By Tara Mondelli 

It’s a strange thing to find out your parents are human. Understanding this is their first time living and granting them grace because now you know how hard it is to be an adult.  You admire them for all they are, although it’s far from perfect.  With this comes the realization that just as you age every year, so do they.  And now my healthy, indestructible Dad has cancer. 

My Dad was a firefighter during the September eleventh attacks.  He was off that day, but he received a chilling call. “All hands-on deck,” the captain said, as he rushed into work, beginning what became his bleak reality for the next several months.  Search and rescue at ground zero.  He lost friends and coworkers; the survivor’s guilt was real.  Showing up every day to identify bodies and clean up the mess didn’t help either.  He was depressed, but he wouldn’t go to therapy.  He was too tough for that.  I was 5 years old at the time.  My dad often tells me I helped bring him out of a dark place.  One of my favorite stories, the one where it was Christmastime, 2001.  When he wasn’t at work, he couldn’t get off the couch.  One day I ran up to him and said, “Dad, where are all the decorations.  I want to see the candy canes!”  So, he got up.  Lined the candy canes one by one down the walkway and put up the lights.  When he tells me now how much I helped him then, my eyes brim with tears.  I didn’t know what was going on.  I just loved my dad.  And Christmas.  I find comfort in knowing I helped in some way.  Slowly, over the years, his friends started finding out they developed cancer from the chemicals they spent months breathing in.  All the while his own cancer was forming.  Hiding underneath the facade of the toughest man.  

Shortly after the 9/11 attacks, research teams were established in an effort to collect information on the physical effects of working at the World Trade Center (WTC) site.   According to an article, “The Toll of Heroism: Increased Cancer Incidence Among 9/11 Responders,” put out by the American Association for Cancer Research, over 91,000 people assisted in the aftermath of the tragedy.  For months firefighters, police officers, paramedics and volunteers were exposed to what is described as a, “toxic mixture of dust, smoke, and chemicals arising from the wreckage.”  The Journal of the National Cancer Institute (JNCI) estimated a total of 69,102 individuals developing cancer since.  Cancers with the highest risk relative to this particular population include melanoma, thyroid cancer, prostate cancer and blood cancers such as leukemia and lymphoma.  My Dad developed leukemia.  

So now he goes to treatment twice a week.  Eight-hour days.  My stepmom got him an iPad and these fancy new headphones.  My dad has never been a headphones guy, so this makes me laugh and feel sad at the same time.  Sad because I know he’s doing whatever he can to distract himself from the poking and prodding.  “Ta, I get why you’ve always loved these things. They’re amazing.  I’m in my own world!”  I smile, knowingly.  So, as they inject my Dad with the medicine that is simultaneously killing his immune system while saving his life, he listens to the Beatles.  In his own little world.  

Leukemia doesn’t know if you’re tough or if you love hard.  It’s relentless and unforgiving.  For all the times I’ve come to realize my dad is human, this one takes the cake.  As I sit and weigh my options on how to react, I realize it’s easy to feel scared and helpless.  But see, that would be the opposite of everything he’s taught me to be.  He’s always been my number one supporter; whether it was raising me, listening to my heartbreaks with empathy or grinning with pride as he watched me play volleyball.  So now I sit in the stands, cheering, as he fights with everything he’s got.  Filling the arena is everyone who loves him, holding up the weight he so selflessly distributed to us throughout the years.  You just rest up now Dad, we got this.