Tell My Sons: A Father's Last Letters by Lt Col Mark Weber, Robin Williams Page A

used the metaphor, and the reasons made sense as I gained more perspective from my own disease.
    Cancer isn’t something that pops, breaks, wears out, or busts loose in your body. It
is
a war—a murderous civil war within the body. I found that families with cancer needed the metaphor, because terminal diseases like mine tap into our worst nightmares about life—the idea of a slow death and eventually a painful, miserable existence for survivors and their caregivers.
    The metaphor provided a rallying point for families desperately trying to cope. And as a soldier, war-fighting language was my language.
    I was once asked to describe the difference between fighting cancer and fighting in combat. Well, in combat there are bullets and bombs. But the only real difference with cancer is the scenery and the fighters, because with cancer you still have to face both an enemy and your own fears. You still have to face death. You still have to endure misery and deprivation, both trivial and severe. And you still have to sit down with family and explain the blunt reality of the possibilities.
    So, if everyone characterizes cancer as civil war, and you heard that one million of your own fellow citizens (cancer cells) were moving across the country, indiscriminately killing everyonein their path, whom would you categorize as your “friendly forces” in the fight?
    Answer: Everyone who’s not with
them
.
    In army-speak, my friendly forces consist of three “branches”—my body, my friends and family, and my doctors.
    The only
physical
fighter in that lineup is my body. Other people can help, but the actual fighting has to be done by the body. In July 2010, the massing enemy force wasn’t at my border; the cancer already had me outflanked, outgunned, and surrounded. The engine and fuel-processing station (the digestive tract) for my entire fighting force was already destroyed. My body possessed a strong heart, mind, lungs, and muscles, but without fuel, these were just accessories. They were being robbed of their combat capability by the day.
    The friends-and-family branch of my army grew by about one thousand “enlistments” in just one week via my online journal. * These troops were long in motivation and spiritual support, but they could not offer any practical fighting capability against the cancer.
    The last remaining branch of my army, and the one that possessed the most reason for optimism, was a small team of special forces (my medical doctors) armed with the deadliest, most advanced weapons known to human biology. The problem:
        • doctors’ weapons kill just as indiscriminately as does the cancer;
        • the confusion and uncertainty of “the fog of war” is just as disorienting for doctors as it is for soldiers;
        • doctors’ solutions are sometimes entirely ineffective, despite a breathtaking swath of destruction to the cancer.
    Any questions?
    *   *   *
    Folks who wanted to support me clearly struggled with what to say outside of “You can beat this!” and “I’ll pray for you!” It forced me to ask myself some questions about what kind of support I wanted.
I am taking this on like a soldier, but does that mean I want to be told I will be victorious, no matter what? I laugh a lot, but is there anything to laugh about here? I am a spiritual person, but will the strength of my faith dictate my survival?
    I decided to tell people my thoughts about each of these subjects and suggest how they could help with each—a task I now consider a responsibility of those who are severely ill. Here’s what I told them:
    Help me keep it real by talking honestly with me about what I can plainly see with my own two eyes. Don’t put me in the grave, but don’t make boastful claims about my impending victory, either. Just talk or sit with me.
    With regard to humor, I laugh at myself and at life. This is what I was like before the cancer, and I have no plans to change now.
    When it comes to