My name is Dan, and I was 57 when I died.       

“Before I died, I made my friend promise that she would one day tell my story. Unfortunately, I did not live long enough to do so myself, although I always wanted more people to know, if only to perhaps prevent what happened to me from happening to someone else — the wish of any child caught in a dire situation. Yet, such wishes have proven over the centuries to be rather futile. Or perhaps it’s for the sake of my story needing exposure to give meaning to my untimely death, or even for the culprit — whether still alive or dead — to experience the full extent of the adversity that was inflicted on me. Or perhaps ultimately it might be for the sake of finally realizing that I am not too insignificant for the world to hear about an overlooked detail that had shaped the better part of my life.

To make someone swear to reveal my deepest secret was, unfortunately, the only way to ensure my story would live on — since my doctor’s devastating diagnosis did not include adequate time for such pettiness…

Three years to the day sounds like a long time, but accompanied by a warning — a written notice of between 12 months to two years — my one-year ‘grace period’ was equivocally welcomed, however, filled with much hell, heartache, and the most excruciating pain. If only I knew what lay ahead, I would have settled for the ‘maybe even less than 12 months’ option given by the specialist. It was a rare kind of pancreatic cancer that was rather unpronounceable, and when the agonizing torment started a few years prior to diagnosis, I knew it would be bad. Somehow, I expected the worst… and upon the revelation of the growing murderer ripping its way through my intestines, I knew this sculk was as homemade as burnt toast.

It came from many years before, like a sneaky hand under the covers, creeping over a lover’s body while asleep in the dead of night. Unsure of how to fend off the hand when your body is semi-conscious, semi-dreaming, semi-awake, semi-uncertain if what is happening should continue, should be stopped, if it’s right, or even whether it is wrong…

The difference between this affliction and the cancer was that it did not have a scientific name — it was a common name, easy to pronounce, and even easier to remember — and it stuck with me like the cancer did — until my final day here on earth: August 13, 2022. Until that final moment when my mind was still so active and full of ideas, full of life, filled with mental pictures of my beautiful children and grandchildren, it clung to me until that final second when my last breath left my body tense and afraid: I did not want to die, I still wanted to be there for all my loved ones. I was scared for their futures, and even more scared for the unknown that Death held at its door, the unknown and the relentless pain, the sorrow in my family’s faces, the heartache in their smiles, and the fear in their eyes.

But my pain was deep-rooted, a lifetime in the making, and it carried a common name: Aunt Katie. Aunt Katie, the name that was spoken out loud with so much compassion. Aunt Katie, the name more deadly than the cancer; never treated, never explained, never exposed and never overcome. That hand underneath the sheets when no one was looking, that hand caressing my flesh when I was only six years old. Aunt Katie; how lovely the sound, and how brutal the aftermath of her touch; those hands that caressed all of me, those hands and lips that left their lasting imprint, a tattoo that I carried along with me as fervently as I carried the six-year-old boy inside my heart; hauling the confusion, shame and humiliation within me while keeping the young boy safely contained in my thoughts, blaming myself because I could not protect little Dan when he needed someone to watch over him. Someone to realize that the howling was not laughter, and someone to see that his tears were not tears of joy. I carried them both, little Dan and Aunt Katie, throughout my adulthood, my married and professional life, my chemo treatments, hospital stays, and the day I walked into hospice and until the moment when I laid my head down on a cold and unfamiliar pillow where I knew it would be my last resting place.

I carried little confused Dan with me; little Dan who wished someone would stop the mad hands, the hands that did weird things, unknown things by a person as well-known and well-liked, respected and trusted, well-loved, and as well believed as my mother’s darling sister. ‘Kadoodeling,’ she had whispered in my tiny ear. ‘Kadoodeling,’ she had called her many sneaky visits. Katie Kadoodle… I would forever recall the words and remember the subtle threats.

The name of my cancer was long and complicated, and I could never perfectly pronounce it, but it should have been named after Aunt Katie, for the cancer that started growing inside of me at six kept its brutal pace for four more years — the cancer that ruled and ruined my youth, the cancer that steered a future that finally took all of me on a winter’s day in August:  Aunt Katie. Katie Kadoodle; the cancer that killed me. Katie Kadoodle; the words my ears heard echoing from my doctor’s mouth as I sat before him, and I knew that the same angst and petrified feelings that I had felt those many years ago had silently grown with the strength of a demon inside of me, slowly ripping apart its way throughout my body.

My name is Dan, and this is my secret, my story exposed. I cannot wish away any of what happened to me; I can only find courage in this brief moment to have my voice heard, with the sincere hope that our indifferent nature would end before it becomes just another type of deadly cancer, consuming yet another innocent child.”

~  the end  ~