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I’ve been thinking about Dad lately.  I guess, around Thanksgiving was the time we found out he was carrying cancer cells.  Lung cancer.  Abnormal, freakish, squamous cells, non small cell in fact.  Death cells.

fucking cancer

I keep remembering the last day, the last hour, the last minute, the last time I saw Dad.  It kills me.  Makes me tear up and cry, clench the calves of my legs until they cramp up and hurt and twist my leg into a pretzel.  

Sadness.

I usually crowd these thoughts out and try not to think.

when it comes down to it.

Painful

I think often about my own mutating cancer cells.  I’m not diagnosed.  I just think it is invietable.  I will get cancer and I will die.  when?  I don’t know.  Probably sonner than later.  If not that then death by heart attack.  

That’s my body type, my destiny, my history, my future… me

I felt sad today. I kept wanting to call Dad up and tell him something I’d heard or something I saw or I wanted to ask him a question about something. I went up to the cemetery this evening and stared around at the grave. We haven’t picked a headstone out although we’ve talked about it. There is a service “pin” thing there and our flowers from the funeral are still laying across the grave but I really am ready to have a headstone up. I want to be able to tend it.

Dad is using a walker now. He is okay with that. He can get about the house better. Mom told me that Dad said, after he fell the other night and couldn’t get up, “I never thought I’d end up this way…”
Small victories are the epitome of cancer.
After the initial diagnosis the first came when they said Grade III instead of IV, then there was no spread, then he wasn’t terribly sick from chemo just a little and then…on and on and on it goes.
For every down side there was a small victory, albeit tiny, squinting hard to find it victory…because without those little bitty scraps…you have nothing to hope for…

I’ve become the child of someone dying with cancer.
No longer a nurse.
No longer someone who knows someone who “has cancer”.
Suddenly, to the very marrow of my bones I, well, ache…for lack of a better word.
This is a feeling you can’t really describe easily.
This is a sinking, nervous despair feeling that only anyone who has a parent or close family member dying of cancer would recognize.
Dad is shrinking by the hour it seems. Cheeks sunken in. Verbalization at a minimum. Pain seems to be under good control. He is walking with a cane now. Output is poor. His eyes look resigned to the fate at hand. I guess that’s what I noticed yesterday. What often triggers my tears.
This is so very very hard.

Dad had a left lung thorecentesis yesterday. For him, it was extremely painful…the worst one yet. He said, “I’m not doing it again”, and I think I believe him. Maybe there will be no need for it. They drained off 800cc of fluid this time. He took 2 Percocet for the pain and I think those meds helped him.
He is to get Zometa on March 9th or so.
I guess he is not choosing to do the parathyroid surgery.
He is depressed.
The last time he went to the Dr. (and I couldn’t go to this appointment) the Oncologist said things that were depressing Mom said….like…”If I were a betting man I’d bet this cancer will come back”, and “If you are going to be around for 4 or 5 years more I would suggest the surgery”…and I guess the way he said things he was looking down at his hands and just…depressing.
Dad’s weight is 140’s. He isn’t eating. Doesn’t want to.
But his scans are good. State…No sign of cancer.
Although his Calcium remains on the high side. 11 this time.
shit, I don’t know.
Bastard Dr anyway.
Bastard Cancer anyway.
Fucking cigarettes anyway.