CREEK ROAD GANG
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Seeing “Star Trek” with Dad
by Cindy Schwartz-DeVol
Here I am waiting in the lobby at the Regal Cinema for my parents. My husband, Carter, is waiting inside the theater, saving seats for all of us. We’re going to see the new “Star Trek” movie, the latest addition to the genre for all the trekkies out there, like my dad and me. I have been a fan of sci-fi and fantasy TV, movies, and books since I was a little girl because of my dad. We watched “Star Trek,” “Buck Rogers,” “Battlestar Galactica” and anything related to space travels and creatures from distant planets.
When I was seven, he took me and my older sister Michelle to see “Star Wars.” I was hooked. I wore my special t-shirt with Luke and Leia on it and was so sad when I outgrew it. For my second grade assignment, when we had to write a story and draw an accompanying picture on delicate manila paper, the upper half for the picture, and the lower half with green lines, I took my opportunity. I wrote about all the characters from Star Wars and drew my best replications of them with Crayola crayon.
Over the years, as I got older, Dad and I would periodically chat about the different reincarnations of Star Trek that appeared on television, and we occasionally would see the new movies in the theater together. We both fell in love with Number 4, “The Voyage Home,” when Captain Kirk and the crew of the Enterprise went back in time to get two humpback whales, George and Gracie, to save the future Earth. We would quote funny lines from Spock and Scotty and make each other chuckle.
Although my dad and I would often have a father-daughter outing to see these movies by ourselves, the four of us were sharing the movie today for a particularly unsettling reason. My dad might have cancer--one of the worst kinds too--pancreatic cancer. The kind that, when you tell people, their faces usually drop, because the mortality rate is so high, and death comes quickly.
A week ago, my dad told me the news. My parents came home early from a trip they had planned the year before. They kept the secret from me for two whole weeks. They went away knowing he was sick, just having learned before their departure date. They had to postpone their departure for a couple of days because he had been in the emergency room with severe gastrointestinal problems, but they reassured me it was nothing serious and that the symptoms had resolved before they left. Mom and Dad traveled to Hawaii and San Francisco, so my dad, a physician, could give two professional talks and enjoy a wonderful vacation. They had never been to Hawaii. When my dad was in the hospital before their trip, the physician who saw him told them to go and enjoy it. It probably didn’t matter, he said, whether they were away a couple weeks. The mass was large, very large.
Now, my dad’s going into surgery in less than a week. I told him we should go see “Star Trek” together, as long as he was up for it. See, he’s lost about twenty pounds over the past six months. He just didn’t realize the first few months what was going on. He had lost much of his appetite, felt nauseated, and could barely eat- major signs of pancreatic cancer. It’s weird seeing my dad lose his appetite. He’s always been the one to worship food, a trait I inherited.
After the surgery date was set, he accepted my invitation to see “Star Trek” with me. Carter and my mom accompanied us. My parents entered the theater lobby, my mom looking a little strained. Under normal circumstances, she would be uptight because she would feel compelled to get to the movie theater really early, to make sure they get good seats. Today, she’s tense on many levels. They walk in arm and arm. My dad’s sipping one of his favorite drinks, a Starbucks frappucino, to help him increase his caloric intake. We’re trying to fatten him back up before the surgery. Everyone’s been encouraging him to eat. The irony is not lost on me, since historically, my mom has gently bugged him to put the bag of sourdough pretzels away or not take such a huge helping of ice cream. Now, she rubs his back and holds on tight.
“Hey, Cindy-kid,” my dad greets me and smiles. I can’t help but smile back whenever he uses one of the endearments from my childhood. I kiss them both hello and give my dad a big hug, trying not to linger too much, trying to act like it’s just another day at the movies. We find Carter waiting patiently in one of the middle rows of the theater. I move in next to Carter, my dad sits next to me, and my mom is on the end.
I feel a little tense and take a deep breath. It’s odd feeling like this around my parents, considering how close I am to them. We comment about how loud the previews have become, making scrunchy faces and putting fingers in our ears. I feel a combination of excitement and dread as the movie begins and wonder what on earth my dad is thinking?
I want to get lost in wondrous special effects. I can’t wait to see what the new director does with these classic characters. The opening scene shows George Kirk, father of Jim Kirk, the main character, having to sacrifice himself to save the ship’s crew. He sets the ship’s course for collision with the enemy’s ship, and he says good-bye via radio to his wife, after she’s given birth to their son, Jim, on a near-by ship. As she cries, chills run down my spine, and I lean into my dad. I dare a look up at him and over at my mother. She is burying her face in his arm, a tear on her cheek glistening in the light reflected off the movie screen. My dad stares blankly. I put my head on his shoulder, and with my left hand, grab Carter’s hand. He caresses it.
