By Phil Riske | Managing Editor
You might have been, or might be in the future, so affected by a death that writing about it could salve the sting a little bit. I am fortunate to have this venue to do just that.
Lurking way back in my family tree is an insidious gene that creates tumors that attack and strangle organs and major blood vessels. During his Army boot training, my brother, Jack, came down with a sore throat and loss of voice that persisted to the point of serious medical concern.
Doctors eventually found a mass with tree-like branches that were choking his vocal chords and blood vessels in his neck.
It’s called pheochromocytoma.
Numerous surgeries left him voiceless and with facial paralysis and weakness on his left side. Doctors had to leave a portion of the tumor near the base of his brain.
Medically discharged, Jack moved to San Francisco and joined the hippie generation, with shoulder-length hair and railing against the machine, while holding sacred the environment.
In the meantime, my half-sister was diagnosed with pheochromocytoma in her neck. The mass was successfully removed, and she has never had a recurrence.
For 27 years, Jack struggled mightedly with his disease. There were times, nevertheless, when he functioned well in his chosen field of landscape architecture. He became a proficient guitar player.
We brought Jack back home to Cheyenne in 1990 where he passed away at age 47 in the VA hospital.
A physician, who was researching the disease at the time, told us he discovered pheochromocytoma most often occurs in left-handed, color-blind, young males.
Jack was both.
So am I, but I guess I ducked the bullet. I long ago alerted my daughters to inform their sons’ physicians of the family history.
At Jack’s memorial service, my other brother, Don, and his teenage son, Dylan, paid tribute in guitar and song.
About a decade later, Dylan was diagnosed with tumors in his abdomen similar to pheochromocytoma. His life was destined to follow that of his uncle Jack.
(Pictured) Dylan and his wife, Kizzy, lived as free-spirit musicians in Canon City, Colo., where he was a river raft tour guide. He was one of those rare cats who was never down, always joyful.
Dylan, the father of Tyler and Rayden Riske, joined his uncle in death last Thursday morning. He was 39.
With that, goes forth the hope it’s the end of the line for this family malady.
