EPT
My Cousin Paul
Paul lived in the upper story of our duplex. He was my cousin, but, being 20 years older than me, was more like an uncle than a cousin. He was good friends with my father, and often we'd have dinner together. Between the two of them they had a fair knowledge of traditional Iranian dishes, and after a meal together they'd talk long into the night. I'd listen at my door as they discussed politics, news, or just life in general. Sometimes they'd speak in German, or I'd get tired and fall asleep, but often I'd be able to understand them. My father was an old-school leftist, a socialist hippy type. He went to Cal and never left Berkeley-- or at least Oakland-- and listening to him interact with Paul's less refined leftist hippy politics helped inform my own ideas.
Paul and I had a lot in common-- he was half-German instead of half-Korean, but like me, he immediately stood out to any Persian as definitively not fully Persian. Neither of us spoke Farsi. But most of all, he was a friendly older guy, and he genuinely liked interacting with me. As I grew older and smarter we had the sort of talks about politics and life that he did with my dad, if on a lesser scale, and I came to see Paul was one of my closest family members. We would often go windsurfing together-- I was the only family member who shared his interest. I never really cared for his food, though, since his wife was vegetarian. Soy meat is terrifying.
One of my most distinct memories of Paul was when I was 13 or 14. I remember I was helping him care for his parrot and was talking to him about school. I had recently gotten chewed out by my mom for getting a C in science-- she was concerned that with my sort of attitude towards learning I wouldn't do well in high school and wouldn't get into a good college. It was at this moment that Paul asked me what I wanted to do in college. I told him I wanted to be an engineer, like my mom. He began talking to me about his own college experience-- he went to SF State to study Chemistry, but eventually ended up studying Sociology. "What's sociology?" I asked-- it was an unfamiliar term.
He told me Sociology was the study of society's problems, and how to fix them. I asked him what he learned, and why we still had so many problems. Paul told me that most of our problems were soluble; that decriminalization of drugs, reinforcement of social safety nets, and provision of affordable and good education were all possible and would vastly improve the lives of the poor and middle class; and that these solutions were not implemented largely because politicians refused to do so. Our problems exist because our leaders are cowards, coerced by their fear and that of the people. It was probably the most candid conversation the two of us had about politics. I came to understand that day the underlying sadness in Paul's voice, the strength underlying the outrage when he discussed the latest crappy initiatives to enlarge the police state, the depression on his mind whenever another kid got shot by another kid or the police.
In time, I spent more of my life at my mother's place, attending high school and running track-- I saw less of Paul. It was a wet spring morning when my dad called and told me the news: Paul had had a seizure, and was diagnosed with Stage IV Glioblastoma. Glioblastoma is a cancer of the glial cells, the non-nerve tissue that provides blood and nourishment to the brain. Stage IV cancer is highly progressed. The vast majority of Stage IV Glioblastoma patients die within a few months, even with the most advanced treatments modern medical science has available.
Paul put his affairs in order. For a while, at least, he lived a normal life. He quit his job and spent his time with his wife and 2-year-old son. He wrote letters to family members from whom he was estranged. He got in touch with old friends. He was too young for cancer, too young to die-- his son would grow up without his biological father. Would Adrian remember his father's face? Paul's wife cried often, and I'd often see him staring off into the distance. We never went windsurfing together again-- you can't go out into the water if there's a chance you'll have a seizure. The cancer loomed over all aspects of his life. He only escaped it when he was with his son-- their time together was more precious to Paul than anything.
As the disease progressed, it was clear that the conventional therapies were having no effect. Paul and my father spent countless hours researching treatments for the cancer, but there was no cure. Alternative medicine proponents, snake oil salesmen, all pushed their remedies-- herbal, dietary, etc-- but they were all frauds. Paul ended up buying homeopathic medicine, against the advice of my father. Of course, it did nothing. Homeopathic is code for "just water" and was about as effective. Words cannot begin to describe my disgust for the peddlers of alternative medicine, who prey upon the weak and hopeless in their hours of need. Normally I'd just see them as swindlers, but for me, they are something far, far worse. I cannot imagine the utter depravity that motivates those charlatans to rip off the sick and dying. If nothing else, I hate them in Paul's stead.
Eventually, Paul began to lose his mental faculties, and had to take more and more anticonvulsants and other medications. He was eventually confined to his home, then his bed. He became less and less coherent and intelligent-- and he perceived this, and it saddened him deeply. In my final conversation with Paul, he told me to take care of myself, and expressed love for me and his family, and concern for our safety in life.
Paul passed away surrounded by his family and loved ones. His funeral service was brief and brought together people from all aspects of his life.
His family, his friends, and I-- we are all diminished in his absence.
May he rest in peace.
Hopefully there's no genetic disposition for it in your family, you may want to talk to your doctor to see if it's something you should be screened for, especially give that he developed it so young. My grandfather died very young of colon cancer, and it's always a bit scary to think that it's something that may run in the family.
