3 — Wednesday, September
15, 2021 // The Statement
I was on the phone with my dad for seven min-
utes. I sat down on the worn, green loveseat,
greatly appreciated over the summer. I was not
expecting to talk with him that evening, but when
he texted asking if he could call, I promptly dialed
him back, remembering the rarity of being awake
and on our phones at the same time. Two months
earlier, I flew up to Alaska’s Kenai Peninsula,
where I was perpetually busy as a summer camp
counselor, and perpetually four hours behind my
life back in Michigan.
My dad got right to the point: He had can-
cer. My mind searched for memories that could
ground this situation into something I’ve experi-
enced before, and as it descended further into the
past, the only thing it could grab onto was Holly-
wood reenacting a similar scene.
There is a certain drama that is portrayed in
American films and television surrounding can-
cer; a certain weight is given to it, more so than
other medical conditions. Saying the word out
loud spits spikes into the conversation despite the
gentle curves of its letters on the page. My reaction
to the phrase when it painfully brushed its way
out of my father’s lips, however, felt underwhelm-
ing in comparison to what one might anticipate.
Perhaps I was surprised at how easily cancer
infiltrated my life, my brain numbing to avoid this
unwanted acquaintance. Or maybe I ignored it,
pretending it never existed.
Seven minutes after the call began, I ended
it, and minutes after that, I was in a Jeep rolling
through the Alaskan backcountry. While my
friends moved with the music and the dirt road
beneath them, I was busy wrapped in internal
guilt from the recent sequence of events.
Seven minutes? My dad just told me he had can-
cer, and I only gave him seven minutes of my time
to talk? I felt selfish, rightfully so, and immediately
brainstormed ways to make up for my subpar con-
solation. I would text him again tomorrow to see
if he wanted to talk. I would be extra helpful and
caring when I saw him and the rest of my family
in two days. I would be a better son and become a
model of good relations with my father. I lingered
on my choices and regret and didn’t move on until
I was temporarily satisfied with my plan of action.
We eventually parked the Jeep on the side of
the trail, embarking on a walk through the woods.
The golden light beamed through the trees, the
lengthening shadows indicated the day was wind-
ing down. Several abandoned cars were rusting in
the ground cover, immortalized in their image of
vintage decay. The path stopped at a fast-flowing
creek and upon arrival, we saw what we came
for. Running through the dark, clear liquid were
bright pink fish — salmon swimming upstream.
Their color indicated that they were “zombie
salmon,” a group on their lives’ final journey back
upstream to lay eggs and plant the seeds of their
next generation.
From my coworkers, I learned that these fish
of the living dead instinctually returnto the places
that they were born, and they will swim for eter-
nity to accomplish their life’s grand finale. Their
scales turn pink as fat reserves are slowly depleted
throughout their body, and the pigments that once
colored their insides move to the outer layers of
skin. The fish deteriorate physically and mentally,
sacrificing their last days on Earth to the next gen-
eration.
Our group of coworkers-turned-friends waded
into the fast-moving waters, watching the bright
pink rockets whizz past our ankles. All of us under
the age of thirty, in what is supposedly the prime
of our existence, watched the fish go through
the grueling, final stages of theirs. It was easy
for us young Americans to question the salmon’s
thought process: Why would one save the hardest
journey of a lifetime for last? Backed up by images
of midwest retirees migrating to Florida beaches,
the end of our lives is a time when we should relax,
take a final pause and settle down, taking in every
last moment before they are gone.
A problem, however, with this school of
thought is that many of us cannot choose when
or what happens in our final days of existence.
As nature’s instinct calls on salmon to return to
their geographic origins, depleting and destroy-
ing them in the process, our bodies turn against
us humans as well. No one, fish or person, chooses
when or how these conditions will afflict us, and
when or how they might end. The end of our lives,
or the end of anything, is simply adapting to the
constraints we are given.
Given that these were the last hours of daylight
on our final night together in Alaska, we decided to
spend it standing in the Jeep, dodging the branch-
es of overgrown brush, bright eyes and smiles
reflecting glimmers of light from one to another. A
once in a lifetime experience, one might say. In 24
hours, we would head our separate ways, no lon-
ger united by the shared goal of caring for youth at
a summer camp, but still tied together through the
experience. Soon, we would all go home and pick
up our former lives where they left off. I wondered
if anything had shifted while I was gone, and if
my family had changed over the few months they
were without me in Michigan.
The social dynamic that I stepped off the
plane to was largely the same as before I left.
My mom and brother met me at the airport
with hugs and questions, and there was nothing
strange about the first lunch back in Michigan.
But as the hours progressed during that first
day back, I began to feel new undercurrents in
my parents’ dialogue. A sense of urgency dust-
ed the top of their words. Stress and tension
rippled from an invisible, yet still perceptible,
elephant in the room. I worried what my next
weeks at home would bring, still having almost
a month until I moved away again for school.
I worried for my parents and brother having
to breathe heavy uncertainty for the following
months, not knowing exactly what the next day
would bring or the potential pains the future
might hold. The cascade of doctor visits, medi-
cation and consolation created a landscape that
felt foreign and strange.
But as new medical appointments began to
write themselves on the family calendar, the air
became lighter, and a newer sort of normal set in.
My parents rolled with whatever news the doc-
tors had for my dad, and the nerves of having a
family member diagnosed with cancer began to
wear themselves off, relatively. Driving my dad to
check-ups became part of a routine, rather than
an unfamiliar journey. Receiving meals from
friends was no longer a surprise, and Tupperware
dinners were enjoyed without question. Taking
inspiration from the Alaskan salmon, we just kept
moving; swimming upstream to whatever life had
in store for us.
Perhaps there is something naive about tak-
ing things as they come with little preparation.
My call with my father represented a potential
pitfall of this approach – talking with him longer
instead of feeling rushed to the next activity may
have eased my guilt. However, when navigating
through the great unknown, especially in a world
with an increasingly uncertain future, it might
make more sense to only worry about what one
sees and to keep moving forward to view the rest.
There are only so many ways to avoid the inevi-
table anxiety that comes with waiting.
With the new semester just beginning, coupled
with pandemic complications and being away
from home, I know there will be moments when
the future frightens and the present is not such a
gift. In those times, I will wade into an Alaskan
creek and watch the salmon, bright pink with
ambition, wiggling their way through trials and
tribulations, and admire them for their tenacity
on their long journey home. Maybe this time, I’ll
dive in and keep swimming with them.
BY OSCAR NOLLETTE-PATULSKI,
STATEMENT COLUMNIST
Design by Maggie Wiebe
“Taking inspiration
from the Alaskan
salmon, we just kept
moving; swimming
upstream to
whatever life had in
store for us.”
Keep swimming