Dr. Naked was my dad.
“Hey, you lucky kid! It’s your old man! It’s Dr. Naked!” I saved this message on my voice mail, and replayed it, over and over again.
My dad’s humour was legendary. He never tired of dental students asking, “Is Bif Naked your daughter?” The next question inevitably was, “Is your name Dr. Naked?” This made him fall over laughing every time. It never got old.
Together, we would laugh about absolutely anything.
The morning my dad told me he had prostate cancer, I was having breakfast with him, stirring four or five heaping tablespoons of sugar into my chai in the lobby bar of the Oberoi Hotel in New Delhi. Speaking his perfect Hindi, he said “Chini kya ek bahut!” (Translation: “Sure is a lot of sugar!”) The year 2000 was seven years before I learned I had cancer, but my 66-year-old father was not worried about his own cancer, never mind my future diagnosis.
He and his wife, my stepmom, Anita, were living in Ludhiana, about five hours from New Delhi by train, teaching dentistry at the Christian Medical College and volunteering with the United Church Missions.
The cool fog of this January morning suddenly felt heavier with my father’s confession that he had been diagnosed with prostate cancer before he left North America more than six months ago.
I cried, and asked him what they would do? Prostate cancer is the leading cause of death from cancer in Canadian men, though I didn’t know this statistic at the time, and I was scared. Typical Dr. Naked-style, my father laughed it off and promised to get radiation as soon as he came home.
When my dad returned to Canada the following year, he underwent radiation as well as hormone therapy to reduce the testosterone in his body. My dad, of course, found this hilarious and whenever anyone asked about his treatments, would say in a high-pitched voice, “I’m fabulous!”
For almost a decade, my dad managed his cancer and continued working in the remote communities of northern Saskatchewan and Manitoba, training dental students. But, last summer, his prostate began to “misbehave,” as he put it. Eventually, he discovered he had bladder cancer.
He then underwent chemotherapy at the University of Saskatchewan cancer centre in Saskatoon. And, then, finally, in 2013, the treatments were done. But his cancer was not. Devastated, we knew we would start to lose him.
My dad wanted to remain at home with his wife. Anita was a nurse and she also wanted him close. I wanted to be there as much as I could. I loved being around them and learned so much from their grace. For 20 years, they had been a joyful couple and this would not change that.
My dad’s church choir in Prince Albert came in the evenings and sang around his bed, with his contribution of tenor parts. I stood on a chair, beside my stepmom and my mom-mom, who had come to visit. From the corner of the room I took pictures at his request, smiling ear-to-ear with tears running down my face. My dad was so happy.
I had been writing my memoir (which has yet to be published) and he was eager to help with my fact-checking and confirming stories about his work with the American civil rights movement of the 1960s. He wanted me to read my just-finished manuscript at his bedside. So I read to my father for hours, as he chuckled, commented and drifted in and out of sleep. He would wake and tell me, “Really, it’s not boring.” And he’d break into laughter. His jokes never stopped, and neither did our laughs.
His wife later told me that during those afternoons, my dad in his bed and Anita seated beside him, they got lost in the stories. It allowed them to forget themselves, even just for a few moments. Storytelling and laughter provided a welcome respite for us, enjoying just being together.
I am fiercely proud of my father and his courageous and noble cancer journey, which was full of love, gratitude and laughter. He taught me the true meaning of the phrase “the journey, not the destination,” and I will carry these memories in my heart everyday, on my own journey, for the rest of my “Dr. Naked’s-lucky-kid” life.