I was going to write a poem about Queen Elizabeth I, as she ascended the throne of England on November 17, 1558, and I feel a kindred spirit with her sharing my birthday on a day that changed not only her life, but the whole of England. But I can’t get the words to flow as I sit here thinking about another topic that I can’t get out of my mind, and I know there are others who will understand.

I know many do not realize that November is National Lung Cancer Awareness Month. I myself learned about it through the Coffee House Writer's monthly newsletter. I thought, well, I will write about it later this month after I have a moment to compose myself so that my article is a cohesive piece. I know there are others that might scroll past my article thinking "well, they had to have smoked knowing it could cause cancer, so it's the person’s own fault." Well to them I say," Fuck You," because obviously, you have never seen a loved one die from this disease that eats away and leaves them in horrific pain and weak from the chemo and radiation therapies. And all the while you sit there feeling powerless and scared of losing someone who has helped raise you.

My great-grandfather found out that he had prostate cancer when I was about 12 years old. My Papa Wills and Granny Wills lived in the apartment attached to the Shriner’s Club, which my great-uncle held a membership. Now, my Papa Wills was a gentle but stern man. He expected the children to listen and obey their elders, which we were raised thusly. His bright blue eyes revealed a smile before his lips even found themselves upturned. He was always telling stories of his childhood and living through the Depression of the 1920s. He would retell the story of his finding his way, courting Granny Wills. I would listen, entranced by his vivid stories. I was transported during his retelling of stories I heard countless times over, but I loved to hear them again.

My great-grandfather was a tall, big man standing 6 feet and weighing in the 200 pound range. A hardworking man who didn’t finish school, but knew his numbers well. He was retired by the time we came along. Upon a doctor's visit, tests showed an abnormality, which led to a biopsy finding out Papa Wills had prostate cancer. At that time, I didn’t understand the way this sickness worked. I certainly had no clue that it would steal my strong Papa Wills of his unwavering strength. After treatments, Papa Wills' snow-white hair began to fall out, but news came that the family stealer, cancer had abated. My memories are murky as to the exact days, however; I remember moments where he wanted my son placed upon his lap so that he could spend some time with his great-great grandson. Sometimes he tried to put on a brave face for Granny Wills, his wife since they were 16 and 17 years old. One of the love stories that stick out as they worked through marital problems, personal issues, raising two kids, and still sticking with their marriage even during the tough times. Granny Wills was a woman of few words, so when she talked you needed to pay attention. I would see her dab her eyes with the handkerchief she kept handy in her apron pocket so that Papa Wills did not see her crying. Only strong faces and words were to be used to help fortify his mind, body, and soul.

We hoped that each check-up would bring the same news, but sadly one of those fateful visits revealed that cancer had metastasized to his lungs, meaning the cancerous cells were now taking over one of the most important organs of Papa Wills’ body. His already weak body had been through so much the last time, but he wanted to fight on. So he bravely decided with the doctors that the best action was the radiation. They marked his chest out with sharpie markers, outlining the area of the huge mass. Papa Wills’ once grey-haired chest had hair no more, as it was replaced by a severe sunburn rawness. His throat tight and raw, he had to drink nutritional drinks to supplement his diminishing appetite, which was once as huge as a prize racing horse. I watched my great-grandfather shrivel into nothing. This once tall proud man teaching a younger me how to braid with rough twine. Sitting at his feet shelling peas and being fascinated by the stories of his youth. Hindsight likes to tickle my brain and make me wish that I would have recorded my great-grandfather’s words, capturing his history on paper. But I waited until there was no time for this. His once healthy snoring caused laughter and family jokes when my younger sister dubbed him a loud thundering train coming down the tracks. I remember a hacking cough and the horrible pain that struck Papa Wills’ face. Hospice stepped in to help make his last days as comfortable as possible. I guess I never thought I'd see this big strong man laid so low, especially not my Papa Wills’ with the gentle, sky-blue eyes. The day he died, the only person he really recognized was my eight-month-old son. He asked for my son to be brought to him and he kissed him and told him he loved his boy. Those were his last words as I remember.

The day of Papa Wills' funeral went by in a tear-stained flash. A barrage of people offering condolences, people I have never seen in my life. Standing there with my hands clammy, holding on to my older sister's own wet hands, we led each other forward to where my pale thin Papa Wills was laid out to soon be buried in his final resting place. I can't remember the sermon, who really finds comfort in those sermons? I got sick and tired of the “he is in a better place without any pain.” Well, guess what?! It doesn’t make anyone feel better! At that time, they just want to have that loved one returned so they can reassure them of their love, even though it was hidden by a tough exterior. Our younger generation went back to the cemetery right after the service and played a song that I am sure my Papa Wills would not have really enjoyed, but I think he understood where we were coming from. The song we played and ugly sobbed to was the Puff Daddy remix of “Every Breath You Take.” I still can't hear that song without it transporting me to my Papa’s funeral—a time to say goodbye.

