It’s time to demand a cure for cancer

Don Coble

Long before they started charging carry-on service charges and aisle seats, it wasn’t easy to get a favor from the airlines in 1990. But I called anyway.

I told the customer service representative I needed to change my outbound flight from Orlando to Florence, South Carolina, to cover the Southern 500.

She asked why.

I told her I had a court date.

She asked what for.

Divorce and custody.

Then he did something that caught me by surprise. She asked how I planned to win custody in a state where adultery isn’t grounds for custody – even if you caught your wife at a hotel with another guy.

I told her I had newspaper clips that proved where I was on particular nights. I also had hotel bills showing where she was on the same nights.

The representative reminded me again adultery wasn’t grounds for custody.

If I’m covering the Orlando Magic-Sacramento Kings game and she’s away with the other guy who fed our children dinner? Did they have dinner?

She changed my reservation for free but made me promise to call back with the results.

Actually, the hearing was quick and simple. I won custody.

Three weeks later, I remembered to call the representative back. She remembered me and asked what happened. I told her my children were at the dinner table doing homework.

When she told me she was in Atlanta, I told her I could get her and her husband tickets and garage passes to the race there. She said she wasn’t married, but she planned to go with her older brother, so I set up the garage passes.

A week after the race, she called to say thank you. I was puzzled how she got my phone number. She said she got it from my frequent flier account. We talked for two hours – and that was back in the day when you were charged by the minute. It was common back then to get a phone bill that was half of my take-home pay.

Fifteen months later, we got married.

During our marriage, my 19-year-old daughter was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. The doctor noticed something unusual on a Friday. I took her for an X-ray on Monday, and I took her back to the hospital later that afternoon for a CAT scan.

On Thursday, she was in surgery. While it was malignant, they caught it in time. She will turn 44 on Thursday.

Then Pam complained her arm hurt. Tests revealed lung cancer. By the time they found it, the disease was already in her lung, brain, arm and hip. I asked the doctor how long will she go through chemotherapy and radiation. He said eight months. I remember thinking that was manageable.

Then he said the words I can never forget: “No sir, she has eight months to live.”

It’s hard to believe it was 18 years ago when I lightly grabbed Pam’s hand, heard her take a shallow breath and quietly slipped away. It was Aug. 10, 2005. At 3:02 p.m.

Eighteen years, and we’re still no closer to stopping cancer.

Let’s face it, we all know there’s more money to be made by treating cancer than curing it. Call me a conspiracy nut if you want, but I refuse to accept that nearly two million people were diagnosed with cancer last year, and nearly 610,000 of those died.

Both of Pam’s brothers also died of cancer. Her older brother, who went to the race with her, died exactly 49 days before she did. He also had lung cancer.

I think about it every day. We now have cars that parallel park by themselves, and we can send an email to the other side of the planet in a second. And yet, cancer is allowed to ravage families with death, pain and despair.

Why?