Throughout
this journey with cancer, my dad seems to get bad news one little step at a
time. Every time he talks to a doctor it’s just a little bit more bad
news. The latest news is no exception. Last Wednesday my dad’s lower lip and chin
started going numb. The next morning
when he woke up they were still numb.
Wondering if she should call the doctor or the dentist, my Mom googled “numb
lower lip and chin” while she was at work. She was shocked when every result
indicated that this was most often a complication of cancer which is moving
rapidly through the body. The Internet
told us that unless aggressive treatment is undertaken immediately, the person
has about a year to live. My dad called
the oncologist and left a message.
The
oncologist called back the next day. She
had results from the CT scan done along with last week’s PET scan, but the PET
scan results weren't in yet. The CT scan
showed that the cancer was spreading fast and she told my dad the news that no
one wants to hear. The cancer is not
curable. In a typical patient, with some
treatment they might have 12 to 18 months to live. However, because of the complications of
Crohn’s disease that my dad is dealing with, she told him that he would have
less than one year to live. It was a tough
weekend for our family, but it feels like this week held even more bad
news.
Today my
parents met with the oncologist to review the PET scan. Cancer in his bowel area has continued to
grow, as we already knew. On top of that
there is cancer in the lining of his abdomen, his prostate, his right hip bone,
and the lymph nodes in is right groin.
As well, there are two spots on his lungs that look suspicious. The numbness in his lip and chin means that there
is cancer in the jawbone pressing on a nerve.
An MRI of his head has been scheduled for next week. If that’s not enough, my dad’s Crohn’s
disease is active again in the part of his intestine leading to his
ostomy. The oncologist will be
consulting with her colleagues to determine if my dad can be given small doses
of chemotherapy. However, if this
happens it will only be one type of chemotherapy and half the regular dose,
because the oncologist says my dad’s body won’t be able to handle more than
that.
Today the
oncologist was surprised to see my dad looking and feeling as good as he
was. Those of us who know him well are
not surprised to hear this from her.
Nurses and doctors tell us regularly how my dad seems to have a much
higher ability to tolerate pain and suffering than the average person. At this point, my dad is, indeed, in a lot of
pain. He has experienced pain while
sitting for more than a year. The
surgery in May was an attempt to put an end to that, and would have been
successful if not for the cancer. At
this point, my dad is in more pain sitting than ever before. Now he is also experiencing pain while he is
standing.
I have
tried to be fairly clinical in these blog posts. I have also withheld a few negative details
at times, in order to give our family time to absorb more bad news before
making everything public. Therefore I
haven’t written much in here about how my dad or the rest of us are feeling,
but here goes:
My dad has
always been the eternal optimist and facing cancer hasn't changed that a
bit. July 12th, after my
parents had an appointment with Dr. Datta, many in our family came to terms
with the fact that my dad’s condition might well be terminal. My dad accepted that too, but he figured the
cancer might get him some time in the next five to seven years. On Friday when the oncologist told my dad
that he would have less than a year he told himself he would have 12 to 18
months. I think this positive mental
self-talk is part of what helps him be so healthy and strong, all things
considered. However, today the doctor
told my dad that he can expect a serious decline in his health sometime in the
next couple months. That was very hard
for him to hear. He’s been trying so
hard to hold out hope and it just keeps getting crushed.
Time has
become incredibly precious. All of those
clichés about facing the end of your life are suddenly, blindingly true. Suddenly you realize what the most important
things are. Every second has to count. As
children losing our father, my siblings and I have been in a flurry of activity
to try and plan special moments. We have
talked on the phone for hours now about what our parents mean to us and how we
can help them and what we should be doing.
One thing I have realized about terminal illnesses is that the rest of
life marches on. This is proving to be a
huge challenge. At the end of this month
Scott and Kirsten (who have been living with my parents this summer) have to go
back to school in Idaho.
Laura and Chris are moving to a new house. Jason and Melissa are expecting their first
baby August 22nd (and babies come when they are ready to come,
whether we are planning on doing family pictures that day or not!) Jen, Laura and I have to somehow have all our
older kids ready for the first day of school.
It all just keeps going. I sort
of want the whole world to stop turning for a little while so I can say a
proper good-bye to my dad, so we can give him the perfect send-off during the
months we have left. I am starting to
feel frantic that there isn't time for everything we want to do. My poor parents have hardly had any time
together since my dad’s surgery in May.
The hardest part of this entire thing is watching my mom have to deal
with this. This is so hard on her. Her and my dad celebrate their 36th
wedding anniversary next Tuesday. Thirty-six
years seems like a long time, but it isn't nearly long enough.
Last
Thursday, after hearing the latest bad news about my dad’s health, his older
brother Richard called him up and said, “We need to go to Missoula.”
When my dad was about six and Richard thirteen, they spent the summer in
Missoula while their dad was down there working
on his doctorate. One day little Johnny
found a nickel and used it to buy a plane at a hobby shop. As he and Richard were walking home, Richard
told Johnny he should throw the plane off of the bridge they were walking
over. Johnny protested, saying he had
hardly even played with the plane yet and he didn't want to throw it away, but
Richard insisted. He said, “If you throw
that plane off this bridge it will be gone, but it will be the flight of a
lifetime, a flight you will never forget.”
So, Johnny threw the plane off the bridge and it did one loopdy-loop,
and then another, and then it came back towards the bridge, swooped under it
and turned around and flew back out.
Finally the plane descended gracefully into the river and floated
away. Over the years my dad has given
Richard a hard time for convincing him to throw his plane away and Richard
always replies with a sparkle in his eye, “But you never forgot that flight,
did you?” So, tomorrow my dad and my
uncle Richard, along with their wives, are driving to Missoula to throw a few balsam wood toy
planes off that bridge.
