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Musings

Fuck Cancer. I Miss My Dad.

By October 25, 2020August 11th, 202411 Comments

My dad never taught me how to ride a bike. At about 12 years old, I learned how to ride a bike that my parents had gotten for my little brother’s 6th birthday. Riding bikes became a big part of my life fairly quickly, and if it weren’t for the fact that climbing has my heart, I’d probably be either a spandex-wearing slick-tire racer, or putting together epic bikepacking journeys. As it is, I recently picked up a more aggressive, full-suspension rig off of Craigslist, and mountain biking is beginning to compete for my time in a very serious way.

A rarity: Behold, the Solstice. Inverted 4-Bar suspension, for the win.

“Bikes are meant to be ridden” – Steve Edwards

My dad never taught me how to ride a bike because he didn’t know how to ride a bike. His parents wouldn’t allow him to learn. I ended up teaching him in 2011, because my friends and I had organized a Burning Man camp and invited the family along, and without a bike my dad would’ve been severely limited on the playa.

Lately I’ve been lingering on the little idiosyncrasies that made my dad who he was, both as an individual and as a pater familias. I had always enjoyed saying “I taught my dad how to ride a bike,” because it’s a reversal of a common sentiment (ie fathers teaching sons how to do basic childhood things) that feels almost like wordplay. Nowadays, it reminds me of how toxic and oppressive my dad’s mother was, and how unpleasant it was to visit the grandparents, and how little it seemed to bother my dad when his parents died 20-odd years ago, in fairly quick succession.

It’s been a little more than a month since my dad, Bruce Lazar Smith, died of lymphoma. He was 73. The cancer, specifically Angio Immunoblastic T-cell Lymphoma (AITL), was diagnosed around the end of spring 2019, after a month of crippling back pain with no apparent cause. During this initial phase, my younger brother Eliot wondered if this would be “the illness that turns dad old.” That was about 18 months ago, and it feels like we’re just waking up from a nightmare, except that the world kept spinning while we screamed in our sleep.

This feels appropriate

The Covid dystopia merged with our own personal nightmare, as the cancer came back right around the time the virus was gaining a foothold in Wuhan. Consequently, the many weeks my dad spent in the hospital included the additional horror of solitary confinement. My brother and I, eager to protest racial injustice and police brutality, had to self-isolate in order to be able to help care for our dad when he was at home, but were only allowed to visit when his condition took a turn. Even without Covid, we would’ve been entirely unprepared for the logistical and emotional clusterfuck of trying to navigate our fractious medical system. This made my heart break for all the families without financial means and solid friends. I suspect many cancers aren’t as rare as we think, but rather people simply die before even getting a biopsy. Anyway, there’s a lot to digest, but the thing I’m trying to say is that we’re a little disoriented at the moment.

Oh yeah and also California was on fire. Photo taken at 9:18AM.

The past few weeks have been dominated by what we call “the business of death.” When my dad died, the rest of the family suddenly became responsible for his bank accounts, his notes and records from an entire career as a clinical and forensic psychologist, his car, his clothes and shoes and cell phone and gadgets, his friends…you see, my dad didn’t get his affairs in order, instead focusing his energy on trying to “beat cancer” and keep up with his work. He wouldn’t even talk about what sort of funeral he might want. We are all trying our best not to resent him for leaving us with a mess. We’re trying to treat it like a treasure hunt.

As for instance, this retirement account with a value of one US penny.

Pops was a lot like The Dude in The Big Lebowski, in that he was a very passive character (I’m not talking about being a lazy stoner, although he did smoke pot in the 60s. If you watch Big Lebowski closely, you’ll notice that The Dude doesn’t incite a single thing, but rather things happen to him). His father, Irving, served as an interpreter during WWII, and became a painter after the war. My dad’s birth certificate lists Irving’s occupation as “Artist.” Shortly thereafter, he went to work at a hardware store, owned by his father-in-law. Essentially, my grandmother Dolly decreed that a steady income was essential, and rather than pursue his passion, Irv oughta settle down. She also decreed her princely Jewish son Bruce was the most precious thing in the world, which of course meant no dangerous activities like riding bikes. Her deification of my father also had the side-effect of poisoning my dad’s relationship with his younger sister. I always found it strange that someone as incisive and observant as my father couldn’t at least acknowledge that his mother was kind of awful. I suppose that if my dad were to acknowledge such a thing, he may have had to change course, and he was much more content to drift with the winds.