During the movie, I glance at my dad as frequently as I do at the movie screen. The movie is a fantastic delight, full of big-budget explosions and effects, fast-paced plot, and classic one-liners. My dad and I whisper about the characters and memories we have from the TV series and movies.
“Oh look, remember that episode with Sulu?” I say.
“Hey, it’s Spock!” my dad responds, pointing with glee.
I engrave every moment in my memory.
I am flooded with images of being curled up on the living room couch, my dad stretched out on his big leather recliner. He would make the greatest exclamations. “Wow, did you see that?” Then, he would grin and emit a “ah Ha!” and sometimes clap his hands together.
After the movie, we talked about our favorite lines and plot points. In the parking lot, my dad said, “Good choice, Kid.”
“Thanks for coming out, Dad. Hope you liked it ok, Mom. I know that’s not your favorite kind of movie.”
“Oh, it was pretty good, Cindy,” my mom said. “But of course I’d come. I can’t let your dad out of my sight.”
Carter rubbed my mom’s shoulder, and I note how grateful I am that Carter and my parents like each other so much.
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?” I tell my dad. “I’ll be over before work. Make sure to drink those Ensures!”
“Blechh.” My dad makes his face. “Yeah, I’ll keep forcing the food in. Your mom’s making me eat.” He smiles toward my mom.
All week, I’ve been mentally sending laser beams of red and green to the mass in my dad’s pancreas. I don’t know why my mind chose red and green. Maybe because of the Star Wars light sabers. Whenever I wake up in the middle of the night, which has been frequent, I remind myself to send lasers, ordering them to dissolve the mass. We still don’t know for sure what the hell it is. All the doctors have been confused. My dad has consulted a number of colleagues from around the country, to show them pictures of his pancreas and intestines. Four out of five doctors are almost certain it is deadly adeno carcinoma. One thinks it is only inflammation. Dad says he has never had symptoms of pancreatitis, so he doesn’t believe the one doctor who is hopeful. I’ve been praying every day, and I am not religious. I am Jewish and a borderline atheist, but I call myself agnostic just in case. All the research says prayer helps, so I’ve been asking friends and family to send prayers.
My mom, my mom’s best friend Sheila, Michelle and I have been biding time in the aptly named “waiting room” at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital for several hours. We keep chatting about everything from my dad’s diagnosis, to work, my sister’s four children, and the fact that we haven’t spent this much time together since we were kids. Every now and then, I stare at the “Vogue” magazine in my lap. I re-read the same opening paragraph about the actress Kate Winslet.
My nerves are frayed and I feel a headache coming on. But somehow, I also have a strange calmness about me. I think it’s because in the next couple hours, we’ll know one way or the other what’s in my dad’s pancreas. Not knowing the past two weeks, and watching my dad, the rock of our family, plan for his death, has been emotional agony.
The day he told us the news, he privately talked with Carter about taking care of me and my mom. He told Carter my mom would probably want to sell the house and move closer to us. He was worried more about us than about himself. I start to tear up thinking about it, and even more when I recall Carter telling me my mom could come and live with us. I go to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
The surgeon told us that the surgery would take about four hours, his average. Between the pre-operative preparation and ongoing surgery, I’ve been at the hospital for five-and-half hours. As I am anticipating waiting another hour, at least, the receptionist comes over to us to say that we need to head for the consulting room. Dr. Madson, my dad’s surgeon, has completed the surgery. He is on his way down.
We all stare at each other, and my heart starts to pound. At the very same moment, my mom says, “Oh My God. My heart is going to explode out of my chest.” Sheila puts her arm around her. Michelle and I hold hands, an unusual embrace for us, but not under the circumstances. We move into the side ‘consulting’ room and hold our breaths. My mom keeps staring at the ceiling and saying prayers that it is not cancer. She doesn’t usually pray either.
Finally, after the longest fifteen minutes of my life, Dr. Madson, all six-foot five of him, walks into the room. He is actually smiling, smiling. “Well, I got it all out. We did the ‘whipple’ and there is no evidence of cancer. It went great.”
“What?” my mom exclaims. “No cancer? Are you serious?” She grabs Sheila’s hand so tightly, I think she might pull it off.
“Well, we have to wait for the final biopsy report of course. But the pathologist looked at the frozen sample and saw only inflammation.” Dr. Madson looks at all of us. He is warm and caring, unlike many of the surgeons we’ve heard about. “This is good news, the kind I love to deliver. You can all relax now.”
Somehow, as if I needed the words of permission, I exhale and the tears start to stream down my face. I realize I am going to get to watch many other Star Trek movies with my dad. It wasn’t the last one after all. I close my eyes and send another few red and green laser beams at his pancreas just in case.
