Men Get Cancer Too

Yesterday there was yet another story in the Plain Dealer about women dealing with cancer. This time the story was about how to feel better by doing things to look better such as picking out the right wig, applying makeup, etc. I don't wish cancer on anyone. It's a horrendous disease. But I couldn't help but think as I read yet another article about the impact of cancer on women that we seem to forget that men get cancer too. Maybe it's working in the National City Building which, for the past month, has been bathed in the glow of pink lighting in support of breast cancer awareness. Maybe it's the pink ribbons on cars or the pink appliances that have been advertised in store circulars but it seems to me that a visitor from another world would think, aside from the occasional nod to prostate cancer, that cancer is a woman's disease. Again, my point is not to minimize the prevalence or impact of cancer in women. But by constantly reminding us of it, particularly breast cancer, we have effectively minimized the prevalence and impact of cancer on men and even children.

My grandfather died of stomach cancer. It was enough years ago that I can't tell you how many years ago it was but I was basically an adult when it happened. My grandfather was a short man with a rigid stature that many immigrants had when they came to this country proud of their heritage but humbled as a newcomer. He worked out at the YMCA on 25th street religiously. When I was old enough, he sometimes took me with him. I didn't really work out. Mostly I shot baskets while he jogged for miles. We'd lift a few weights in what really was the definition of the dank, musty gym. The YMCA had incredibly old equipment. An antique rowing machine, some barbells, and a medicine ball that was actually stitched together. The medicine ball was my favorite. Frankly, some of the other equipment reminded me too much of tools of the Inquisition for me to use. Still even as a young teen, I was impressed that my grandpa was in such good shape. Better shape than me.

One year, he decided that he wanted to go and visit relatives in Czechoslovakia. He had never been there but apparently decided he wanted to visit the remaining family he had who might know him . My grandmother had no desire to do this and refused to go so he went by himself. For a couple weeks, he drank a lot and ate fatty foods and homemade sausages common in Eastern European countries. Not long after he returned, he noticed a change in his appetite and in the way food tasted to him. After a number of tests he was diagnosed with stomach cancer. Exploratory surgery revealed that the cancer was so widespread that the doctors merely stitched him back up and he began chemotherapy. My once stubbornly proud and healthy grandfather withered away within about six months. For the last week or so, he was in a tertiary nursing home. As cliche as it may sound, he died as a shell of the man who used to take me to the gym.

My grandpa was never as affectionate as my grandma but we were close to him nonetheless. He really loved his grandchildren. You could just tell by the way he tried to teach us things or how he would leave $.50 for each of us on the living room table when we visited every week. I miss him and the cancer that took him from us was every bit as evil as the lymphoma that took my grandmother many years later. We certainly need to do all we can to help free everyone from this unbelievably awful disease but maybe, just sometimes, we can remind ourselves and the media than men get cancer too.