EPISODE 18 TABLES, LADDERS, AND CANCER

I was going to have my first match back since my injury at the TLC PPV, in my first-ever Tables, Ladders, and Chairs match, and in my first-ever main event on a PPV.

I didn’t have the same level of swagger as before. I was back to officially being a babyface now; the broken nose sealed the deal but immediately put pressure on me. Now I had to be likable; what if the people turned on me before Mania? Then the old imposter syndrome started seeping in. You know the one? The one that tells you you’re not good enough. That someone else is better. That you’re a fraud and everyone is going to find out the next time you do anything.

TLC took place in San Jose, where years earlier I had attended my first WrestleMania, hoping to one day be the main event. And while it wasn’t WrestleMania, tonight we were the main event.

I watched the match before us struggle amidst chants of “We want Becky”—getting me excited. Or I would have been if that match didn’t include my buddy Colby, so I looked on with conflicting emotions, hoping this wouldn’t make things awkward.

The doubt that I had let set in was starting to dissipate. The crowd hadn’t turned on me yet. But of course not. It was only my first match.

Colby came back through the curtain, looking dejected. He and his opponent, Dean Ambrose, had worked their asses off out there. But it didn’t matter—the crowd had come to see The Man.

Colby passed me on his way to talk to Vince. “They’re ready for you,” he said, discouraged.

Charlotte and Asuka made their way to the ring. As soon as the music died down for a second, the chants of “Becky” rang through the arena before my music hit.

Piss off, Imposter Syndrome! I pronounced valiantly to my own skull.

We hadn’t had enough time to rehearse or locate where all the weapons and equipment we needed were beforehand, and so when we got out there it was a bit clustered.

The crowd didn’t seem to care, though. They were invested in the story, and whenever one lands on ladders or goes through tables or gets beaten mercilessly with a chair, the audience tends to forgive any additional sloppiness.

And despite our clunkiness in certain spots, there were still resounding chants of “This is awesome.” It didn’t feel awesome, though. It felt messy.

At the end, Charlotte and I were on top of the ladder, inches away from victory, when Ronda Rousey came barreling down the ramp and tipped us off, allowing Asuka to climb up and become the new champion.

A roar came from the crowd. Whether this was the excitement of having a new champion in Asuka or the fact that it was now inevitable that they would finally get Ronda versus Becky at WrestleMania, I’m not sure. But they sure were happy about it.

All three participants of the match came back not feeling great about ourselves. People backstage slapped us on the back and told us we were great, but we didn’t feel it. Certainly I didn’t; my first main event outing hadn’t been the colossal success I wanted it to be.

Not the most encouraging thing while trying to aim for the main event of WrestleMania in a matter of months.

The day after TLC, as I was on my way to the next town, my brother asked me to call him.

Christmas was coming up and I was going back to Ireland, WWE camera crew in tow. They were doing a special on me for the WWE Network, making me feel like I was hitting the big time.

“Here, what would you think of going down and spending Christmas with Dad this year?” Richy asked.

My dad lived in a county two hours outside of Dublin.

I had always loved Christmas at my mom’s, baking cookies, watching movies, staying in my pajamas for several days on end, and didn’t want to give up that tradition.

“Can’t he just come up on Christmas Eve?” I replied. That was what we had usually done, a tradition in itself, I justified.

“I just think it would be really nice and something different if we went down. He never gets to spend Christmas with us,” Richy pleaded.

“But Mom always does Christmas Day,” and she made a great Christmas dinner.

I could hear the frustration growing in his voice as I tried to argue with him while I wandered around the Whole Foods salad bar, trying to pick out my meals for the rest of the day.

“Becky, Dad has lung cancer,” he finally blurted out.

The words walloped me like a chair to the back of the head.

“What?” I asked out of disbelief more than a lack of understanding, as the lettuce tongs fell out of my hand.

“Look, I’m sorry to tell you like this. But I just think it would be nice if we—”

Devastated by my own selfishness and inability to care about anyone else’s convenience but my own, I interrupted him, “Of course we can go down to him. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. How bad is it?”

“We don’t really know. He doesn’t want to do chemo or anything. He didn’t want me to worry you.”

“When was he going to tell me? At Christmas?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Well, that would have been a shitty way to find out.” As if there were a non-shitty way to find out your dad has lung cancer. “I’m glad you told me now. Thank you.”

I was now bawling my eyes out as I walked through the drinks section.

“Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I lied, not feeling okay at all. “Thanks, Richy.”

I hung up and texted my mom.

“Dad has cancer?”

“Aw, Becky. I’m so sorry. We didn’t want to worry you. We knew you had so much going on. Are you going to be all right?”

“How long has he known?”

“We’re not sure. You know how your dad is; he wouldn’t tell anyone.”

“How long have you known?”

“Probably since October.”

October?! What the actual hell?! Richy had been holding this in for over two months; his older-brother instincts of protection had him suffering in silence for months, unable to vent his worries.

It sucked. It all fucking sucked.

And I still had a town to make and smiles to fake.

It would be a long few days until I could get back to Dublin.

I called the people who were making the documentary and explained what was going on. We already had plans to film in Dublin, but now I wanted to spend time with my dad.

“Can we bring him up?”

“Of course, Becky. We’ll do whatever you need,” Dan Pucherelli, a real-life hero who’s part of the backstage crew, assured me as he immediately went to work organizing hotels and car services for my dad so he might feel like a king.

I met my dad in the hotel bar once he had arrived. He already had a signature pint of Guinness in hand. He looked healthy. If you didn’t know any better you wouldn’t think anything was wrong. I got tequila. I needed it tonight.

Sitting in leather armchairs, he kept everything as breezy as he could, not going into specifics of anything. It was as if he had just been told that he’d have to get a mole removed as opposed to having stage 4 lung cancer. And bringing up his life insurance policy that he had somehow managed to maintain throughout his financial struggles, as if he were talking about the weather.

His greatest hope was, despite none of his career ambitions ever panning out, that he would have some amount of money to leave us when he left.

“Dad, I don’t care about any of that stuff. I’m fine; I don’t need anything. I just want you to be okay.”

Through sips of stout and small handfuls of peanuts, he didn’t sell a thing. As fathers tend to do. Never allowing me to get the full scope of the situation.

As a break from conversations of all things cancer, I brought up some happier news: “It’s looking like I’ll main event WrestleMania; I’d love to bring you over.”

“What’s that, now?”

He never really did keep up with the schedule or even understand the reach that WWE had across the globe. In fact, one time he mentioned to a nurse that his daughter was a professional wrestler and she produced a photo of me on her phone, saying, “Is this her?” His mind was blown.

“Becks! How did she get that picture?”

“Google, Dad.”

“Ah yes,” he responded, not actually having a clue what I was talking about.

Such a sweet, uncomplicated man, my dad.

I continued to explain the orbit of WrestleMania. “It’s our biggest event of the year, almost like the finals of the World Cup”—the usual comparison to the Super Bowl would also be wasted on him. “And there’s never been a woman that’s main evented it before, but I’m pretty sure I’m going to be the first.”

“Oh, right,” he answered, slightly unimpressed. “When is that?”

“April.”

“Well, we’ll see.”

“We’ll see? What do you mean?”

“If I’m still here.”

On Christmas Day we sat around my dad’s tiny table in his modest government-appointed house, eating his deliciously cooked dinner.

Over mashed potatoes and carrots I had to stop myself from crying, trying not to let him see me upset.

This could be the last Christmas I spend with my dad, I thought.

Even worse: This could be the last time I see my dad.