Rare brain cancer finally claims upbeat and courageous doctor
I knew it was coming. I thought I had mentally braced myself for the inevitable. But when the bad news came that my buddy Vern Nelson had died Saturday night, I found myself sliding into a state of disbelief and denial.
Vern dead?
Naw, that can’t be.
Vern, 56, was a maestro at orchestrating comebacks. He was the guy who let surgeons slice into his brain 14 times and lived to joke about it.
Friends nicknamed him the Energizer Bunny.
He kept going and going and …
Vern loved to tell about that tactless ass of a doctor who bluntly told him he had just months to live. That happened shortly after he was diagnosed with a rare brain cancer with the name that belongs on a Jeopardy question.
Asthesioneuroblastoma.
That was 12 years ago.
“I don’t like it, but what am I going to do about it?” he told me once. “Because I want to survive. I’m just not gonna die.”
Vern wasn’t stupid. Far from it. He was one of the brightest individuals I’ve ever known.
Before the cancer stopped him from practicing medicine, Vern ran the emergency rooms at two Spokane hospitals.
No, Vern knew exactly what he was up against. He knew he was in a fight he couldn’t win. Vern simply chose not to surrender to the invader in his head, the enemy that was slowly and insidiously stealing his life.
That’s why the community cared so much about Vern. People were inspired by his humanity. They loved this fearless guy who voiced no bitterness about the rotten hand he had been dealt.
Vern kept smiling. And fighting.
I met him on a January day in 2001 at Cabin Coffee, the Browne’s Addition espresso joint Vern adopted as his personal clubhouse.
At the time my interest in him was purely story-driven.
I came to interview this character who had confounded the medical establishment by surviving so many brain surgeries.
Knowing Vern was a doctor, I expected him to be a stuffy guy in a suit and tie.
What a laugh. The lanky, strapping dude waiting for me was several galaxies away from stuffy.
He had this braided graying ponytail that trailed down the back of a hideous green and mustard plaid shirt. A rumpled red and white ball cap advertising Peterbilt trucks was tilted over the top of his surgically misshapen forehead.
I came for an interview. I wound up making a friend.
Vern told me about Nov. 17, 1992 – his “Day From Hell.”
He was working on a patient with stomach pains. Without warning, blood began pumping out of his nose and mouth, covering the terrified woman with gore.
Tests revealed that a cancerous tumor had ruptured a small artery in his nasal cavity.
That was how it started.
Vern dealt with his terminal condition by buying the biggest Harley motorcycle he could find. He built a house. He restored two classic sports cars. He volunteered at several charities.
“I just keep getting this vision of Vern with his arms wide open,” says Rebecca Mack, the former co-owner of Cabin Coffee who became one of Vern’s close pals. “Even when he was dying he was always game for a hug.”
Kym Ault, who owned the coffee shop with Mack, recalls with fondness how Vern became a fixture at the place. Some days he would drop in five times. If a chair needed fixing, Vern would take it home without asking and return it repaired.
Vern’s daughters, Darci, 28, and Kristen, 27, describe their father as “the kind of dad you’d see on TV.” He was always there for them, taking them on campouts, building bunk beds for their Cabbage Patch dolls, teaching them how to cook …
He was quite a guy. He told horrible jokes. He loved extra hot Thai food. He enjoyed ironic song lyrics.
The last time I saw Vern he was nearing the end. He sat sprawled on a sofa in his apartment, wrapped in an oversized George Foreman robe.
He tried his best to communicate. But it was so hard. Although he could understand what I was saying, this articulate, clever man couldn’t find the words to respond.
“It’s frustrating for you, isn’t it?” I finally said.
Vern lowered his head. He expelled a breathy “yeah.”
Rest in peace, champ. The fight’s over.