Maybe instead of “passive,” we could call my dad accepting. He loved trying to figure out what made people tick, and was never threatened by people with strongly worded opposing viewpoints. Looking back on my various lashings out during adolescence, I sometimes can’t believe the patience with which he’d calmly and non-judgmentally point out the fallacy in my position. And he understood that it was futile to try to stop me from doing what I was gonna do. Instead, he actively encouraged my brother and I in sports, academics, or whatever we showed any interest in. I’m realizing that my dad was, intentionally or not, applying a parenting technique diametrically opposed to the one Dolly used on him. And I’d say it was to our benefit.

And yet it’s our father’s “passivity” that has my brother and I “accepting” the responsibility of cleaning out the house. Sometimes it’s a fun-filled easter egg hunt. Sometimes it’s exasperating. It is rather time-consuming.

I’m not really sure what else to say at the moment. This isn’t supposed to be one of those Curriculum Vitae newspaper obits, it’s a personal tribute on a barely-read blog, and it felt important to write something. I had an awesome dad, and most of the time I’m grateful for the whole cancer experience, as painful and shitty as it was in the moment, because it brought the family much closer together. We all learned a lot. We’re still cycling through anger, disbelief, despair, etc., but the edges are a little duller, and life is starting to come back into sharper focus. Vikki and I are in pretty poor climbing shape, but it seems like the forced rest was good for old injuries, and besides, there are bikes to ride. We’re starting to look forward again.

11 Comments

  • Hi Spenser. My name is Marie de la Paz. Your dad was my dissertation chair, and my assessment professor for 2 years, I was his assessment TA after that (at CSPP), and wrote me glowing letters of recommendations for internships. He was a wonderful mentor to me for many years. Very generous, supportive and kind. He believed in me before I did. I only wish I could have thanked him before he passed away. I just recently found out that your dad had passed away. I was shocked and heartbroken, to say the least. I love assessment and the Rorschach because of your dad. He was brilliant. We used to have lunches in Berkeley once every few weeks, years ago, and he would tell me all about his trips, teaching Rorschach internationally, his books he was trying to publish, and he talked about you and Elliott, and your mom Nadine, often and quite fondly. Seems like he wasn’t just as a brilliant, kind and hardworking psychologist, but is also a quite well-loved dad, as well, which is most important. Thanks for this blog. It really warmed my heart to see you write about him in such an honest and raw way, and to hear about other sides of him. Hope you and the family are healing, and living life to the fullest.
    Take care, Marie

  • Sarah Tyler says:

    Spencer,
    Fuck cancer is correct. I did not learn until a almost a year ago that your dad was so very ill. I was a good friend of his, I think he would say, when he was working at the Austin Riggs Center. He did have
    an horrendous time growing up and while this wasn’t a full on conversation it was so obviously a part of him. He worked very hard to be the best he could be and made the most of his considerable intellectual talents. He loved the Oakland Raiders and I understand refused to move from his chair for two days, not speaking still in full on Raider regalia when they lost in the playoffs. He also gained a fabulous Samoyed during this time Tovarich..Tov..friend. Inseparable. We lost touch when he completed his time at Riggs and returned to California. I had hoped we would run into each other at a reunion or conference. I wanted to, and still do, want to tell him how happy I was for him to be so successful, well respected and facinated with his work as well as to have found a loving mate and
    two fine sons. I am sad that we all missed a chance at more time. Sarah

    • Spenser says:

      Hi Sarah,

      Thank you for commenting. I love hearing anything from back in the day, and especially the story about his despair at the Raiders’ loss!

      It’s actually good to hear that he was able to express how challenging his childhood might’ve been. That wasn’t much of a topic between us, although we couldn’t help but notice how little love there seemed to be there.

      I think of him a lot still, but it’s not so sad these days. Or maybe it’s still sad, but even more it’s funny, or nostalgic, or even comforting. Like in the grand scheme, although cancer really took us all for a ride, in the aggregate I still feel incredibly fortunate overall for the dad I got, and the time we got to have.

