I was always a nervous little kid and while others my age went through life without a care, I held back, imagining that the worst was about to happen.

My first day of school — the day I had both dreaded and looked forward to all summer — rolled around and I awoke that morning with a knot in my stomach. Even though I was only 6, I was predicting disaster: We would arrive late. No one would like me. The teacher would ask me a question I couldn’t answer. I would get in trouble. I would come home in disgrace.

So, as I walked out the back door of our farmhouse near Jasper that fall of 1964, my dad looked down, I looked up and without a word, tears were running down my face onto my new brown and white gingham dress.

My parents were used to my meltdowns, so there wasn’t a big fuss. Daddy simply reached down for my hand, gave it a quick squeeze and at least for a while, everything seemed better.

My two sisters and I are learning these days that the reassurance of holding someone’s hand goes both ways.

On Nov. 5, my father went into the hospital for a surgery that we believed would fix him up good as new. A few hours later, our family was called into a small room where we were told that he had an inoperable malignant tumor.

Some of you reading this know my father, Dewayne Cowan, as a former draftsman and marble estimator. He worked for Carthage Marble early in his career and just before retirement, he was doing the same for Locarni Marble. Or, maybe you know him from the Midwest Ag Feed Store in Carthage where he partnered with Dale Wickstrom for about 12 years. Maybe you just know him because he let you cut wood on his place or hunt there. Or maybe you bought one of his Shorthorn heifers for your child to show at the fair.

I’ve known him all my life simply as Daddy. Stoic and stern when the times called for it, but usually a pretty easy touch for any of his three daughters.

I’m sure many of you can identify with a fellow like my father.

Four years ago, he was there for me following my cancer diagnosis. He routinely delivered food my mom had prepared. One day, my vacuum cleaner was on the fritz and I asked if I could borrow theirs. He brings it and insists that I just keep it. They needed a new one anyway, he said, even though I knew he had never consulted my mom on that one.

He was uncomfortable seeing me without my wig. I understand better now. It wasn’t my bald head he was seeing, it was the illness.

I understand a lot more these days about what it’s like to be the one helping take care of a loved one with cancer. Some of you will agree, it’s easier taking those treatments yourself than sitting there and feeling helpless.

My oldest son, Craig, searching for something to say to make me feel better offered up these words: “Mom, maybe you had to have cancer first so you would know how to help Granddad.”

Oddly, I understood his sentiment exactly. And that, perhaps, has helped both my father and me the most. This is something I know about, and for this bump in the road, he’s OK with me calling the shots.

I’ve learned so much in the last two months about the gradual reversal of life’s roles between parents and their children. Here’s just a few thoughts that perhaps will help you.

* Popsicles make anyone feel better, even dads. So, when the chemo makes you so sick you can’t eat anything else, you can almost always get down a popsicle or two, maybe three.

* Learn to read your parents’ handwriting or at least know their grocery codes. My mother doesn’t drive anymore, so while Daddy’s been in treatments, my sisters and I have been buying the groceries. Last week, I was stopped by “Lay’s FF Potato Chips.” I looked at every bag of chips looking for a particular flavor. Finally, I gave up. When I got back to the house I asked my mom what the heck FF potato chips were. “That’s short for fat-free,” she said. “And, if you see SF, that means sugar-free.” Now I know.

* Don’t be alarmed if your parents sometimes don’t quite seem like themselves. Surgery, chemo and radiation play havoc on a person of any age. It will pass.

Even during the trauma of a major illness, little things are still important. In fact, it’s the little things that keep everyone feeling normal. If your mom gets her hair fixed on Wednesdays, then that shouldn’t stop. If your dad reads the morning paper every morning, then make sure he has one.

* While you may be down, you’re not out. Cancer treatment has improved even in the four years since I was diagnosed. They might not be able to remove a tumor, but they can shrink it.

* Deal with what’s been put before you. You don’t have to solve next week or next year. You just have to solve today.

There was a time when I would have sworn that I would never walk back in that chemo room again or wait another minute in the radiation waiting room.

Guess what? I’m happy I can be there for Daddy.

More than that, when I reach over and squeeze his hand, I’m happy knowing that for just a few moments, I’ve made him feel better.

Sometimes, all we need is someone’s hand to hold.



Carol Stark is editor of The Joplin Globe. Address correspondence to her, c/o The Joplin Globe, P.O. Box 7, Joplin, Mo. 64802 or e-mail cstark@joplinglobe.com.