Looking out my front window, it was hard to miss the guy perched on the tippy-top rungs of a very overextended, shaky ladder leaning against the upper reaches of the very tall house across the street. He busily was scrubbing a window while swaying to and fro, keeping perfect time with the 30 mph wind gusts.
This guy is about to learn how to fly, I thought, and had turned to go offer a hand steadying the ladder but he was climbing down. I did the next best thing: I grabbed two beers and went over to celebrate his courage.
That is how I met Rick McCrum. He and his wife had just returned from teaching jobs in Selawik and were moving their family back into their Eagle River house.
Over the years, Rick became a great friend, one of those competent guys who do a little of everything. He was a teacher, trainer and program manager for more then 30 years, much of it spent teaching special education and low-income kids in rural Alaska. In summer, he fished commercially or worked construction, and, in winter, he was a recreational dog musher. He loved fishing and hunting, and being outdoors.
From sunrise to sunset, he was a dynamo — home projects, puttering in his yard — making life miserable for us loafers. Claiming he was somewhat of a lumberjack, he directed our felling of a troublesome, and huge, backyard birch tree. No sweat, he said. It dropped precisely where we did not want it to fall, crushing a cluster of telephone, cable and electricity boxes — the only things back there, by the way.
When our wives attended UAA night classes, he would haul over a heaping pile of smoked salmon. We stacked it on Ritz crackers with cheese and washed it all down with beer — he loved beer — to fuel the hours-long talks about hot rods or whatever until the wee hours.
The world was a bigger place with him in it. He moved to the Kenai Peninsula, we visited, but in 2005 he retired and returned to his childhood home in Sand Point, Idaho. We communicated sporadically. I missed him.
Rick McCrum died July 9, losing his long, valiant fight with colorectal cancer. The news was like a punch in the stomach.
The Colon Cancer Alliance says colorectal cancer is the third most commonly diagnosed cancer and the second-leading cause of cancer deaths in men and women combined in the United States.
The alliance says 72 is the average age of diagnosis, with 90 percent of new cases and 95 percent of deaths from colon cancer occurring in people 50 or older. But it can happen to those much younger. Colon cancer rates in adults 50 and older are dropping, but they are increasing in adults younger than 50. Another good friend was diagnosed in her early 40sand a third is fighting her fight now.
The American Cancer Society estimates there will be about 134,000 new cases of colorectal cancer this year: about 49,000 deaths. Ethnicity, age and family history play a huge role.
African-American men and women are at greater risk of colon cancer and have a lower survival rate. Jews of Eastern European descent (Ashkenazi Jews) may have a higher rate, and Native Americans and Alaska Natives face higher rates. If your parent, sibling or child has colon cancer, your risks are two to three times as high as somebody without a family history of the disease.
My father was diagnosed with colon cancer in his early 60s. He survived, but it scared me into booking a screening, an effective, easy way to detect polyps that can turn cancerous — or to find early-stage cancer.
Despite what you may have heard about the storied prep for colonoscopies, it truly was no big deal, certainly no worse than the fallout from a bad taco. Doped up, I remember telling the doctor — and they must tire of comedians — "let me know if you find my car keys" before giggling off. The procedure was a piece of cake. I rejoined the world as it wrapped up. Not to be crude, it was fascinating — and I have neat pictures.
They found polyps the first time, some of them potential cancers. The second colonoscopy a few years later found more, but not the bad kind. I'm a believer. The next one is next year.
This is a cancer we can prevent or beat by getting regular screenings starting at 50 — earlier if you have a family history or other risk factors. Do not just think about doing it; do it.
The world will be a much smaller place for me without Rick McCrum — smaller still for someone else without you.
Paul Jenkins is editor of the AnchorageDailyPlanet.com, a division of Porcaro Communications.