When I was seven, he took me and my older sister Michelle to see “Star Wars.” I was hooked. I wore my special t-shirt with Luke and Leia on it and was so sad when I outgrew it. For my second grade assignment, when we had to write a story and draw an accompanying picture on delicate manila paper, the upper half for the picture, and the lower half with green lines, I took my opportunity. I wrote about all the characters from Star Wars and drew my best replications of them with Crayola crayon.
Over the years, as I got older, Dad and I would periodically chat about the different reincarnations of Star Trek that appeared on television, and we occasionally would see the new movies in the theater together. We both fell in love with Number 4, “The Voyage Home,” when Captain Kirk and the crew of the Enterprise went back in time to get two humpback whales, George and Gracie, to save the future Earth. We would quote funny lines from Spock and Scotty and make each other chuckle.
Although my dad and I would often have a father-daughter outing to see these movies by ourselves, the four of us were sharing the movie today for a particularly unsettling reason. My dad might have cancer--one of the worst kinds too--pancreatic cancer. The kind that, when you tell people, their faces usually drop, because the mortality rate is so high, and death comes quickly.
A week ago, my dad told me the news. My parents came home early from a trip they had planned the year before. They kept the secret from me for two whole weeks. They went away knowing he was sick, just having learned before their departure date. They had to postpone their departure for a couple of days because he had been in the emergency room with severe gastrointestinal problems, but they reassured me it was nothing serious and that the symptoms had resolved before they left. Mom and Dad traveled to Hawaii and San Francisco, so my dad, a physician, could give two professional talks and enjoy a wonderful vacation. They had never been to Hawaii. When my dad was in the hospital before their trip, the physician who saw him told them to go and enjoy it. It probably didn’t matter, he said, whether they were away a couple weeks. The mass was large, very large.
Now, my dad’s going into surgery in less than a week. I told him we should go see “Star Trek” together, as long as he was up for it. See, he’s lost about twenty pounds over the past six months. He just didn’t realize the first few months what was going on. He had lost much of his appetite, felt nauseated, and could barely eat- major signs of pancreatic cancer. It’s weird seeing my dad lose his appetite. He’s always been the one to worship food, a trait I inherited.
After the surgery date was set, he accepted my invitation to see “Star Trek” with me. Carter and my mom accompanied us. My parents entered the theater lobby, my mom looking a little strained. Under normal circumstances, she would be uptight because she would feel compelled to get to the movie theater really early, to make sure they get good seats. Today, she’s tense on many levels. They walk in arm and arm. My dad’s sipping one of his favorite drinks, a Starbucks frappucino, to help him increase his caloric intake. We’re trying to fatten him back up before the surgery. Everyone’s been encouraging him to eat. The irony is not lost on me, since historically, my mom has gently bugged him to put the bag of sourdough pretzels away or not take such a huge helping of ice cream. Now, she rubs his back and holds on tight.
“Hey, Cindy-kid,” my dad greets me and smiles. I can’t help but smile back whenever he uses one of the endearments from my childhood. I kiss them both hello and give my dad a big hug, trying not to linger too much, trying to act like it’s just another day at the movies. We find Carter waiting patiently in one of the middle rows of the theater. I move in next to Carter, my dad sits next to me, and my mom is on the end.
I feel a little tense and take a deep breath. It’s odd feeling like this around my parents, considering how close I am to them. We comment about how loud the previews have become, making scrunchy faces and putting fingers in our ears. I feel a combination of excitement and dread as the movie begins and wonder what on earth my dad is thinking?
I want to get lost in wondrous special effects. I can’t wait to see what the new director does with these classic characters. The opening scene shows George Kirk, father of Jim Kirk, the main character, having to sacrifice himself to save the ship’s crew. He sets the ship’s course for collision with the enemy’s ship, and he says good-bye via radio to his wife, after she’s given birth to their son, Jim, on a near-by ship. As she cries, chills run down my spine, and I lean into my dad. I dare a look up at him and over at my mother. She is burying her face in his arm, a tear on her cheek glistening in the light reflected off the movie screen. My dad stares blankly. I put my head on his shoulder, and with my left hand, grab Carter’s hand. He caresses it.
During the movie, I glance at my dad as frequently as I do at the movie screen. The movie is a fantastic delight, full of big-budget explosions and effects, fast-paced plot, and classic one-liners. My dad and I whisper about the characters and memories we have from the TV series and movies.
“Oh look, remember that episode with Sulu?” I say.
“Hey, it’s Spock!” my dad responds, pointing with glee.
I engrave every moment in my memory.
