Radioactive

About Ron

On the radio: Old Friends:Simon and Garfunkel
In my bloodstream:  Same Old,  Same Old

Update Aug. 27

Just arrived home from Moffitt, where they removed my head bandages.  The surgical team were extremely pleased with the wound  recovery.  It is, though,  quite raw looking, as I could see from their pictures.  The good news for me is that the wound is on the back of my head and I don't have to look at it.  My dad loved the old doctor line, "The operation was a success.  However, the patient died".  Feeling a little like that.  They are proud of their work and I am living with the results.  I was assured that my head will heal very nicely, but that it will take a long time.  I can live with that - happily.

The pathology results were not yet available, so we need to have some patience as we wait to hear whether or not more surgeries will be needed.   Melanoma is a tricky little devil.  In the meantime, life continues.  I will need to wear a hat to cover my head when I go out, but, at least I can go out, get some exercise and fresh air.  No worries.

Ron Peck and his wife, Gaye, were our neighbors on Cardiff Road in Toronto.  We were close friends and shared laughter, dinners, holidays, hot tubs and adult beverages during our time together.  Ron was a marketing man who loved to discuss commerce - whether it was issues in which he was involved, or how I was doing in the paper and packaging business.

I often had business clients over to have a drink with Kath and I before heading out to dinner in our neighborhood, where restaurant choices were endless and excellent.  Ron would often drop in to say hello and would join us for a drink and shared conversation.  He always made his affection for us known and I believed I had the best PR man money could buy - except that I had him for free.  He was jovial and sincere.  He was a pilot, with his own plane, a terrific businessman, a musician, and a fabulous chef.  He and and Gaye shared our life, and driveway, for several wonderful years. ( In the city, it was not uncommon for two houses to use one driveway to reach their individual garages, behind the houses).

At that point, in the summer of 1988, our girlies were very young.   We would often put them to bed for the night and then sit with our neighbors in our back yard and share our daily work stories or venture into areas philosophical.  There was no set pattern or plan.  We just liked to stop, take a break, and enjoy the evening.

If and when one, or both of the girls woke up,  Ron would walk one or both, to the corner store for ice cream.  Ron loved ice cream, so he never hesitated to form a safari.  He would tell them funny stories and help our youngest back to sleep when we heard her cry from her room.  Gaye had two teenage  children and Ron had none when they were married.  I think Ron liked the idea of “sharing” our small family.  The promise of ice cream for him was a bonus.

Ron knew well my early bouts with cancer and he, unfailingly, called me several times a week at work to say hello or tell me about a marketing idea or to ask my opinion on some business issue.  He never called  for any other reason than to be my friend.  He never ever asked for anything but that  friendship.  He never called to talk cancer.

Sunday mornings have forever been  the same at our home.  Before mass I would play opera on our stereo, so that our kids would learn to appreciate great music.   But what it really accomplished, was to irritate them enough to get  them out of bed.  While they grumbled, I made pancakes and bacon, a tradition to this day - albeit now without our children.  My Sunday mornings now, are solely dedicated to feeding and irritating the child bride.  One of a number of traditions we still maintain.

Almost every Sunday, in those days, Gaye stayed in bed (not a morning person).  Ron, a clever man, would stroll up and down our shared driveway in his regal, crimson terry robe, whistling, beautifully,  big band music from the 50’s.  He would continue walking back and forth under the kitchen window until Kathy would ask him if he wanted to join us for breakfast.  “Oh, really?” he always said. “Thank you.  I would love that.  Isn't this nice".   And he would come in and join us at the table.  He always offered help, even though he knew well that the meal was ready. and the work done.  This ritual he performed  in every weather, in every season - sun, rain, sleet and snow.  He was a dedicated mooch.

 How powerful the smell of  bacon frying and fresh coffee brewing.

We absolutely loved our neighbors.  We spent hours after work and weekends with them. We shared holidays and celebrated birthdays with them.  But there was some kind of black magic happening in our house, conspiring to upset the balance of this wonderful neighborly relationship.

There began a continuous string of unbelievable events.  The sewage system backed up and flooded our basement.  We had to clean up the mess and replace most of the furniture in our downstairs TV room.

Kath's mom was dying of cancer and wanted to give us a built in dishwasher.  It was a wonderful gift, but installation was sadly not included.  My friend Larry Trafford, worked with a man who did jobs like this as a sideline, to subsidize his teacher's salary.  $50.  That sounded like a good deal.

