`BIG C' STANDS FOR COP COURAGE.

Byline: DENNIS McCARTHY 

``We still get up every day and put our boots on.''

Officer Terry Cammack, a 36-year LAPD veteran.

You have to look real close to notice the second belt. It's under the uniform that LAPD motorcycle Officer Pat Beighley wears - a slight bulge just above his gun belt.

It's his chemo belt. Strapped to it are two pouches - one holds the medication that's helping him battle colon cancer, the other holds the battery pack that pumps the drugs into his veins through a catheter inserted in his chest.

Five days a week, this 35-year veteran police officer straps on both belts before he heads out to patrol the streets of Los Angeles. One belt to fight crime, the other to fight cancer.

We've all heard stories about public service employees who file for disability at the sight of a hangnail. Then there are guys like Pat Beighley, and his buddy, Terry Cammack, who's battling prostate cancer. Both police officers could have retired years ago with full pension benefits. But they're still showing up for roll call every morning - still doing the job they swore to do when they were young and strong.

More than 30 years later, not even cancer can stop them from putting their boots on every morning.

No one ever notices the second belt, Beighley says. He doesn't make a big deal out of it. Many of his fellow officers don't know he's wearing it.

The second belt does have a way of bringing life into sharp focus, though. Makes you realize you're not a kid anymore and helps you remember all the right reasons you came on the job in the first place - to help people.

And you have, plenty of times over the last 35 years. But it all seems to mean so much more now - wearing that second belt.

``I was taking my dinner break a few nights ago at a small restaurant, and an elderly lady asked the waitress if she could please help her out to her car,'' Beighley said.

``I told her I'd walk her out. When I got back, a little boy about 4 kept staring at me from another booth. I waved him over and bounced him on my knee. He was laughing so hard, and so was I.

``That little boy isn't going to forget that ride on a policeman's knee for a long time. I left thinking what a privilege this job is. The little rewards like that.''

Cammack nods, knowing exactly what his buddy means. Some nights, the pain from his cancer is so bad he doesn't think he'll be able to get up in the morning and put on those boots.

But he does. He still loves the job - helping people. Aside from the days he's laid up because of chemotherapy treatments, he hasn't missed a day in more than 20 years.

``It's humbling just to be around these guys,'' says Sgt. Michael Apodaca, who works directly for Police Chief William Bratton as the wellness coordinator for the Los Angeles Police Department.

Last March, Apodaca and cancer survivor Lily Ruff, the wife of an LAPD officer, started a cancer support group for officers and their spouses.

Twice a month, they meet in the cafeteria at the Police Academy to discuss new cancer drugs and clinical trials, tips on how to talk to doctors and ideas on how to reach other officers and their spouses who may be fighting cancer alone.

It's a problem, Apodaca says, because police officers have been trained to take control of situations. They give help, not get it. But you can't take control of cancer.

``We want to show them that the fear they're experiencing is normal, that they're not weak. It's OK to be afraid.''

Soon, the support group will be visiting daily roll calls at every police division in the city to deliver that message in person, Ruff said.

Because no one beats cancer alone. Not even cops.

Training officer Amy Sandquist tried not to cry Thursday when she told the support group the good news about her husband, but she couldn't hold back the tears.

``The doctor called us last night,'' she said. ``They didn't find any more cancer cells in Frank.''

The 25 officers and spouses sitting around the table applauded, and a few cried along with Amy. It's one of their mottos - ``Don't carry those tears by yourself.'' Share them. And they do.

One by one, members of the group talked about what was going on in their lives, how their treatments were going, and if there was anything new to report.

``Nutrition, diet, and prayer - lots of prayer is working for me,'' said Metro Division patrol Officer Mary Grace Weaver, who has lymphoma.

She had just had a baby last year when she called her husband - another police officer - from her doctor's office, and told him she had to see him right away.

``He showed up with his partner, a big, bear of a guy. I told my husband I had cancer. As he was hugging me, I looked over and saw his partner, crying like a baby.

``On the drive home, my husband just broke down. He never cries. He said he didn't want to lose me. I told him we were going to do everything we could not to let that happen, and we are.''

Dennis McCarthy, [phone]

dennis.mccarthy(at)dailynews.com

CAPTION(S):

2 photos

Photo:

(1 -- color) LAPD motorcycle Officer Patrick Beighley, left, and Senior Lead Officer Terry Cammack are both battling forms of cancer while performing their duties.

(2) Between them, LAPD officers and cancer fighters Patrick Beighley, left, and Terry Cammack have more than 60 years on the force. Either one could have retired long ago with full pension and benefits, but they choose to stay on the job and help their community.

David Sprague/Staff Photographer