August 7 - PET Scan Results (Not a good day)

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 12^th, 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 36^th 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.