My dad had been feeling poorly for a while, so he finally went to the urgent care clinic in town. They told him he had pneumonia and sent him to the emergency room for admission into the hospital. Once there, they told him that it also looked like he had lung cancer. I’m pretty sure the doctor at the urgent care clinic knew this, but was just too chicken to bring it up.
So things were very hectic there for a couple of days as they not only tried to beat the pneumonia down with antibiotics, but also scanned Dad to see if the cancer had spread to his brains and bones. Dad was feeling relatively fine during this time, so there was no real chance of losing him while he was in the hospital, but it was obviously very tense.
My father’s 67 so there were, of course, moments of inappropriate humor. He’s a curmudgeon with bad hearing, and possibly even less concern for how to refer to people when you can’t remember their names. So his nicknames for the nurses, all of whom he liked, might have been sarcastic: one nurse was the “dingbat,” for example, while another was “Mama June” (in reference to the mother from Here Comes Honey Boo Boo). He didn’t mean anything by it, and Lord knows my grandfather unwittingly said far worse things when he was in the hospital fighting cancer about a decade ago.
Anyway, the good news is that the scans came back to reveal that the cancer had not spread to the brain or bones, and was indeed limited to the lungs. On the bad side, it’s a very large tumor — about six inches across — so he’s been classified as Stage III-B, which in Dad’s particular case has very excellent chances for shrinking the tumor, but bad odds for longevity (according to the most recent figures, only about 5-10% of patients make it to the 5-year mark). Obviously, we’re hoping to beat those odds.
Today was the initial consultation at the oncologist’s office. It’s a bit of a strange place. It tries to be as comforting and laid-back as possible but there are reminders everywhere of the serious work going on there. The lights are dim and comfortable, the carpet and wall colors are pleasing, and there are inspirational sayings and tapestries everywhere. There’s also a row of wheelchairs over by one wall, and a wig shop across the foyer. All of the doors are extra-wide, all the better for wheelchairs to pass through. The doctor’s personal office space is really nothing more than a closet with a phone and an Internet connection. Cancer doesn’t stop, so no need for a real office when you’re hopping from exam room to exam room.
The treatment approach for my dad will be radiation 5 days a week for 6-7 weeks, and chemo every Friday for those same 6-7 weeks. Despite this sounding very brutal, the doctor characterized the dosage as fairly mild, and that he expects Dad to have few side effects from this. So we’ll see. You hear stories about how brutal chemo can be — I’ve certainly seen it treat others roughly in the past. That was years ago, though, and the doctor said that treatments have come a long way in terms of treating the body better and in terms of effectiveness. Again, we’ll see.
After the appointment, Dad came over to see the kids and my daughter played some piano for him. This is a big step for her; half the time she won’t even practice in front of me, or she’ll tell me “don’t listen” if I’m in the same room. Fair enough. I don’t like practicing my own paltry guitar skills in front of anyone. And when he left, and she kissed him goodbye, her loose front tooth came out (she’s a vigorous goodbye-kisser). So while I’ll spend the evening worrying about my dad — thinking ahead about his treatment, wondering how he’s doing at his house by himself after getting all of this news — I’ll also be playing tooth fairy. Life, thankfully, has a way of keeping you busy.