The kitchen had been modestly re-done prior to us buying the house.  It was built in 1929, so some updating was always needed.  For some reason, most likely financial, the kitchen floor had been covered with indoor/outdoor carpeting.  Larry's buddy went to work with a big drill to open a hole in the floor for plumbing access.  While he was head-down, on his knees, driving the drill bit through the floor, the carpet fibre started wrapping itself on the spinning bit.  By the time he looked up, the carpet had unravelled back and forth, giving the kitchen a bowling alley appearance. About six inches wide, and the length of the kitchen, all you could see was the carpet backing.  It looked like a racing stripe.  It was an hysterically comic moment.  Crying also would have been an option, but we opted to laugh.  I paid him for the work and we replaced the flooring with tile.  We were poor before the gift of the dishwasher.  We were broke after.

Then raccoons invaded our chimney.  Trapper John was called to get rid of the animals.  His first step was to attach a hose to his truck's exhaust and send some carbon monoxide down the chimney to slow the animals down before he removed them.  He fell off the roof when “big Momma” appeared, saw her life threatened and then she turned the tables and chased after him.  She was the size of a bear and twice as mean.  He panicked and stumbled, clumsily falling off the roof, bouncing off a big pine and ending on the lawn.  He did survive the two story drop, gave himself a shake,  and then went back up to catch her and seal off the old chimney to prevent re-entry.  He claimed she was the only animal there.

We told our girls that he would take the raccoon to the country and release her to the wild.  The raccoon returned the very next day and slept next to the chimney for a week afterward.  I guess he let her go a block away.  Good for his business in the area.   She did eventually disappear of her own accord.  Thank goodness.  I am still haunted by the possibility that she had babies, left, trapped in the chimney.  Trapper John swore that was not the case, but my dread persists.  I used to call him Trapper John Eichmann, but my daughter Kristin never got that reference.  A few of my older friends just might.

 Then, one night as I was passing Kristin’s room, a few weeks later, I thought that the wall opposite her bed was cracking.  Thanks to the light from a big full moon, I could see a long, solid line, mid-height, from one side of her room to the other.  Oh, great, I thought.  Structural damage.   But it was not a cracked foundation.  As it turned out, it was a line of ants, marching through the house.  We were invaded by ants.  I put her to bed with Kath for the night while I tried to kill each and every one of them.  It was a useless exercise.   We tried to get rid of them ourselves, the next day.  When that failed, we had a "professional" come to eliminate the little buggers.  He was diligent, worked for about three hours and charged us for his service.  He left.  The ants remained.

The next morning as I was firmly set on the john, Kath was showering, Stephanie was brushing her teeth, Kristin was dancing,  ready to pee and flood the floor, and Maggie, our collie, was whining to be taken out  because she had to go.

We were all sharing one very small bathroom.  I know lots of people manage with much less, but I decided right then that we needed to move.  This was the last episode.  I could not take it anymore.  I thought that we could afford the move, kind of, and too many problems seemed to have no solution.  The only obvious concern for us, was that we really hated to leave the Pecks behind.   But the real truth was, our  house had contrived to evict us.

                                                           "I told you I really had to go".


It just happened that on that day I was off to Nova Scotia on business,  to see a new stretch film plant and inspect the quality of the facilities and product.  From there I went to visit our distribution center in Halifax.

When I returned three days later, the limo driver stopped in front of our house to let me out.  As I was getting my bag out, he said there was a sign on our front door - And there it was, “House for Sale -Quick Closing”.  Kath had made the sign as a welcome home for me.  She  had taken me at my word and bought a new house.

Call the movers!


Shortly after we moved into our new home, we asked the Pecks if they wanted to join us for after -dinner drinks and to baptize our new hot tub after the girls went to bed.  They were thrilled to get to see us again and we agreed they would come around 8 o’clock. The doorbell rang and Kath opened the door to hear Gaye laughing hysterically on the sidewalk and Ron, at the door, with his red robe open, naked, but for goggles, a snorkel and flippers.   How could you not love them.

I didn’t know it then, but I now realize Ron was the embodiment of what one should be when their friend or family member has cancer.

