Class Note 1972
Issue
May-June 2021
I heard from Young Dawkins recently. His story is so compelling and so uplifting, I wanted to share it with the entire class. Here it is.
“Ruth, Tom, and I live in Sandy Bay, a small community just outside of Hobart, Tasmania’s capital city. We have been here for eight years. We originally came over from Scotland and London so I could take up the role of CEO of the University of Tasmania Foundation. For the past two years I have been a full-time consultant. Most of my time is spent helping a major Australian nongovernmental organization plan and execute a five-year, multi-million-dollar fundraising campaign.
“I had been traveling hard for two clients on the mainland of Australia, up and back to either Sydney or Melbourne. I developed a lingering cold I couldn’t shake. The gland in my left neck became swollen. I wasn’t too concerned. The general practitioner was a bit concerned. She sent me off for CT scans. Nothing. Then, to be sure, a core biopsy. ‘Sections show well-differentiated squamous cell carcinoma.’ Cancer.
“The cancer was in my mouth. More specifically, my left tonsil and lymph gland. It’s a tricky part of the body to treat, all sorts of passages running up to the brain and down to the chest and lungs. Not the neighborhood for mistakes.
“The hardest thing I have ever done in my life was telling my son I had cancer. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘You have Covid.’ I said, ‘No, not Covid. I have cancer.’ I watched his perfect 11-year-old face collapse in instant recognition that this was a horribly wrong thing. ‘Promise me one thing.’ His voice was strong and certain. ‘Promise me you won’t die.’
“I had treatment for seven consecutive weeks, with weekends off. The first month was okay, then the real pain started. I lost track of time. I lost weight, more than 12 kilograms. I wasn’t big to begin with and now I began to look like, well, a cancer patient. When the last session was finally done, I weakly rang the bell and headed home. All the energy in my life was gone.
“Waiting is a big part of cancer: waiting to be diagnosed, waiting to be treated, waiting for another PET scan to assess your condition, whether the treatment actually worked or if other, more drastic steps would be required.
“It was seven months almost to the day between the first scan and the most recent. The happiest thing I have ever done in my life was stepping out of our car and telling our son, who was standing in the garage waiting, that the cancer was gone. That everything we had been through, all of it, had been worth it.”
Young’s second collection of poetry, Slow Walk Home, is being published in the next month or so by Red Squirrel Press in Edinburgh, Scotland. Look for it. As he told me in his note, “Noel Perrin would be proud.” The full narrative of his experience can be found at dorkymum.com/2021/01/22/on.
Peace.
—David Hetzel, 997 State Blvd., Franklin, TN; dghetzel@gmail.com
“Ruth, Tom, and I live in Sandy Bay, a small community just outside of Hobart, Tasmania’s capital city. We have been here for eight years. We originally came over from Scotland and London so I could take up the role of CEO of the University of Tasmania Foundation. For the past two years I have been a full-time consultant. Most of my time is spent helping a major Australian nongovernmental organization plan and execute a five-year, multi-million-dollar fundraising campaign.
“I had been traveling hard for two clients on the mainland of Australia, up and back to either Sydney or Melbourne. I developed a lingering cold I couldn’t shake. The gland in my left neck became swollen. I wasn’t too concerned. The general practitioner was a bit concerned. She sent me off for CT scans. Nothing. Then, to be sure, a core biopsy. ‘Sections show well-differentiated squamous cell carcinoma.’ Cancer.
“The cancer was in my mouth. More specifically, my left tonsil and lymph gland. It’s a tricky part of the body to treat, all sorts of passages running up to the brain and down to the chest and lungs. Not the neighborhood for mistakes.
“The hardest thing I have ever done in my life was telling my son I had cancer. ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘You have Covid.’ I said, ‘No, not Covid. I have cancer.’ I watched his perfect 11-year-old face collapse in instant recognition that this was a horribly wrong thing. ‘Promise me one thing.’ His voice was strong and certain. ‘Promise me you won’t die.’
“I had treatment for seven consecutive weeks, with weekends off. The first month was okay, then the real pain started. I lost track of time. I lost weight, more than 12 kilograms. I wasn’t big to begin with and now I began to look like, well, a cancer patient. When the last session was finally done, I weakly rang the bell and headed home. All the energy in my life was gone.
“Waiting is a big part of cancer: waiting to be diagnosed, waiting to be treated, waiting for another PET scan to assess your condition, whether the treatment actually worked or if other, more drastic steps would be required.
“It was seven months almost to the day between the first scan and the most recent. The happiest thing I have ever done in my life was stepping out of our car and telling our son, who was standing in the garage waiting, that the cancer was gone. That everything we had been through, all of it, had been worth it.”
Young’s second collection of poetry, Slow Walk Home, is being published in the next month or so by Red Squirrel Press in Edinburgh, Scotland. Look for it. As he told me in his note, “Noel Perrin would be proud.” The full narrative of his experience can be found at dorkymum.com/2021/01/22/on.
Peace.
—David Hetzel, 997 State Blvd., Franklin, TN; dghetzel@gmail.com