorry I have to tell you, but I have cancer.”
Her world exploded before her very eyes. All colour left her vision, all sounds were reduced to a dull roar in her ears. She could hardly hear his quiet words: “…prostate…treatable…very hopeful…”.
Finally, after she’d shakily taken another sip of her wine, she said “I’m sorry, Dad, could you please repeat that?”
“It’s prostate cancer, Ollie, and not at all uncommon; about one in eight men my age get some form of prostate cancer. Often it’s so slow moving that no treatment is required other than observation. But mine isn’t that kind; I…we…need to deal with it.”
“What…how do we deal with it?” she asked, easily and automatically including herself in his problem.
Pete noted the pronoun and immediately felt better for it. “Spousal, for sure,” he thought. “I have a consultation with my urologist next Wednesday,” he said, “and he’ll go through the possible approaches, treatment, likely outcomes. Then I’ll make a decision. I feel pretty good about all of this, Ollie, but I want to get on with it; the earlier I…we deal with this the better the outcome.”
“Wednesday? I’ll be there. I’ll book off work and go with you; you shouldn’t be alone for this.”
Pete knew better than to argue with his daughter when her mind was made up. “That will be fine. I will really value your input, Ollie.” And as he sipped his wine and returned his attention to the fire, he felt Olivia slide gracefully across the couch and snuggle into his side. With the most natural gesture his arm reached around her and pulled her closer to him. Turning to her and bending his head he felt, more than saw, her tilt her face up to him and without hesitation or thought he leaned further down as their lips met in a soft, warm kiss.
“We’ll get through this, Dad” she smiled, but he saw her eyes brimming and leaned for a second, longer kiss.
They rested together, her head on his chest, when she said finally “there will be effects, won’t there, Dad? I mean, I’ve heard that some men, after treatment, well, you know…”
“Limp dick syndrome, you mean?” laughed Pete. “Why would I worry about that? Why would that even concern me?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I know you haven’t seen anyone since Mom died, but that doesn’t mean that, well, you know…”
“What, that I’ll get lucky? Have a wild weekend with some sexy vixen?” and he laughed again.
“No. It’s just, well, why close doors that don’t have to be closed?”
“How about we cross one bridge at a time? And how about we stop talking about my sex life, or non-life? Who are you to talk?” he teased. “How does a near-nun give advice from the convent?” Her blush told him he’d hit a nerve.
“This isn’t about me, Dad, it’s about you. We can talk about me some other time. Maybe.”
“But I’m your confessor, right? You said so yourself. So confess; make a clean…umm…breast of it” Pete said, and chuckled at his pun. “Seriously, Ollie, you’re a beautiful young woman; there must be hundreds of men out there just eager to be with you. If you know what I mean. Don’t you miss it?”
Olivia was quiet, letting her fingers lightly drift back and forth across her father’s chest, feeling the comfort of his slow breathing, his warmth through his shirt, his scent that she’d unconsciously absorbed and breathed in thousands of times and now breathing it in consciously for the first time in a very long time. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right, Dad, I do miss it.” Having broken the dam, her honesty gushed forth. “I…I loved it with Andrew, it was great until it wasn’t. For the last couple of years it was clear he was just going through the motions. I felt like a mechanic, Dad, servicing him, not making love. And, just to complete the record, there was no sex for the last six months we were together. That was the final, undeniable sign for me.”
There was nothing Pete could say to this; he let his body do the talking as he tightened his embrace, as he leaned down and placed a slow, tender kiss in her hair, surprised by how he was affected by the delicate lemon scent of her hair. “Thank you for that; it can’t be easy for you to talk about it.”
“I’m glad I told you, Dad. I feel like I’ve torn a bandage off a wound. Maybe it’ll heal now.”
“Maybe. And I’m glad you’re coming to the consultation. We’ll decide these things together.
Together, content in their embrace, their glasses drained and the fire dying down, Pete finally stirred. “Time for bed” he said, barely above a whisper.
“Mmmpphh” came the muffled reply, softly against his chest. He was suddenly thrust 30 years into the past and felt he’d stepped through a time warp, his five year old little girl sleeping against her daddy’s chest in that same living room. As he stirred she awoke and, the imprint of his shirt fabric still on her cheek, smiled and rose, stretched, and reached down with her hand, drawing her father up with her. “Hug?” she asked, and he was quick to reply, savouring once more the warmth and indescribable comfort to him of her body pressed to his. Another light kiss on his lips and she shuffled sleepily off to her room.
Still sleepy, she changed into her usual sleep attire; flannel pyjamas, always remembering the taunts Andrew had directed at them and her, less and less amusing as the end of their marriage approached. Taunts that she had never heard from Pete. She slipped into bed and, lazily processing the evening’s conversation, her last waking thought was that she wished Pete was there so that she could comfort him, lead him into sleep’s warm embrace with her own embrace.
For his part Pete felt more at ease than he had for a week, his burden lightened by the conversation with Olivia, even knowing that what lightened his burden was now a burden on her shoulders. Still, he somehow felt her love - their love - would carry them through. And his last conscious thought was…those kisses.