One morning at breakfast, Vince gave me one of his gifts. He looked at me seriously and said he was very confused. "Dad, ever since I was diagnosed with cancer, people have shown me many forms of caring, compassion and understanding; people call me all the time, send me trays of lasagna, write me emails, send cards, visit me, and take me places-everyone has been great. But earlier when I was feeling depressed, was manic, or had panic attacks, people treated me much differently. They would look at me as if I was out of control, 'crazy', or just plain weird. The level of caring, compassion and understanding was much less."

"Dad, what is so wrong and ironic about this situation is that the emotional pain I felt during the mental illnesses far exceeds any physical pain I have experienced". This comment was coming from a young man who had just experienced major surgery, with fifty stitches, and who had his legs wrapped and weeping. This statement had profound meaning for me because Vince had simultaneously experienced severe physical and mental pain.

It gets better. He then said to me,"The best day of my life was the day I was diagnosed with cancer." I couldn't believe my ears. He explained to me that those weeks of depression, panic attacks and manic behavior, combined with the disconnected, undiagnosed physical symptoms were excruciating. The diagnosis of adrenal carcinoma finally explained the rollercoaster of emotional symptoms he had experienced this year.

Several weeks after the surgery, we went to Sloan Kettering Memorial Cancer Hospital to get their advice on next steps. This visit brought some renewed hope. The specialists there felt that they could remove the cancer remaining in his liver using their special surgical techniques. The plan was to have Vince CAT scanned again in two weeks - to be followed by surgery before Christmas. The adrenal oncologist observed that since Vince had never had pain from this massive tumor, it could have been growing for years; this comment encouraged us that the tumors were slow growing.

I smile every time I think of one event which occurred during Vince's illness. While he was sick, he wanted to experience all he could of life: get the latest electronic gadgets, upgrade his computer, get cable modem access, become the clothes horse he never was before. He also wanted a dog; with this request, we finally put our foot down since we already had one. Not discouraged, he researched pets and proudly concluded a chinchilla would be a close second choice - you could train them, you could walk them. We obliged - along with a new fish tank too.

One night at 3:30 a.m., the chinchilla jumped out of its covered cage, which was in Vince's room. Who knew? Well I was awakened by Debbie who guess what, left me in charge of retrieving the critter. When I reached Vince's room, Vince was sitting on the edge of the bed trying to coax the varmint from under his dresser. No luck. He couldn't bend or chase it himself because the stitches hurt him. I tried unsuccessfully for 15 minutes to get the little bugger. It kept running away - right when success was imminent. Looking at Vince observing me, I could see the corner of his mouth curled up in a sly grin. Finally, I had to cut down a crabbing net to catch the beast ( it looked like a cross between a mouse and a squirrel wearing a fur coat) . The next morning, we joked about this memorable escapade. Vince said , " Dad, I was too sore to laugh , but I just want you to know I was laughing my a** off watching you last night."