My Dad and I went to Overlake today to meet with an Oncologist referred to him by a friend of a friend. We didn't have any expectations, but it is impossible to ignore hope when it glimmers.
He walked in resembling a younger version of Santa Claus and I would be lying if I said I didn't get the Christmas Eve butterflies. How could this jolly man give us bad news? Impossible!
With impeccable bedside manner and soulful eyes, he delivered the same news we heard from the Group Health Oncologist about a month ago. While I appreciated his approach, I think it hurts more to be served words like "about 3 months", "general declination", "extensive", "fast growing" and "I am so sorry" from Santa. Where was our Christmas miracle?
We left Santa with a spurious smile and a garbage basket full of used tissues.
Today has been hard. Facing mortality, even when it isn't your own, is a daunting task on a good day.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Smiling
My Dad, and I quote, "had a wonderful day today." I have not heard absolute delight in his voice in over 8 months. I will be smiling for the rest of the afternoon.
You have to take the good with the bad, but today, and probably just today, I won't think of anything but my Dads' wonderful day.
Enjoy yours.
You have to take the good with the bad, but today, and probably just today, I won't think of anything but my Dads' wonderful day.
Enjoy yours.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Planning Time
We made plans today: a week in and around the Grand Canyon and a week listening to the waves crash at Cannon Beach.
When I was a little girl, my family would take an annual vacation to Cannon Beach. The memories are faint, but cherished. I recall being dressed head to toe in my red Columbia rain gear, chasing the dog and finding hidden treasures in tide pools. We used to walk from Tolovana Inn to Haystack rock, singing 'the ants go marching' so I would forget the cold and the long walk atop my little legs.
I've outgrown my red rain suit and it is very possible that the walk is short. However, I look forward to discovering hidden treasures with my dad, to feel like that little girl again, to start opening this gift of time.
My Dad commented that it feels like we are running a race against time, he can hear the clock ticking and when it stops..well we know what happens when it stops. The thing is, we are all running a race against time. The difference between my Dad and the rest of us is that he was given a tentative time stamp, he gets to watch the sand fall.
I wonder if we would have gone to the Grand Canyon or returned to Cannon Beach had he not been diagnosed with cancer. I hate to say it, but probably not. Why do we do that? Why do we wait until we feel like we are running out of life before we decide to live?
When I was a little girl, my family would take an annual vacation to Cannon Beach. The memories are faint, but cherished. I recall being dressed head to toe in my red Columbia rain gear, chasing the dog and finding hidden treasures in tide pools. We used to walk from Tolovana Inn to Haystack rock, singing 'the ants go marching' so I would forget the cold and the long walk atop my little legs.
I've outgrown my red rain suit and it is very possible that the walk is short. However, I look forward to discovering hidden treasures with my dad, to feel like that little girl again, to start opening this gift of time.
My Dad commented that it feels like we are running a race against time, he can hear the clock ticking and when it stops..well we know what happens when it stops. The thing is, we are all running a race against time. The difference between my Dad and the rest of us is that he was given a tentative time stamp, he gets to watch the sand fall.
I wonder if we would have gone to the Grand Canyon or returned to Cannon Beach had he not been diagnosed with cancer. I hate to say it, but probably not. Why do we do that? Why do we wait until we feel like we are running out of life before we decide to live?
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Waves: micro and radiation
My Dad went in for palliative radiation therapy on Wednesday, hoping to experience immediate pain relief for his bones. We were all optimistic. Even though the treatment would not cure his cancer, I allowed myself to picture him back on his bike, leading a ride, almost manic. When I was younger, the site of my dad in spandex and a bright yellow jersey would bring an embarrassed flush to my cheeks. Today, it would bring an indescribable sense of victory and happiness. I never would have thought, in a million years, that I would smile at the thought of my dad in his bike gear. Two days after radiation therapy, my dad is in his sweats, his spandex tucked away in his dresser, collecting dust. He is still in pain and does not have enough energy to run basic errands.
He called me this morning asking for a favor, would I pick him up a microwave and some dinner entrees? Sure Dad, anything. He explained that he no longer has energy to do the dishes. He needs something he can heat up and throw away. He hates microwave dinners, almost as much as he hates his cancer, but a guys gotta eat. We discussed his price range, color and size preference. We went along as though this was a totally normal conversation between father and daughter. We ignored the fact that he could not accompany me to the store, that he was purchasing a microwave for the first time in 61 years and that his new dinner menu would pale in comparison to the fresh stuff he liked to buy at Trader Joe's. We ignored it because we have to. For survival.
He called me this morning asking for a favor, would I pick him up a microwave and some dinner entrees? Sure Dad, anything. He explained that he no longer has energy to do the dishes. He needs something he can heat up and throw away. He hates microwave dinners, almost as much as he hates his cancer, but a guys gotta eat. We discussed his price range, color and size preference. We went along as though this was a totally normal conversation between father and daughter. We ignored the fact that he could not accompany me to the store, that he was purchasing a microwave for the first time in 61 years and that his new dinner menu would pale in comparison to the fresh stuff he liked to buy at Trader Joe's. We ignored it because we have to. For survival.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Introduction
When someone you love is diagnosed with a terminal disease, your life changes. I know more about small cell lung cancer, brain surgery, chemo therapy, radiation, pain, heartache, 4:30am phone calls from the ICU, the best remedies to reduce swollen eyes, clinical trials, FMLA, the 4th floor at Group Health, tough decision making and inner strength then a 28 year old should. I didn't choose this, it chose me. Well, it chose my Dad and I am sitting in the passenger seat with one hand on the steering wheel.
We were recently told that my Dad has months to live. The cancer has metastasized to his bones and he has multiple, new pulmonary tumors. I want to believe that he will have years, that he will see me get married someday and play with his grandchildren, that I can buy him a red velvet cupcake for his next birthday, that he will be there to celebrate my accomplishments and help me learn from my failures, that we don't have to cram his bucket list into a 6 month time frame.
What I want to believe and what I know are entirely different. I know that time with my Dad is severely limited. I hate his cancer, but I love him. Pending approval, I am taking a leave of absence. During this time, I plan on making memories. When he has taken his last breathe, I will look back at this blog and smile, even if tears are cascading down my face.
With that being said, welcome to A Recipe for Lemonade. I look forward to sharing the ingredients with you.
We were recently told that my Dad has months to live. The cancer has metastasized to his bones and he has multiple, new pulmonary tumors. I want to believe that he will have years, that he will see me get married someday and play with his grandchildren, that I can buy him a red velvet cupcake for his next birthday, that he will be there to celebrate my accomplishments and help me learn from my failures, that we don't have to cram his bucket list into a 6 month time frame.
What I want to believe and what I know are entirely different. I know that time with my Dad is severely limited. I hate his cancer, but I love him. Pending approval, I am taking a leave of absence. During this time, I plan on making memories. When he has taken his last breathe, I will look back at this blog and smile, even if tears are cascading down my face.
With that being said, welcome to A Recipe for Lemonade. I look forward to sharing the ingredients with you.
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