Dooley Noted: 12/24/2015
Two Christmases ago, my father had finished ferocious chemotherapeutic and radiation treatments, in hopes of annihilating a small cell carcinoma.
He couldn’t eat, drink, breathe, or pump blood efficiently, because this vicious lung tumor was gripping his trachea, esophagus, and aorta.
His oncologist didn’t offer false hope. He was informed of the low survival rate of one of the most aggressive cancer attacks known to man.
But the oncologist hadn’t watched my father the last 37 years.
Growing up, the house was filled with hard work during the week- and music every weekend.
My father’s gruff but passionate voice bellowed against the walls, as he played the piano and guitar – all by ear.
He worked 60-hour weeks, but never took a weekend off. He played in gigs with his band every Saturday night, and rehearsed on Sundays. Music is part of the fabric of his being – and he never claimed to be too tired from work to make music.
But when he fell ill, his voice was not there. His body was ravaged, along with his will. He wouldn’t touch a guitar nor a piano. Like the winter trees, all leaves had fallen.
When he started to recover, he spent time at our hometown bar, The Brass Ring.
It may seem like any other bar, but to my father it was a group of down-home people who liked his presence.
The bar owners, Monica and Rick, have endured great personal struggles. They saw my dad needed a place to be – to get back to himself again.
They encouraged him to play for them, to start doing gigs again at the Brass Ring.
People loved his talent, and they saw the man I studied all those years growing up.
His winter moved right into spring – all because of a gig.
The bar community encouraged him and enjoyed him, as he played the same songs I heard as a little girl.
A few nights ago, I was present at his most recent gig at the Brass Ring.
His voice filled the bar, a sound I prayed to hear again just two years prior.
And as I sang alongside him, we felt his second shot at life.
The bar is a very therapeutic place for my dad. His oncologist may not agree.
But that’s the thing about therapy: it comes in many forms.
When the cancer and its medical treatments ravaged my father’s body, the community at the Brass Ring restored what no medicine could reach.
After all, what’s the point of a second chance at life, if you can’t really live it?
You can follow the illusory rules and cross your fingers that things work out.
Or, you can include all the therapeutic methods that make one heal – even if it’s your hometown bar, playing a gig.
As always, it’s your call.
– Dr. Kathy Dooley
