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

