My first experience with cancer was when I was about 9 years old.  Returning from a trip with my dad and grandparents, my grandfather mentioned something about a doctor's appointment he had the next day, and that he was worried about the outcome.

A little about Grandpa - this guy was a man's man.  Strong as an ox, could make or fix anything, an outdoorsman, and a patriot.  You couldn't ask for a better role model.

He also smoked up to 3 packs a day.

His test results came back, and it was lung cancer.  Surgery was scheduled and performed, but it was determined that it was largely inoperable (this was 1981), so radiation and chemo were ordered, and initially seemed to have some positive effect.  As time went on, however, this ox of a man slowly began to get weaker and waste away.

The last time we saw him, he was in a coma.  He passed away at home one Sunday night in October 1983.

Of all the good memories I have of Grandpa, there's one bad one that will stick with me forever - one day when we were visiting, I inadvertently saw my dad carrying him to the bathroom, because he was too weak to walk.  From the strongest guy I'd ever known, to that.