Two summers ago, the doctor came into the waiting room and brought my dad, sister, and me into a little room. “The only thing you’re going to remember when you leave this little room is cancer. Cancer, cancer, cancer.” And he was right. This past Wednesday, as we sat in the waiting room while my dad was in surgery, I told my sister, her boyfriend, my mother, and my grandma, I didn’t want to go back into another “bummer room”. Two and a half hours later, instead of the thirty to fourty-five minutes the doctor told us, the doctor came into the waiting room and led us, yet again, into another bummer room.
“The only thing you’re going to remember when you leave this little room is cancer. Cancer, cancer, cancer,” he said. I thought to myself: he’s said this before – the same exact thing – they must take a class on this shit and actually have a script. My dad, this past Wednesday, was diagnosed with cancer of the tonsil and neck.
At the age of 52, my dad had his tonsils out. Not fun for someone that age… most people have their tonsils out (if needed) when they are little, 10 maybe. Not my dad. 52. His throat is sore, it hurts to swallow, he is bloated from the medications (expected, says the doctor, but very uncomfortable for my dad), and has been on a liquid, cold liquid, diet since Wednesday last. It seems he is now eating lukewarm mashed potatoes, sans salt, jello, ice cream, and applesauce, but the man must be dying for a great big juicy steak.
Next steps: meet with the doctors later this week after he’s had some time to recooperate from the surgery. Take out the stiches from his surgery (he now has a scar that, together with my mom’s, makes one giant ring around the neck), get the results from all the biopsies to ensure the cancer has not spread, and then meet with the chemo and radiation doctors to see what those processes will entail and for how long.
We are all hanging in there, doing the best we can. My dad’s spirits are high and he is determined to “beat this thang”.
I ask you to please keep my family in your thoughts and prayers as we venture down the cancer road… again.
Here we go again, we said… here we go again.
2 comments:
I'm so sorry Liz. I will keep your Dad and your family in my thoughts and wishes.
Oh Lizzo I am so incredibly sorry. I can't even imagine what you're going through right now but you and your family are certainly in my prayers.
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