Russel Mammen was diagnosed with stage three multiple myoloma shortly after beating cancer. Not asking for a thing, but rather continueing to devote his time and energy to his friends and family, his last gift to me was a ticket home for Christmas. Unfortunately, he lost his battle with cancer before I was able to see him again. I was never able to thank him in person for his generosity.
This story was read as part of his eulogy on December 23, 2013.
“How you feeling?” She asks.
“Not too bad, I’m still a little slow-goin. I got one week left going to the cancer center,” he says casually.
Shocked and dumbfounded, the words tumble out of her mouth, “Wait, Russ. Did you have cancer? Do you have cancer?”
* * *
His eyes are the purest mine have ever seen. They are a warm blue, with a hint of green. They melt you to the core. His smile is electrifying though you can barely see it from behind the sandy reddish-blond beard that covers over half his face. His hands are worn and callussed. There is black under his nails and the crevices of his hands are stained permanently from hard work on every type of vehicle imaginable. His skin is weathered and ruddy. He stands at only 5 and a half feet tall, yet you’d swear he was a giant. He wears overalls. They call attention to his sturdy square shoulders and barreled belly. Under the overalls, he wears plaid flannel in the winter, a t-shirt in the summer. His overall legs are rolled twice over in a perfect two-inch cuff at the hemline. Don’t bother asking if you can hem them. He prefers the cuffs. You’ll find his feet bare, in black work boots, or in bowling shoes. No socks.
His house is his grandparents’. His street is the same he’s lived on for the 56 years of his life. He is not married. He has no children. He is the fourth child of six. He is my mother’s brother and best friend. He is my Uncle Russ.
He is quiet. He is sincere. He is loyal. He is strong.
My mom received a phone call in early March from her brother John. “I thought you might like to know what happened to your other brother,” he said, “I got a call from Skip. Said he’d stopped to see Russ and he couldn’t get out of bed the other day his back was hurting him so bad. So Skip took him to the hospital. He’s up there now, havin’ a buncha tests done. Give him a call if ya wanna. His room number is three-sixteen.”
“He-low.”
“Russ, it’s Joni. Houndie just called me. What the hell’s goin on?”
“Oh, hell, I don’t know. They got me doin all these damn tests now and they won’t leave me the hell alone. I just wanna go home and get some sleep.”
“It’s their job to bother you, Russ. They have to do it every once in a while if they want to figure out what’s wrong. Try to at least be nice enough to em, okay?”
“Yeah, I know. I know.”
Russ was released from the hospital a few days later. All Joni knew was that a growth had been found on his tailbone, most likely a calcium build up caused from an injury many years ago. It was nothing serious to worry about, but the doctors were going to run more tests to be sure and take immediate measures to relieve Russ from this painful tumor.
As Joni checked in on her brother’s progress a month later, she found it nearly incomprehensible that not only had her brother’s tumor had been cancerous, but also that he had been spending five days a week at the cancer center recieving treatments. She learned that after 18 treatments, the cancerous tumor the size of grapefruit had been reduced to a speck. Six additional treatments later, and Russ is cancer free.
“I gotta go through some of that Zumba treatment again, though,” he says, “Precautionary stuff.”
“Zumba?” Joni chuckles, “You mean Zometa. Zumba is an exercise thing, you know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know. I just call it Zumba. The last time I was up to the cancer center, as I was walking out they had all these lights up, and this banner. About ten of the nurses were all standing around, sayin’, “Congratulations.” And they even had a cake. I don’t know what the hell it was for. I asked Marv if they did that for him when he left the cancer center. He said they didn’t. Was a real good cake they had.”
* * *
Most people rely on a strong support group of friends and family when they’re up against cancer. The day they learn that they’ve defeated the monster is a cause of celebration.
But not for Russ Mammen. Beating cancer is simply a task to be completed. So when you ask him what he did last week, he wouldn’t tell you that. But he might tell you he’d done some Zumba and had some cake, some real good cake.
