luke warm

I took dad to his oncologist today. We chatted away on the drive down, making small talk to avoid talking about what was weighing heavily on both of our minds. Dad's big question was "What is my life expectancy?" and my big questions were "Just how is my dad going to die? And ... What can I do for him?" We discussed a million other things instead.

It was strange going back for both of us because dad's hospital is the same as mom's hospital and the last time either of us were there it was with and for mom. I had said to dad that we should prepare ourselves for the possibility of seeing mom's mesothelioma specialist and team and we both just kind of took a big inhale. Dad said he wouldn't want to see mom's team, and I told dad that I was reminding myself that they did not cause mom's cancer, but gave her hope when she needed hope and a way to fight. I figured dad was thinking that they had killed her by giving her chemo that wasn't going to ever work anyway. But neither one said that out loud either.

We walked right in. Dad's doctor, we thought, was on a different floor than mom's doctor but once we were up in the cancer wing we saw that this was not true. The two doctor's worked off the very same floor. And I very much did not want to see mom's doctor either, no matter how kindly I was trying to make myself think of them.

First dad and I waited in the big waiting room where people sit waiting for some tech to call their names so they can get a blood test. Usually the blood test is to see if you are healthy enough for your chemo that day, so I am not sure why dad needed one, but I sat with him and waited. The small take was more forced in this area because we were both preoccupied by trying not to take in everything around us that we couldn't help but take in. It's devastating to see the sickly people being wheeled or limping bravely in. And even worse to see the young people. I guessed which women had breast cancer because they were likely the bald ones. Some just sat there bald, some wrapped pretty scarves around their heads, and there was even one dignified older lady with a very obvious wig on. There were quite a few people pushing or carrying air canisters around. And most everyone wore a defeated kind of look. They were mostly frumpled and tired and looked like they too would rather be just about any other place in the world. My heart broke a little for every single one of those people.

After dad got his blood drawn we retired to the smaller waiting room to wait for dad's doctor. We waited long and read magazines. I read a cancer magazine and wondered if I should show dad the article on eating a cancer preventative diet. I decided not to. Dad read the news paper. Dad got up to get a drink and then I heard him in the hallway talking to mom's ex-doctor's assistant. Dad was asking if kidney failure is a common side effect of mom's treatment and I heard the pain in his voice as he struggles with feeling guilty that mom died trying so hard to live.

Then dad was finally called to wait in an examining room. And three nurses came in and gave dad the once over and we waited more and finally the doctor came in. The doctor took a quick look at dad's latest test results and said he was pleased and tried to leave before I asked a single question. But here is the gist of what I found out.... Dad is in remission. Remission typically lasts between 4 and 6 months. I'm not sure if dad has been in remission for the entire year he has been taking and responding so well to his medication or if his timer began once his PSA scores returned to normal. Either way, it sounded like too short of a time for me. Every other question the doctor answered with "I can't answer that" and I wanted to (insert violent act of choice here) for not being more helpful. He wouldn't even tell me if there is any kind of planning I could do now so that I have all my cards (cards? Eggs? cars? What the heck I am supposed to line up?) lined up when I need them. I am never organized, so this desire to be prepared is coming from left field, especially for me. Go figure.

It was relief to walk out of there. If dad wasn't with me I could have run out the front door and ran and ran until I was totally lost and had to stop for some good ethnic food... wait, I ramble... While I was paying for the parking (which is valet at this hospital) the parking attendant recognized dad and me, and she said something about luck. When dad and I walked out to wait even more for my truck we were shocked to see it parked right out front. I told the attendant that it was mine and she said I should play the lottery with the lucky stub numbers. It was so good to be true that dad wondered out loud if any crap had been stolen from my truck. I told dad that I take all the valuable crap with me in my purse and they could have the left overs for that kind of service.

We came home and took the boys and friends out to dinner. Then we stopped into the liquor store to play the lucky valet parking car stub numbers. I'll check results tomorrow.

After dinner I so badly wanted to go into the lake but was too wiped to change into a suit. So I jumped in with my clothes on. And it felt great. And I got Evan and his 2 friends to jump in too. And then Evan got naked. So did one friend. And Evan was cracking me up joking about his body. Evan is very secure with his looks. When I told the boys they had to take showers they moaned. So I got shampoo and let them wash up in the lake. They loved it. I needed them to love it. It gave me my center back. They laughed and played until there was no light left in the sky and we all headed in for our jammies.

Comments

[danelle]

Thats fantastic - well the lake part, not the doctor visit part. As a nanny and constant 'judger of parenting' - I'm always amazed at what parents say "no" to. "You can't jump in the lake with your clothes on", "no you can't shampoo in the lake" - why the HELL not?! That is the stuff memories are made of.