Jim Mewhirter: Showing — not telling — his sons what being a man is all about

My family received wonderful news earlier this week: My dad is cancer free. Stage four melanoma. All clear.

There are many ways to respond to news such as that. In the movies and TV shows, there is much jubilation. People falling to their knees. Happy tears cascading down cheeks.

I looked at my phone, smiled, and texted a video of Nate Diaz’s postmatch interview after he knocked out Conor McGregor, the one where he grabs the mic and tells the crowd — and millions watching on Pay Per View — “I’m not surprised, mother fu*****!”

That’s basically how I felt about the news. Because this is Jim Mewhirter. Toughest man on Earth.

He’s an old school type, my dad, cut from the cloth of what is becoming an increasingly bygone era. In 32 years, I’ve never seen him take a sick day. The only topics I can ever recall him complaining about are bad drivers, Mike Tomlin, and democrats.

That’s Jim Mewhirter. Nice to meet you.

He was, in fact, the only one to know he had cancer for a full three months, by my count. The baseball-sized tumor on his neck? A landscaping snafu. Sold us all on it, too. A branch or rake or something had whipsawed back and popped him in the neck, leaving an impressive welt. It was only when he had surgery to get it removed that my mom found out. She went to pick him up and take him home, and the doctors told her that all went well, and that they were able to clear out most of the cancer.

THE WHAT?

Yeah, dad didn’t tell her.

Bit of a shock to my poor mom. Gave me a good laugh, though. Delaney was horrified when she learned that my dad kept it to himself. I’d imagine most women reading this might feel the same, because women tend to be sensible creatures when it comes to matters of life and death and potentially fatal illnesses. But I got a good chuckle out of it, and I’m sure a few other men will as well.

That’s just dad.

His problems are his problems, and he doesn’t want to burden you with them. Like I said: The man is old school tough in a way that seems to be disappearing from a world I’d argue is in dire need of it. He was tough on us in a way that would probably be unacceptable by today’s standards, in that he actually had standards for his sons, and when we didn’t meet those standards, we were informed of it.

We’re better men for it.

Our problems were our problems and they had to be handled as such. Issues with playing time? That wasn’t his conversation to have. He’d drive us to the school if we needed to, but if there were a difficult conversation in our lives, we had to be the ones to have it.

I didn’t realize how well my dad trained me for the world outside of our little hamlet until I went to college. I was pledging for a fraternity, and doing so involved a decent amount of what some people might call hazing. I could hardly take our pledge masters serious when they raised their voices.

It was the first time I ever recognized that my dad wasn’t being tough to be tough: He was making us emotionally invincible.

The only opinion we ever truly cared about was our father’s. That holds mostly true to this day. When he attended our games, we knew our mom — bless her heart — would tell us we played wonderful. But the real scoop would come from dad. We both loved and hated those post-game chats with dad, dreaded them in equal measure as we were exhilarated by them.

He told us how it was, straight up, honest, fair. Always fair. When we played well, he said so, and when we didn’t, he told us that, too. But he took it a step beyond just giving us a fair review. He was the first to help us get better. His shoulder is still a disaster from throwing us so much batting practice. He’d be the one rebounding our shots in the driveway when it was raining. He’d take us to the driving range whenever we needed it, watching our swing, taking note of the subtlest of changes that would make all the difference. Sometimes we’d even take his advice. Whenever we did, voila, the ball wound up exactly where we wanted it. Occasionally, we’d give him credit for the help. Much of the time, we’d claim we knew it all along.

We’re a stubborn bunch, my two brothers and I, a trait passed down from my father. It’s a trait that can be our greatest strength on one day and our surefire undoing on another. In the end, it was my dad’s stubbornness that prevailed over cancer. At no point did I ever think cancer would be anything but a minor nuisance for him. But one does not have a tumor the size of a baseball removed from their neck without some sizable impact, and his surgery, and subsequent chemo and radiation therapies, had an impact.

He was told, from what I understand, that the nerve damage caused from the surgery, chemo, and radiation, meant that he wouldn’t regain full control over the left side of his face again. The first Thanksgiving I had at home after his surgery, it looked, I admit, like the doctors might be right. When he drank water, he had to shake his head from side to side because he couldn’t swish it using his cheek muscles. The left side of his face couldn’t curve upwards into a smile. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder if he’d ever regain control of those nerves again.

Shame on me for doubting Jim Mewhirter.

He did his own research, because Jim Mewhirter is the man who does that sort of thing, and informed the doctors of a few treatments he’d be trying, acupuncture being one, intermittent fasting another, and reducing his sugar intake to all but zero. The doctors balked at some of this, but dad stayed true to his course, probably because much of this was against their wishes. Again: Stubborn. And yet, soon — far sooner than anyone predicted — he was chewing and talking normal again. His face was flush with color.

Much of this credit, I think, must be given to my mom. You never wish cancer upon anyone, but when you come out the other end, that journey can produce some incredible results. It was a very cool thing for me to watch my mother settle into what I might describe as her life calling. My dad, tough as he is, probably could have used the emotional support she gave him. Give she did, in ways that I wasn’t sure humans were capable. I always knew my mother’s love knew no bounds, but some infinities, it has been said, are bigger than other infinities. The love that my mom has for her boys is the biggest infinity I know of.

The alacrity of my dad’s progress was a surprise to some, though hardly to me. I would have been more surprised by anything less, to be honest. I took him to radiation twice last fall. Once, on the drive home, I asked him about it — if it hurt, what it was like, that sort of thing. He just sort of shrugged and said it wasn’t much. But the drive? Forty minutes just to sign some papers and put a mask on for a minute or two? Brutal.

That’s my dad: cancer survivor, radiation killer, sworn enemy of wasted time.

This last December, we went back to Maryland for Christmas, and to compare our family picture from Thanksgiving of 2021 to Christmas of 2022 is hardly shy of what I’d call a miracle. On the outside, there’s a totally different man in the picture. His face is full. The scar is there but not really noticeable, unless you’re looking for it. I wouldn’t say he’s a man who was ever known for his smile, but that’s the first thing I saw: A wide, toothy grin.

That smile now stares back at me every single day as the background of my computer.

Of course, there isn’t a different man in that picture at all. That man is my dad, an old school bona fide who annihilated cancer and who, if it were up to him, probably wouldn’t have told a soul about it. He’d have gone about his business as usual, played with his granddaughter, grilled food for my mom, drank whiskey with his guys and complained about Mike Tomlin.

He’d have continued being the man at least three boys will always want to be.