Humbled by the River

Editor’s Note: In my time as Editor-in-Chief of The Havok Journal, I’ve written only a few personal pieces. One of our writers, K.C. Aud, once said, “I need to find happier things to write about.” I told him, “Write what matters to you. Someone will find meaning in it.”

That’s what this story is for me. I’ve written less about service members and more about the families who live in their shadows; those the ones shaped by loss, love, and resilience. My father’s death forced me to confront what service, loyalty, and family really cost. The lyrics from “The Humbling River” by Puscifer reflect that journey—and the people who helped me cross it.

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“Nature, nurture, heaven and home … but I’ve never crossed the river.”

Dad was dying. He had lung cancer.

“There’s no reason you can’t outlive your cancer,” said one of his doctors early on.

It was such an odd turn of phrase. I thought, “That’s the best way this doc could have framed it.” But I didn’t believe him. I don’t think dad did either.

I remember first being told about his diagnosis. My usual stoicism at the time eroded. The person who told me was a superior officer, someone I would never display emotion in front of. I vowed to remain composed in their presence. Pain pierced me from the inside, clawing its way out through my eyes. They became glassy. I couldn’t stop it. This had never happened before.

I was on the verge of tears but didn’t cry. I maintained my military bearing as a flood of overwhelming emotion erupted inside me. I thanked them for telling me. I pressed on.

My parents were married but had separated and lived apart. I didn’t find out until more than a year after the fact. Although I was in my late 30s at the time, I found myself hoping they would mend their relationship, that they would reunite. That we could be a family again. I also wondered if I’d somehow contributed to their separation. I found it strange, at my age, to feel this way. I thought to myself, “Now I understand why kids think it’s their fault when their parents divorce.”

So, when I first heard the news about dad’s cancer, any hope that our family might come together again evaporated. It was lung cancer, it was aggressive.

Time had run out.

“Braved the forests and the stone … yet I’m helpless by the river.”

I took walks with dad. I spent nights with him in the hospital. I held his hand. We all did.

He was losing weight. He was wasting away. Closer to the end he would need a wheelchair.

The cancer eventually spread to his heart, and they were draining fluid from his chest regularly.

I remember being in his hospital room after he’d had a lung biopsy. Going through that relatively quick procedure had taken a lot out of him. He was already so weak.

As he’d been wheeled into the Operating Room (OR), one of my former nursing staff burst into tears, “You look just like him.” I could hear it in her voice. It wasn’t just the physical resemblance—she was cautioning me about my own future.

After the biopsy, the surgeon explained that they could perform surgery at Duke that might buy dad some time—but that it was a major operation and would be a rough recovery. The physician’s grave tone communicated that this would be hard on dad. And it wouldn’t save him.

Dad looked around the room full of people. “Let’s go out swinging, doc,” he said. He didn’t want to let anyone down.

And in an instant, the inevitable outcome flashed in my mind. The transfer from Fort Bragg to Durham… the pre-op work-up… the surgery… the recovery… everyone supporting him would relocate there. Dad would be in rough shape. His body wouldn’t tolerate it. He wouldn’t bounce back. He’d be in a lot of pain hooked up to countless lines in an ICU. And he would die anyway.

The room began to rumble with cheers of encouragement.

“Dad… dad…” I interrupted.

Everyone quieted; the roomful of eyes turned to me.

“No,” I shook my head. “It’s time to stop fighting.”  

“Angel, angel, what have I done? … Why can’t I cross this river?”

My words were resolute, though it broke my heart me to say them. Yet they were also reflexive–no different than countless actions as an OR nurse anticipating surgeons’ or patients’ needs. And it was familiar; years of making hard decisions as an OIC impacting staff, patients, and their families’ lives came with the job. In too many ways, this was “business as usual.” Except, this was my dad. The stress of my personal life bleeding into my already-chaotic professional world—compounded by deep-seated family tensions in the presence of strangers from JSOC—steadily eroded my core.

As the room fell silent, the exchange of words echoed in my mind: Let’s go out swinging, doc… No dad... It’s time to stop fighting.

I wondered if the others present would perceive what I said as “giving up” on my part. Would they understand? I waited for a rebuke for taking the steam out of dad’s brave sentiment. But it was the truth. The doctor knew it. Nobody wanted to say it. But it had to be said. Dad’s passing would be easier this way. He wouldn’t have to endure a major surgery from which he’d never really recover. And die anyway.

