First Recognition 

My bout with cancer started the first week of November 1977. We had rented a villa in Acapulco for five weeks. It was during our first week there that I noticed the signs of an oncoming stiff neck. I attributed this to either the vigor of playing platform tennis every morning or to the window air-conditioner in our bedroom.

I never mentioned it to my wife; I assumed that it would be gone within a week. On the contrary, it did not disappear, and it gradually increased over our five-week stay.

On my return to Kansas City, I called my family doctor and made an appointment to see him the next morning. He took an X ray of my shoulder and said it was strictly a muscular problem.

I told him how relieved I was. But, for some reason, this pain in my shoulder reminded me of a pain that my uncle complained about before he died of cancer. Told this, the doctor took three more X rays of my shoulder and said he could guarantee that it wasn’t cancer. He also said the soreness should be gone within thirty days. This was December 15. It also was the first time I told my wife about my problem.

We went to Florida for the month of January. The pain was still there. It got worse and started slipping down my arm. On my return to Kansas City, I made an appointment with an orthopedic surgeon in the same building as my physician. He immediately sent for the X rays that had been taken. He said they had X-rayed the wrong part of my body. He took four X rays of my neck and showed me that the problem was arthritis in my neck that was rubbing a nerve causing the pain in my shoulder and arm. This made a great deal of sense, and I told him that I had been worried about cancer. He too reassured me that my fears were unfounded and that the pain should go away in another month.

We returned to Florida. But instead of disappearing, the pain increased to the point where my arm began tingling and was partly numb. Often I was unable to grip with my right hand.

Again, returning to Kansas City on March 27, 1978, I called another orthopedic surgeon. He had been highly recommended. At this point I wanted to determine the cause of my pain. Immediately on explaining my problem, he said that he was not the man for me to see. He recommended that I go to a neurosurgeon. I gave him a brief explanation on the phone and hoped that he would see me that week. Instead, the neurosurgeon said he wanted to see me within the hour at the emergency room at Research Hospital.

My wife and I met him there. He asked me to turn my head back and forth, and he promptly assured me it was not arthritis. He asked me how much I smoked. I said I didn’t like that question; I knew full well that it meant that all my previous fears could be correct.

I am grateful to this man. He was the first doctor to recognize the problem, and he acted speedily to verify it. He arranged for me to be at another hospital at seven-thirty the next morning, to take an electronic test of my right arm to determine the extent and location of the nerve damage, and to do a chest X ray. That X ray revealed a large mass in my right shoulder on the upper part of my lung; it appeared to be very serious. Immediately a bone scan of my entire body was taken, and it indicated that I had a tumor. A biopsy was scheduled for the next morning to determine whether it was malignant.

While I was under a general anesthetic, my wife and three daughters sat patiently, not really believing what was happening. After the biopsy, while I was in the recovery room, the surgeon and his assistant came to the waiting room to tell the results to my family. He was quite blunt; he came right out and told my wife and daughters that I had lung cancer, that it was very serious, and that there was possibly, at the most, a thirty percent chance of recovery.

What a cruel and unnecessary way to break the news. Honesty is important, but there are less cruel ways of getting the message across. My family wept with anguish and disbelief. They composed themselves and started discussing with my brother Henry and his wife what possible alternatives there were.

Meanwhile, when I regained consciousness in the recovery room, the surgeon was there. His words to me were, “It is malignant. It is inoperable. If I were you, I would get my estate in order.”

I asked if there was any treatment other than surgery possible. He answered that they could give me radiation therapy, but it would not do me any good and only make me sicker. I asked whether there was anywhere else I could go, and he said he would send me anywhere I wanted to go, but no one knew any more than he did.

At this point, they wheeled me out of the recovery room. My wife was standing there waiting for me. We looked at each other. I broke down and cried. My wife, by this time, had regained her strength and told me, “We are going to lick this thing together.”

My feelings at that moment were of total disbelief. The doctors had to be talking about someone else. I was a healthy, happy, fifty-two-year-old man, and things like this always happened to the other guy. My wife and I had been married thirty-one years, had three wonderful daughters, two sons-in-law, four grandchildren, and a successful business. All in all, I had just too much to live for. I wanted to know more, but I didn’t know what or whom to ask.

I did not even know what this disease called cancer really was. My mind was so blown that I could not recall that I had ever known anyone who had cancer. I had momentarily forgotten that my uncle had died from it, and less than eight years before we had watched my wife’s sister painfully die from it. We wanted help, but we didn’t know where to turn.

That night, a friend, Buddy Greenbaum, whose wife had recently been a victim of cancer, called. He had just heard about my problem and, without even asking me, had called his wife’s doctor in Houston. He told him about me, and the doctor said he would wait at his home for my immediate call.

I called the Houston physician. This was Wednesday night. He told me to come to Houston on a plane Thursday and start tests Friday at 8 A.M. I said that I would prefer waiting until Monday, as I had some personal and business affairs to attend to. The doctor informed me that the clinic was closed over the weekend. Since time was of the essence, if I was not in Houston Thursday night, the doctor said, he would not treat me.