My great grandparents were both very influential in my upbringing, as well as on who I am today. Every day grandmother would get us ready, my sister and I, for our Papa Wills would arrive early in the morning to take us to his and Granny Wills’ house. Here, the woman cooked for the family as my mother, aunts, and uncle would all arrive to eat lunch with the family. My sister and I explored the murky pond, which was home to many shiny ducks. Granny Wills would freeze old bread just for us to thaw out and throw to the ducks. Papa Wills delighted in our childish laughter and hardly had a cross word to say unless I acted up too badly. Losing Papa Wills was like losing a father. He was a constant male figure throughout our childhood lives, who always reminded us that with hard work we could be whatever we wanted to be. I wonder how he feels about some of the changes and I know that he is watching over my son’s daughter. I keep a picture of Papa Wills, my baby sister, and my younger self on the living room table to remind myself that, although Papa Wills would be disappointed in some of my choices, I know he rallies me on to push through all obstacles standing in the way of my dreams. The night Papa Wills died, I knew something was just not right. My stomach had butterflies, which wouldn’t be still. My oldest son, then eight months old, woke up screaming right before my grandmother called to give us the sad tiding.

After my Papa Wills passed over to the other side, my grandmother moved in with my great-grandmother to help take care of her, since she needed a walker to get around. I think my grandmother didn’t want my Granny Wills to get lonely after Papa Wills death because they had been together for nearly 40 years. It's hard to talk of the pain after all the years; it lulls to bittersweet memories as you realize you were lucky to have such people in your life. Grandmother Helen and Granny Wills had a very close mother-daughter bond, even though they argued at times. I can't imagine what Granny Wills went through after finding out that my grandmother first had COPD, then lung cancer. She watched her daughter day in and day out try and fight this horrifying disease taking over her body. My once lovely, proud grandmother slowly succumbed to a disease that knows no boundaries.

We had an ambulance driver who told my grandmother that she should have thought about this before she started smoking, as she lay struggling to gasp fresh air to fill her lungs. I wanted to punch him in the face for even daring to mention such a thing to my grandmother while in such a condition. His comment was totally uncalled for and very unprofessional, as well as successfully making my grandmother feel more of a burden. My grandmother and many other members of my family worked at the local mill, where my grandmother was in the lab with chemicals breathing in who knows what. My Papa Wills had smoked only for a few years in his youth and still, he developed lung cancer. They said it was Black Lung from working around asbestos and chemicals in the mill.

My grandmother held on for just a while after her mother died. Hospice, again, came in to help my grandmother be as comfortable as possible, as well as making sure the family understood what was coming next. Now, my grandmother was not happy with hospice being called in since when they stepped in to help her own father, he was gone before we knew it. I think she held onto some anger of having aged and gotten sick. She was such a beautiful, witty, intelligent woman. She was strong, kind, and classy. Cancer had stripped her of everything and left her a shell of the woman she once was.

My godmother died from complications due to cancer. It was such a shock since she kept on such a brave face. She kept her daily life, living each day to its fullest, hanging out with friends and her children. Even though I was not as close to her as I would have liked, it was like a dagger stuck me in the back when I heard the news. I had just talked to her and she seemed in good spirits, a little low, but trying to keep it hidden. I miss her so much, just as I miss Papa Wills and Grandma. Barney understood me in a way that others didn’t. I miss seeing her tag me in funny memes or even liking something I posted on Facebook. I feel Barney watching over me, pushing me in my writing since she understood how important this part of my life is to me. After her unexpected passing, my godfather sent me a journal that Barney was making for me. A journal to hold my poems and other writings. She wasn’t able to finish the journal, but when it came in the mail I cried for hours. After all the pain and sickness she must have been feeling, she still attempted to finish a handmade journal that she knew I would cherish.

My mother in the past few years has found out herself that she has COPD, and the doctor actually told her that she had the markers for COPD on her DNA and that the smoking certainly didn’t improve her chances. She may have waited later down the road before having complications. So, before you make a callous remark about cancer being someone's fault, know your facts first, and show a little compassion.

I challenge my readers to tell their Lung Cancer Stories all month! Whether you are close to someone who has lung cancer or a survivor. Share your story and spread awareness about lung cancer. With all the advances in medicine and science, all cancers should have some type of cure by now.