I was perfectly placed for that critical, terrible moment: No matter how uninvolved we’d been in each other’s lives, I was still his son, a well-seasoned OR nurse, and had been in charge of the OR he’d just left.

So, after the lung biopsy, dad pressed on. He went back home, he went to his appointments, he walked around his neighborhood. I visited him regularly, went with him to appointments, walked with him around his neighborhood. I watched him slowly wither away. We all did.

Until one evening, I visited him. He was having such a difficult time breathing.

He was scared. I would be too.

He didn’t want to go to the hospital. I wouldn’t want to go either.

We both knew he wouldn’t be coming back.

But all of this remained unsaid. Instead, I told him he needed to go to the hospital, that I would take him.

“No,” he said shaking his head at the floor.

“Dad, it’s time,” I said gently but firmly.

He looked up at me, defiant. For a moment, we stood facing each other. Like two rams about to lock horns.

He was scared. I would be too.

I didn’t want to take him.
I didn’t want to lose him.
I didn’t want to lose the family that might have been.

So, I did the only thing I could do.

I bear hugged him. At more than five inches taller than dad. I overwhelmed his shorter, too-thin-body. I held him, pouring in a lifetime of love and missed opportunities.

It was too late to be angry that he smoked–or that for thirty years he chose JSOC at the expense of his family. It was too late to be angry my parents would never get back together. It was too late to be angry we were only involved at the end, when it was time to pick up the broken, dying pieces.

None of it mattered anymore.

“Pay no mind to the battles you’ve won … open your heart and hands, my son.”

I held him with all the gentle strength I could muster. “You are a great man,” I said gently shaking each word into his body. I dared not cry, or even stumble at my words. Otherwise, he may not hear what he needed to hear.

Dad said nothing, his body tensed.

Holding on, I gently shook him again. “You’re a great man,” I repeated. “And I love you, dad… ” I paused, whispering into his ear, “But it’s time.”

The tension in his body released. He melted in my arms; I literally held him upright. He was so tired. He was so scared. He needed the push. I would have needed it too.

“Ok,” he nodded, practically delirious.

He was too weak to drive to the hospital, so I drove him in his truck. There was a solemn finality to it. This would be a one-way trip. I never wanted to get there yet couldn’t get there fast enough to ease his suffering. He struggled mightily to catch each breath.

These moments seared into my soul.

As we showed our IDs to the gate guard, the soldier saluted us, uttering the customary: “All the way!”

In too many ways, this was “business as usual.”

That moment was surreal. As surreal as the moment I knew dad was going to die. As surreal as when I told him it was time to stop fighting. As surreal as the moment, just minutes before, when I held him in my arms and told him it was “time.”

“It’ll take a lot more than words and guns … the hands of the many must join as one.”

We returned the guard’s salute, dad’s was delayed a bit. His speech a little slurred from pure exhaustion and his struggle to breathe. Suddenly, he jerked himself upright, dug deep and barked: “All the way… Airborne!” returning a vigorous salute that matched his reply.

In that moment, dad pushed through the months of cancer, the sleepless nights, the steady ebbing of his life.

And it cost him.

He collapsed against the truck passenger window, somehow even more exhausted than before. His shoulders heaving, his breathing even more labored. His body was wrecked.

Dad had given everything to the Army.

And it cost him.

It cost all of us.

“And together we’ll cross the river…“

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This first appeared in The Havok Journal on November 19, 2024.

Mike Warnock is the editor-in-chief of The Havok Journal and a retired U.S. Army Major and Air Force veteran with 20 years of active service across both branches. During his career, he led surgical teams as an Operating Room Officer-in-Charge at the hospital, medical center, and combat-support levels, later serving in senior clinical, administrative, and inspector general roles before retiring in 2019. Over his 23-year civilian and military nursing career, he deployed to Guam and twice to Iraq, leading surgical and clinical teams in both peacetime and combat environments. He holds a B.S. in Nursing from the University of North Carolina at Charlotte and an M.A. in Military History from Norwich University.

As the Voice of the Veteran Community, The Havok Journal seeks to publish a variety of perspectives on a number of sensitive subjects. Unless specifically noted otherwise, nothing we publish is an official point of view of The Havok Journal or any part of the U.S. government.