      Cheers,
      Spenser

  • Sarah Tyler says:

    Spencer,
    So very glad for your reply. Loss sucks. Time mends but never really heals but we end up knowing we are stronger than we think. At Riggs he would have been in treatment as part of the curriculum for Fellows so he’d of had to discuss his upbringing, perhaps at length, one would think.
    I believe in my stuff there are a few photo’s of Bruce rehearsing for a play. Yeah, not making it up. And perhaps some photos of other interest. Exactly where, i am not sure. I was the stage manager of the theatre there so have all sorts of items. I’m really bad about the easter-egg hunts….reviews of the past..If you would like them I would liketo send them to you but it could be a big bit of a while.
    Bruce wanted to use his brain, which was easy and he wanted to be accepted and valued which was more difficult but it seems he did pretty well.
    I’m glad to know you feel he was a good dad.
    Thanks again,
    Cheers to you,
    Sarah

    • Spenser says:

      Hey Sarah, yes he absolutely found acceptance and a sense of importance in his work and professional affiliations. He friggin’ loved the SPA meetings and such.

      I would be very excited to see any photos you’ve got, especially of a younger Bruce, and extra-especially of my dad rehearsing for a play!!! Ha! I have a hard time imagining him acting out a role on stage…

      There is definitely no rush, I’ll just say that if you get the change to hunt those photos down, that we will be very excited to see them.

      Thanks again for leaving a comment. This conversation has been a gift.

      Cheers,
      Spenser

      • Sarah Tyler says:

        Hi Spencer,
        This conversation has been settling to me..and I appreciate your time. It is weird to have someone die and have no idea about how things had been…even after so many years. I am heading out for my annual trip to Canada soon and so the archeological dig for pictures will be delayed a few weeks. I will begin in earnest when I return…I know they are there. I assume you check this blog regularly so I can let you know how it goes. I hope along the way there was fun and laughter.
        Take good care,
        Cheers,
        Sarah

        • Spenser says:

          Hi Sarah,

          Indeed, I get notified whenever someone posts a comment, so I’ll be eagerly awaiting the results of your dig, whenever you get the time. I hope you have a pleasant time in Canada! Thanks again, for reaching out and sharing your thoughts. It’s been wonderful.

          Cheers,
          Spenser

          • Sarah Tyler says:

            Hi Spencer
            Slowly making my way back to Florida. Just wanted to touch base, tell you I have a few pics to send of one good looking fellow and rehearsal for a play that I have no recall of.
            I went by his old home which is adjacent to a national forest. The forest is encroaching.
            I hope you are rock climbing and otherwise getting in shape. Swimming’s my savior and opportunities for that on the trip have been plentiful. I wanted to say that the one cent
            statement from Merrill Lynch running on empty was symbolic of his early adult years.
            Late next week I will figure out how to get the pics to you.
            Cheers, Sarah

          • Spenser says:

            Hi Sarah, I’m glad you’ve had a good trip! Thanks for the update, and I’m eager to see what you’ve discovered, photo-wise. I love my dad, but a fine thespian he would not have made.

            Cheers,
            Spenser

  • Sarah Tyler says:

    Hi Spencer,
    How an I get photos to you? I can send by mail, screen shot, etc. I have 3 of the thespian, one taken of him very nicely dressed on the steps of a building. I will find others as I go along whichbI would send if you wanted.
    Cheers,
    Sarah

  • Laura Doty says:

    Hello Spenser: Here it is, August, 2023, and I just learned today of your father’s death. He was my mentor/dissertation chair at the Wright Institute, the person who introduced me to the Rorschach, which proved to be (for me–as for him, I think–endlessly fascinating).Thanks to him I presented my initial research at the International Rorschach Society annual meeting in Paris. I needed pushing to go; his encouragement changed my life. I remember being at your house one morning, going over a draft of my dissertation proposal. Your brother had been born only a few months before, and you were a sleepy (and very hungry) little guy. It was a delight to watch your dad lift you up so tenderly when you came into the kitchen asking for breakfast. His voice, usually so firm and precise in classrooms and discussions, was soft and slow and so, so patient as he offered you a number of choices (the first few did not appeal!). You settled on pancakes and he mixed them up lickety-split in a blender. I have no idea what we hashed out about the proposal that day. I only remember how much he loved being a dad. (And a husband: he was so proud of your mom’s research on child-rearing practices. I remember we often talked about that!) We last spoke on 2019; I was calling about a complex murder case I hoped he’d be able to consult on. We had such a good talk and promised each other we’d get together for lunch soon. I’m so regret not following through immediately. A final lesson learned. Sending my best to you and your family.

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