Personal Narrative: My Life With Lung Cancer

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In the fall of 1999 his doctor diagnosed my grandfather with terminal lung cancer. I was there that day when she showed him the x-rays of his upper body. Right on the outer edge of his left lung was a large white spot about an inch round, tendril-like rays shot out from it in all directions, and a tail curved over to the right side of his lung so that it resembled a meteor falling from the sky. I was there as his interpreter, translating the doctor 's words into Spanish. "Surgery is not an option...It 's difficult to say at this point, but considering the size of the tumor he may only have 6 months left to live.” I heard myself repeat the doctor 's words in Spanish, as though I was standing in the room merely witnessing the event. I…show more content…
I walked out of the room, rushed outside, down the street with no destination in mind, and let myself finally cry. Why? Of all the people that should die a miserable and painful death, why did he have to suffer like he did? The man had been a constant consolation to everyone. Now gone. I felt the beginnings of a gnawing void in center of chest and I walked on through the neighborhood as though on fire. After several blocks I finally realized that I had abandoned my mother and grandmother and turned back toward the house. When I got there the men from the mortuary were loading my grandfather onto…show more content…
When I was in high school, I remember my grandfather talking about a position he was offered to be a construction manager for a company in Guadalajara. They offered to move him and his family to the city and the authority to hire his own crew. In order to entice him, they paid for him and my grandmother and mother to stay in the city while they gave him a tour of their current projects. My grandfather refused the offer. He said "I was happy in Agua Prieta." Sometime afterward I asked my grandmother why she didn 't convince him to take the job. She said, "I did try, but your grandfather thought the people in Guadalajara were rude," and my mother told me that he argued with the hostel owner several times about the way she treated her servants. When his tour was over they all quickly packed their bags and flew back to Agua Prieta. My grandfather resumed his work, building structures made of dirt and straw. I shook my head and chuckled, that was the epitome of who my grandfather was. He would always prefer a simple happiness over a complex reconstruction of it. That is what he taught me and that is what I teach my children and that is what I

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