Thursday morning at six-thirty I was in my beautiful office for possibly—no, probably, according to the doctor—my last time. I loved my office, not only because of what it was, but what it represented. Physically, it was very contemporary, done in shades of brown, rust, orange and chrome. The accessories were mementos from various trips to the Near East and Far East.

My office represented something that had been built from scratch. My brother Henry and I had started a business from our imagination. We had over 8,000 offices around the world preparing income tax returns. I thought of all the people along the way who had helped us and had become extremely successful. I thought of all the individuals we had helped. That’s what my office represented, and I was leaving it to catch a flight for Houston that afternoon.

I had come to the office to get my papers in order, but I just sat and stared and thought. My entire wonderful life passed before me. I had enjoyed every minute of it and tried to help everyone I met along the way. I had no regrets. I was not afraid to die. I just hated to leave when I was having such a great time.

I opened a desk drawer and took out a Christmas card that my daughter Barbara wrote for me in 1976. In part it said:

...And then I pictured you at play—a 50-year–old little boy with a mischievous gleam in your eye as you sailed the boat toward the beach to ride the waves.

You take such delight in everything you do!

And I said Thank God for your spirit.

And I thought about the determination with which you do everything—sometimes bordering on stubbornness!—but displaying a stamina that I must admire.

And I said Thank God for your strength...In standing firm you stand so tall.

And I thought about how you have conveyed to me the importance of giving ...not by words, but by setting an example. I was so proud that you donated to Breakthrough House. Not only was it a substantial and needed gift, but it was acknowledgment and approval of something I was doing. That gesture meant more to me than you know. And I thanked God for your generosity.

After reading the card, I knew I had to make it. I would not quit. I would fight this with Annette until we beat it. If Houston did not turn out to be the right place, we would keep looking. I needed my family, and they needed me too much to throw in the towel.

That evening we checked into the Anderson-Mayfair Hotel, carrying our X rays, slides, and numerous reports. We had come for an indefinite period. The feeling of not knowing whether we’d be leaving in a day, a week, a month, or never, was very difficult.

Early the next morning we went to the clinic to register me as an outpatient. From the time we saw the sign M. D. Anderson Tumor Clinic, we felt good. In the indoctrination, we were shown a film on what we could expect, and when we realized that this institution every day treated 1,200 patients who suffered from some form of cancer, we knew we were in the right hands.

In addition to this confidence, the cheerful attitude of all personnel did a great deal to allay the fear and terror of hearing the word cancer. Later on, we would learn that a substantial share of the cure of cancer comes in the waiting room, talking with other patients who have been cured or are being treated.

After the orientation, we met the doctor, who was a professor of medicine and head of the section of immunization therapy. He explained that I would be given numerous tests on Friday. The clinic would be closed on Saturday and Sunday, during which time the results of the tests would be analyzed. He would meet with me Monday morning.

It was to be one of the most thorough and exhausting days of examinations I’ve ever been through, including brain scan, liver scan and tomograms, and culminating in a very painful bone-marrow test. At the time, I was willing to let them do anything they wanted, because I felt that each test they gave me meant a slight chance of survival over the prospect of doom that had been forecast in Kansas City.

I finished the tests at 5 P.M. We had the weekend to ourselves. When death is knocking on your door, what do you do? Where do you go? We had no desire to face family and friends in our depressed state of mind. This would merely have evoked sympathy and would have caused unnecessary suffering on both sides. We decided then to run away to a little apartment we had in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. It was quite a weekend. My wife and I were deeply immersed in our thoughts and questions, many of which went unspoken. We sat alone and silent for long periods of time.

Our mutual love was a little speed boat named “After Taxes.” The first morning we went to a store and got some wine and cheese and packed a picnic lunch. We went out on the boat, no goal, just cruising around and thinking and trying to talk.

We thought of all the trips we had taken together. Annette thought that she had never done anything without me. If she didn’t have me, she’d never want to come down here. Here we were, both young, and we had the most incredible family. The three fabulous daughters, two sons-in-law and one on the way, and four grandchildren. We loved to travel with our children. If something happened to me, this all would stop.

And here we were facing death. On our cruise to nowhere this Saturday, we found a tiny island, no more than fifty feet across. It was in the middle of the city, where the New River bends away from the Inter-coastal Waterway, but at least 150 feet from the nearest shore. A lot of birds were there. The sand was white. We saw this and, on the spur of the moment, beached the boat.

We got out of the boat and sat there and just started talking. We couldn’t believe this was happening. Was it real? This didn’t happen to people we know. We decided then and there that we had to beat it. We talked about how much we loved each other. I had to get well.

Annette sensed my fear. I really love life and have always enjoyed every minute of it. I’ve always seen the good in others. Annette kids me that I have never found the hole in the doughnut. I wasn’t ready for this life to stop. We looked at each other and knew that I had to make it. We just had to lick it. Annette picked up a stick and drew a big heart in the sand the way kids do. She put our initials in it and the date, and scribbled, “We Shall Return.” We drank some wine and talked. We got back into the boat, drove off and anchored out in the water where we wouldn’t see people. We talked some more. But a lot of the time we didn’t say a word. We sat and thought.