In for the fight of his life

[Editor's note: Pat Gamache of Odessa continues the story of his dealings with the medical profession and battles with addition and illness. Last week's issue left off with Pat hearing a song on the radio that prompted him to find out more about it.]

There it was, Chris Rea’s “Texas.” I loved to drive and it’s a driving song. I guess that’s why it was stuck in the far reaches of my mind.

I found out that Chris Rea is from England and writes a lot of songs about driving and also Christian music and love ballads. One is called “Tell Me There’s a Heaven.”

I wondered why he wrote some of the songs he did, i.e., about life, death, etc. I found his song called “Soft Top, Hard Shoulder.” It had a great guitar riff and a lively beat with a video. The driver is Dr. Who’s Peter Capaldi.

I read the lyrics and was sucked into why he wrote it. It was me! The lyrics will surprise you. I now read the lyrics of songs and try to find out why the author wrote them. They take on a whole new meaning that way, not hidden by the tune wrapped around them.

Then I found a video of him in concert at the Montrose jazz festival in 2014. There were comments on the web page wanting to know why Chris had walked off the stage suddenly, and some thought it rude. Turns out he had collapsed back stage and not for the first time.

I found out that he had been battling pancreatic cancer since 1994 and had had at least six bowel resections. His music made a whole lot more sense now. All I can say is that you need to read the lyrics to his music to understand. He once said, “If I wasn’t a rich rocker, I would be dead!

The fact that he was a survivor gave a boost to my will to survive liver disease. “Refuse to lose” and “use it or lose it” were my mantras.

Things were happening so fast that I just needed some alone time to sort through them. I got in my car to take a long drive. “Soft Top, Hard Shoulder” kept playing in my head as I set out for my drive. After about 30 minutes, I decided to head to Glacier Park on Highway 2 to watch the sunset. I told no one. I never made it.

Six and a half hours later I was in Lincoln County, where I’d never been before. A far cry from the hustle and bustle of the megatropolis over there. There was an unexplainable draw for me over here.

I love the mountains, rivers, trees and a good campfire, hiking into the Alpine lakes and dropping a line, hiking two miles upriver to a secret spot at the base of a waterfall to fish.

So for me to be drawn to the scablands was very unusual. The best part, I thought, was the lack of traffic. No 3 p.m. to 7 p.m. rush hour, being stuck in traffic, the turnpike crawl, an average speed of 10 to 15 mph, the one-finger salutes, fights for parking spots, having to park three blocks away from your home to get a parking spot and so much more.

When we moved to Monroe in 1981, the 35-mile round trip to Queen Anne Hill in Seattle to pick up my mother-in-law took 1.5 hours, like a trip to Ritzville. It now takes two hours minimum, one way.

There was a whirlwind of emotions while I went around to all my family and friends to say goodbye and find out if there was anything they needed settled or cleared up, before I died. All said no.

That had to be the single hardest thing I have ever done. I was no longer that wallflower in the corner. It was the last time I spoke to most of them. Then there were the drunks that had no clue. They would call me up and tell me they were sorry that I had liver disease, while slurring their words. One of them never remembered that he had called me afterward. He was a hard one to lose after 20 years. It was kind of like getting a divorce from him, my race buddy!

Then there are those who want your stuff because you can’t take it with you. Where was call blocking when I needed it? In the end it was all a waste of time, except that now I was finally free of my shell.