When you have cancer, lots of people ask how you're doing.  My experience has led me to believe that there are people who will see you and ask how you are doing.  I almost always say “great”,  and then both of us can move on with little or no discomfort to either party.  Sometimes people really do not want the pressure of listening to somebody else's troubles.  That is not a criticism.  Some really cannot emotionally get involved for their own reasons.  Some might feel an obligation to ask, but, in fact, are simply trying to be courteous.  I understand completely.  Some acquaintances might want to see your wounds, almost voyeuristically.  

Then there are friends like Ron.  They sincerely want you to share with them what is really happening with treatments or what issues are on your plate.  They want to take your time.  They earnestly care.  They do not mind intimacy.  In fact, there is a communal bond that they wish to tighten.

When you are ill,  if your are like me, you typically do not want to burden or bore anyone with your problems.  But if someone really wants to know and if there is genuine concern about your health, sharing will help both parties.  Both will benefit.  Both will leave feeling better.  I am blessed to have friends who call regularly to ensure our well-being or to offer assistance.  We have had friends offer whatever money we might need to keep me alive.  Others have wanted to get on a plane and be with us to help do anything we need.  Others will never let a week go by without calling us.  These things, from the microscopic to the magnanimous are blessings that we do not take for granted.  We are so unbelievably fortunate to have the friends and family that we do.  We are not deserving.  But we are thankful.

Rather than ask what you can do for a patient, my suggestion is to act on what you think would work.  You likely know someone’s likes or hobbies, so simply do what you believe they would appreciate.  A phone call to say you love them.  A book or magazine you think they would like to read.  Tell them of a television show you think they might like.  Nothing has to be expensive.  From a patient's perspective, your time and thoughts are real gifts.  Don't be afraid to hold someone's hand.  Actions, without a doubt,  do speak louder than words.

At difficult times in my life I have been so thankful for the words and actions of so many people - not only my close friends - but by people I hardly knew.  My personal tendency is to withdraw when I feel weak or wounded.  I seek shelter  and solitude, which, while understandable, is not particularly helpful.  There are times that I do not want to talk about cancer.  I need space. A break.  I want to talk about sports or news.  When I am struggling, I am still buoyed by the actions of others.  Some tiny display of love lifts my spirits, provides me hope and simply makes me feel good.  I will have finished reading an email or just hung up the phone after a call from a friend, and have been brought to tears.  Joy.  Gratitude.  And most importantly, I am made better by the thought that someone cares about my life.  Cancer plays havoc with your feelings.

In 1998, we were driving from Tuscaloosa, Alabama to Montgomery to watch Kristin play basketball in the State finals.  We had recently moved from Toronto, as I had been offered and had accepted the best job ever by a most marvelous man.  We were, at this point of our lives, residents of Alabama, and very happy.  It was a beautiful spring day in the South.  Clear and sunny with blossoms everywhere.  Life was at its best.  We were worry-free.  My cell phone rang.

Two people died skiing in Heavenly Valley that year.  One was Sonny Bono.  The other was my great friend Ron Peck.  Gaye was calling to tell us what had happened.  She and Ron were traversing between mountains, near the summit, when Ron simply fell over and died.  He had a heart attack.  We had lost a most wonderful friend.  Poor Gaye was seeking advice as she was unable to move a corpse from  the U.S. back home to Canada without a great deal of time and paperwork.  She was quite frantic and she was struggling just to hang on.   We came to realize that cremation was the solution and with that, she prepared to take him home.

We returned to Toronto two weeks later for Ron’s memorial service.  It was a joyful ceremony with Gaye, Ron’s family, co-workers, his fellow musicians, his business associates and his friends.  I was afforded the opportunity to eulogize Ron.  There was laughter with the stories of Ron's robe and his uncanny ability to fall asleep in a chair, with a drink in his hand, and wake up ten minutes later, inserting  himself into the conversation of the moment, like he never missed a word,  and never  spilled a drop from the glass precariously tilted in his hand.   And tears when we all came to realize what a special friend we had lost.  My love and admiration of Ron was shared by everyone in the room.  Ron was unique in his capability and capacity to make us all feel special and loved.

I  continue to share so many of my Ron stories with all my friends - old and new.  I still laugh and I still cry when I bring him to the front of my memory vault.  Hopefully we all have a Ron Peck in our lives and in our recollections.  After all this, it is interesting that despite his quiet demeanor and most caring soul, Ron did not believe in God.  I know, however, that God must have believed in Ron.

                                                     To you, old friend.  A cheer and a tear.