I am flooded with images of being curled up on the living room couch, my dad stretched out on his big leather recliner. He would make the greatest exclamations. “Wow, did you see that?” Then, he would grin and emit a “ah Ha!” and sometimes clap his hands together.
After the movie, we talked about our favorite lines and plot points. In the parking lot, my dad said, “Good choice, Kid.”
“Thanks for coming out, Dad. Hope you liked it ok, Mom. I know that’s not your favorite kind of movie.”
“Oh, it was pretty good, Cindy,” my mom said. “But of course I’d come. I can’t let your dad out of my sight.”
Carter rubbed my mom’s shoulder, and I note how grateful I am that Carter and my parents like each other so much.
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, ok?” I tell my dad. “I’ll be over before work. Make sure to drink those Ensures!”
“Blechh.” My dad makes his face. “Yeah, I’ll keep forcing the food in. Your mom’s making me eat.” He smiles toward my mom.
All week, I’ve been mentally sending laser beams of red and green to the mass in my dad’s pancreas. I don’t know why my mind chose red and green. Maybe because of the Star Wars light sabers. Whenever I wake up in the middle of the night, which has been frequent, I remind myself to send lasers, ordering them to dissolve the mass. We still don’t know for sure what the hell it is. All the doctors have been confused. My dad has consulted a number of colleagues from around the country, to show them pictures of his pancreas and intestines. Four out of five doctors are almost certain it is deadly adeno carcinoma. One thinks it is only inflammation. Dad says he has never had symptoms of pancreatitis, so he doesn’t believe the one doctor who is hopeful. I’ve been praying every day, and I am not religious. I am Jewish and a borderline atheist, but I call myself agnostic just in case. All the research says prayer helps, so I’ve been asking friends and family to send prayers.
My mom, my mom’s best friend Sheila, Michelle and I have been biding time in the aptly named “waiting room” at the University of Pennsylvania Hospital for several hours. We keep chatting about everything from my dad’s diagnosis, to work, my sister’s four children, and the fact that we haven’t spent this much time together since we were kids. Every now and then, I stare at the “Vogue” magazine in my lap. I re-read the same opening paragraph about the actress Kate Winslet.
My nerves are frayed and I feel a headache coming on. But somehow, I also have a strange calmness about me. I think it’s because in the next couple hours, we’ll know one way or the other what’s in my dad’s pancreas. Not knowing the past two weeks, and watching my dad, the rock of our family, plan for his death, has been emotional agony.
The day he told us the news, he privately talked with Carter about taking care of me and my mom. He told Carter my mom would probably want to sell the house and move closer to us. He was worried more about us than about himself. I start to tear up thinking about it, and even more when I recall Carter telling me my mom could come and live with us. I go to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face.
The surgeon told us that the surgery would take about four hours, his average. Between the pre-operative preparation and ongoing surgery, I’ve been at the hospital for five-and-half hours. As I am anticipating waiting another hour, at least, the receptionist comes over to us to say that we need to head for the consulting room. Dr. Madson, my dad’s surgeon, has completed the surgery. He is on his way down.
We all stare at each other, and my heart starts to pound. At the very same moment, my mom says, “Oh My God. My heart is going to explode out of my chest.” Sheila puts her arm around her. Michelle and I hold hands, an unusual embrace for us, but not under the circumstances. We move into the side ‘consulting’ room and hold our breaths. My mom keeps staring at the ceiling and saying prayers that it is not cancer. She doesn’t usually pray either.
Finally, after the longest fifteen minutes of my life, Dr. Madson, all six-foot five of him, walks into the room. He is actually smiling, smiling. “Well, I got it all out. We did the ‘whipple’ and there is no evidence of cancer. It went great.”
“What?” my mom exclaims. “No cancer? Are you serious?” She grabs Sheila’s hand so tightly, I think she might pull it off.
“Well, we have to wait for the final biopsy report of course. But the pathologist looked at the frozen sample and saw only inflammation.” Dr. Madson looks at all of us. He is warm and caring, unlike many of the surgeons we’ve heard about. “This is good news, the kind I love to deliver. You can all relax now.”
Somehow, as if I needed the words of permission, I exhale and the tears start to stream down my face. I realize I am going to get to watch many other Star Trek movies with my dad. It wasn’t the last one after all. I close my eyes and send another few red and green laser beams at his pancreas just in case.
copyright Cindy Schwartz-DeVol
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Biography for Cindy Schwartz-DeVol: I grew up in the suburbs of Philadelphia, where I still reside with my husband and Sussex Spaniel. I love my work as a psychologist in private practice. My passions are tennis and golf. Balance is key! After many years of wanting to write, I finally signed up for an autobiographical writing class in September 2008. I love having this creative outlet. This is my first published work.
