72.5% Happy

Monday, June 16, 2008

72.5% happy Current mood:  quietMy life is all about cancer.  I research every day to find new facts or to prepare myself for what’s to come.  I love going to work – though I’ve missed so much of it this year – because it’s a break from dealing with this horrible disease.  One of my dad’s best friends was talking to me about our situation the other day and told me how he tries to talk about normal things that my dad loves – like 3-D movies, when he calls.  He makes an effort to bring up the mundane, the simple – the things we sort of forget to talk about these days, as we’re consumed by a haze of doctors’ visits, treatments, pills and medication timelines and spreadsheets.  It makes a lot of sense. My little brother came over last night (yes, they’ve finally reconciled) and it hit me hard that my mom and I, who are surrounded by this every day, day in and day out, have slowly lost the ability to talk about anything else to dad.  He doesn’t hear us when we do, either.  But when Michael comes over, he lights up and you can almost see the synapses firing.  I’m happy that it happens, but sometimes I wish I were the one that made him so happy when I come through the door.  I try to remind myself to be calm and gracious at all times. I’ve noticed I’m drawing away from my friends and activities a lot more now.  Like I said above – you get drawn in to the drama and eventually consumed by it.  I don’t even notice much anymore.  But it gets harder to talk about things that aren’t cancer related.  Every time I do plan to DO something, we end up in the emergency room and spark off another week or two week stint in the ICU.  All my plans fall to the side and are forgotten. I also need to apologize to so many people for monopolizing conversations lately.  People ask how I am and I run away with the conversation.  As soon as I’m alone again, I realize that I didn’t ask whomever I was speaking with how THEY were.  It’s unconscionably rude!  I’m not the kind of girl who does that – I’m the one who will listen for hours on end and try and give a helpful answer if it’s wanted.  This selfish girl who speaks out of turn and verbally horks conversations is just not me.  At least know that when this happens to you in a conversation with me that I will be horribly sorry moments after we speak and filled with social remorse.  The system administrator is aware of the problem and is working to correct it.  Please check back soon. In cancer-update news, we have the following: Dad has decided that it’s time to share with the world at large the situation as it stands.  No more secrecy.  The one stipulation is this:  he does not want to talk about it.  Everyone can know, no one can speak. Michael and Dad reconciled after the last posting about the ER trip last month.  Now, Michael is the joy of his life and they spend evenings trying to invent things together.  They’re working on some theory with magnets and hospital beds, last I heard. We just got him out of the hospital after yet another 2 week stay in ICU.  It was a medical overdose on meperedine (aka Demerol), administered by a well-meaning oncologist.  He nearly died from the overdose and at one point was thought to be mentally impaired.  He’s recovered from this mostly, though some ill effects remain. He got a new super awesome lift chair – one of those recliners that is totally mechanical.  He loves it. Now the bad news:  the cancer has spread.  It is a very aggressive form and he’s been too ill for chemo for weeks now.  In the meantime, we’ve been told that the cancer has metastasized to both his lungs and his brain.  They suspect to his spine, as well.  Last Tuesday, they found 4 tumors in his brain; the largest being 1 inch in diameter. Treatment:  he started radiation (proton therapy) on his brain and liver last week, but this will be merely palliative.  We have 8 treatments left to go, one every work day for the two weeks.  After that, we stop everything.  He doesn’t want to do this anymore and I understand.  So after that, we coast. In summary, we understand that we are nearing the end of our time with him, and a weird sort of peace is descending on us all.  He talks a lot about not feeling pain anymore and how someday, millions of years from now, his atoms will make up the beginnings of a new star.  He tells me not to worry about him and not to be sad.  I tell him my atoms will miss his atoms.  Every day, I wonder how we’re going to wake up with the strength to do this for yet another day.  I worry for him and I wonder if he knows just how much I love him and what lengths I’ll go to to make our time a happy one. I guess to an outsider’s eye, things look less than rosy, but honestly, they’re the best they could possibly be, given the situation.  I am so happy we live in Houston, surrounded by the best cardiologists and oncologists in the world.  I’m glad that these brilliant professionals are not discounting him or his treatments because of the ultimate outcome.  We’re blessed and we know it.