TupaTalk: Death comes when it comes. But, honor survives past the grave

The first great sports movie I recall watching was "Brian's Song."

It premiered on Nov. 30, 1970, on ABC's Tuesday Movie of the Week lineup.

I recall how the previous night, Monday Night Football announcer Frank Gifford's halftime interview with Piccolo's widow Joy about the movie.

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For those unfamiliar with the story, Piccolo has passed away on June 16, 1970 — at age 26 — from cancer.

The NFL world mourned the passing of this barely-above average fullback (Chicago Bears) but one of its bright lights personality-wise, the every-man athlete that succeeded with pluck, scrappiness and humor.

The movie focused on Piccolo's friendship with black teammate Gale Sayers. They became the first white and black roommates in Bears' history and one of the first in the NFL.

Their relationship was not complicated. At first they didn't like each other — not due to racial differences, but due to personality conflicts.

Then, they became close friends.

A real-life awards' acceptance speech by Sayers — offered as Brian battled cancer — was used in the movie.

Part of it was: "He has the heart of a giant and that rare form of courage that allows him to kid himself and his opponent — cancer. … You flatter me by giving me this award, but I tell you that I accept it for Brian Piccolo. … I love Brian Piccolo, and I'd like all of you to love him too."

Brian Piccolo's short season of life ended a few weeks later; he left behind his wife and three daughters.

I still recall watching this movie more than 50 years ago with my mom, sister and I. We wept openly.

Popular media didn't talk as much back in the early 1970s about cancer as it did in the years that followed.

I couldn't realize then how closely it would touch my life.

It was just 19 years later after the first broadcast of "Brian's Song," I kneeled by a hospital bed on the top floor of a townhouse room — just a few blocks from where we had lived in 1971 — and held one of my mom's hands, with my sister by the other side of the bed, as she peacefully slipped away at age 55 as a result of cancer.

It had been about eight months after the first diagnosis. Exploratory surgery revealed the cancer was well advanced. Had there been a reasonable chance she would have waged a strong battle. But, she opted out of extensive treatment to merely prolong the inevitable and decided to let the disease take it course. She wanted to carry on life as normal and enjoy — without self-pity — what time remained.

During those remaining six months, she and my sister bought a little repossessed townhouse — the only home my mom ever owned as an adult, and the place where she would die. On the weekend I helped them move into it, Mom stayed behind to scrub the kitchen where they had been living.

She found joy in living those last few months in her home and finding happiness in the small pleasures of average daily living, without having to put up with an exodus of trips to doctors or the hospital or the nausea and misery of treatments. She didn't want to die — but she accepted it as her destiny and wanted to go out on her terms. Perhaps, that might be one of the definitions of courage.

Less than eight years after we buried Mom, my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer. I immediately arranged for two weeks off from the Bartlesville E-E and flew to Salt Lake City to be with her for the operation and several days after. I can't forget the fear I felt as they wheeled her hospital bed out of sight wondering if that might be the last time I'd see her alive. The thought terrorized me.

Several hours later, the doctor met with me and my grandpa and other relatives to tell us the surgery had gone well.

Less than 10 years later she developed cancer in her other breast. Once again, she went under the knife.

Never once, either prior to her first or second surgeries, did she immerse herself in self-pity or depression. She accepted these challenges as just part of her share of the hardships in life that come to all of us in one form or another.

During her final 14 years, she never wore a prosthetic or complained about the changes in her life. She was a completely honest person, secure in who she was. She didn't enjoy wearing pink or participating in survivor-type activities because she considered herself just another person on the bus of life.

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She was near her mid-60s — walking a mile to and from the bus stop every day to go to her job and living alone — when she passed away. That dealt a drastic change to my future plans because I had been planning to retire a few months later and move to be close to her. But, there are no guarantees about tomorrow. We adjust when needed and carry on as best as we understand.

To both my sister and my mom, cancer was just part of the experience of mortality — and death was just an incident. The most important thing for them was not how they died, but how they tried to live. I am happy all their pain and challenges — not only from cancer but other parts of what were hard lives for both — are gone, and they are, I believe, enjoying a happier rest.

But, what about me left behind, to face an emptier world without them? First, no one or nothing can fill the lonely gap in my heart. The sincere and non-intrusive kindness of others has helped.

Even though there are moments of sadness, I am not angry, resentful or morose. I am grateful for the years we spent together. Happy for the times from which sweet memories were created. I appreciate the lessons they imparted, both by counsel and by example. Death comes when it comes. But, honor survives past the grave.

I appreciate the final line — which could apply to all those who live well and die bravely — from the movie “Brian’s Song”:

“When they think of him (Piccolo), it's not how he died that they remember. It’s how he lived. How he did live!”

This article originally appeared on Bartlesville Examiner-Enterprise: Tupa: Death comes when it comes. But, honor survives past the grave