I was only mildly aware of the band Toto on the Tuesday in May when my dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer. I’m a child of the 80s, and we all know at least “Africa.” It was an omnipresent hit in the early days of MTV, when music videos were low-budget affairs: usually stitched-together concert footage, surrealistic short films, or a disjointed combination of the two.
My relationship to Toto changed suddenly and permanently on May 30, the day doctors delivered my father, Mark, a surprising but unequivocal death sentence. Stage four liver cancer, they said. Six months to live, more or less. Surgeons had essentially stumbled upon it during a relatively routine gallbladder surgery. In the process of removing his gallbladder, they discovered cancerous tumors on his liver.
Just enjoy it, he said. I’m not going to do chemo. I want to die with dignity. And I am still determined to go to that Toto concert.
I didn’t give up there. I went to Twitter and reached out to Toto front man and guitarist Steve Lukather. I posted an old picture of my parents on Instagram to relay the story. I thought I’d tagged Toto’s official account in the photo, but the next day a River North plumbing company called Toto messaged me: “Our hearts are with you during this difficult time, but we think you may be looking for Toto the band and not Toto the plumbing company.”
