Sometimes it takes a lifetime to tell a story...

This is not in the book...

Dad died of lung cancer. 

That doesn't really tell it 

all. He also died from 

cancer of the brain, liver, 

pancreas and skin...and 

battled it every step. He 

went through far more 

than most; but no one 

knows his story.




Pop was a handsome guy 

and quite athletic. He played 

tennis, golf, polo and soccer 

and was excellent at all 

(except golf). He was in the 

sun constantly and had been 

all his life, but he was very 

fair skinned. He also smoked 

two packs a day. Blew a lot 

of smoke out his nose. I was 

about eight when he developed 

a strange little spot on the left 

side of his nostril that began to 

grow. Doctors cut it out and it 

came back...and began to move 

out onto his cheek. Skin cancer 

began to creep across his face. 

He became incredibly self-

conscious. He stopped people 

from taking pictures of him. 

He tried chemical peels that 

caused him to hide from the 

world for weeks at a time.  

With his bandages and scars, 

he was certain he looked like 

a monster. He once said he 

resembled the painting of 

Dorian Grey.

A Dr. Millard, considered to 

be one of the foremost facial 

reconstruction doctors in the 

country, was based in Miami. 

They took the skin from the 

underside of his bicep to 

recreate his nose. Again and 

again. Dad went two-three 

times a year. Every year. He 

underwent 18 operations to 

stop the cancer, and cosmetic 

surgery to patch him up (and 

they weren't too good at it in 

the early 60's). Insurance didn't 

cover much of this even though 

he was covered by Blue Cross/

Blue Shield. It's hard to imagine 

what this all cost him. Not to 

mention the chronic pain and 

embarrassment. 

It never mattered to me what 

he looked like. He was Pop. 

To me he was a cross between 

Roy Rogers and Arthur Ashe, 

but with a bit too much alcohol 

and tobacco. He did stop both 

smoking and drinking in the 

last few years, but the damage 

was done. A year before he 

died he could still whip me on 

the tennis court even though 

he could barely move. He spent 

ten years fighting cancer. He 

died in 1972 two months to the 

day after they told him he had 

it in his lungs. I’ve always 

suspected that his skin cancer 

travelled through his blood-

stream and took up residence 

in other locations. 




Arthur Aaron left at 56 when 

I was 19.  Father and son hadn't 

quite gotten there yet. We didn't 

get a chance to say what we 

needed to say to each other. 

At least now you know his story. 

This is a tale the raven tells once 

the light of the cigarette goes out...