My dad has been battling lung cancer, as a non smoker, for nearly four years. December 23, will mark exactly four years. We have been through the roller coaster, despite being given a grim diagnosis four years ago, and even had some time of remission. The cancer came back this spring, with a vengeance, and after three months on Opdivo, spread like wild fire. Unfortunately, one of the most common sites for lung cancer metastasis is the brain. Something like 70% of all lung cancer patients will have brain mets at some point or another. Ideally, it’ll be one tumor, and the patient will be strong enough to be able to under go surgery to remove the tumor, but most of the time, they’ve smoked for 40 years and have COPD or emphysema, or are like my dad, and are so riddled with cancer, that surgically removing anything comes with huge huge risk, and is unlikely to be successful. For several weeks now, there has been a push to talk to the oncologist about the fairly sudden loss of memory. For several weeks, it’s been largely ignored, until my father decided it couldn’t be ignored anymore. He claims to have been having a hard time getting the oncologist to listen to him. After this morning’s appointment, I feel more like it’s that he’s had a hard time telling the oncologist what’s going on.
Dutiful bossy daughter I am, and I dutifully traveled to the oncologist’s office as requested, and dutifully and boldly described my father’s sudden memory loss – loss of how to do a procedure he’s done at work for 20 years, loss of words mid sentence, loss of whole sentences, forgetfulness that is more than forgetfulness. The oncologist immediately made a face, giving away probably exactly what is going on, which is what we all suspect is going on. He peppered me with questions. My dad reacted with obvious fear. So, an MRI will be scheduled. I expect next Friday we will be faced with terrible news.
Admittedly, I’ve been a bit mopey all day. My shoulders hurt. My teeth hurt. I’ve been fairly introspective. I’ve talked to my mother in law. I’ve talked to my husband. I’ve talked to Mr. ENFP (about everything but this; although he knows too). I’ve told both bosses and several co-workers. I’ve eaten way too much, not drank enough water, and floated things off with too much coffee. I feel kind of like I’m surviving today, but just. What comes with a possible spread of cancer to his brain is big. Very big. My father works as a bench chemist in an oil refinery. Cancer spreading to the brain is a liability for everyone, himself and the company. It will push him into retirement – which luckily he just celebrated his 65th birthday. But, with that, a man who identifies himself by what he does and where he works, will suddenly be without an identity. Working in law, the first question one boss asked was what kind of disability policy he has. It’s natural for us to automatically go to the practical (when my dad was diagnosed, my immediate concern was that wills, living wills, and powers of attorney were updated). Mr. ENFP and I have talked on occasion about how the biggest thing I can do is have a new identity and life set up for him and ready to go when forced retirement comes. Once my mom is healed, that’ll involve babysitting his grandson who he wants to know well. But, how do you take something someone has done for his whole adult life, and say to him that you can’t do that anymore? How do you help them move on from that? This isn’t retirement. I mean, it is in the sense that he’ll be retired, but this isn’t a decision to age out and move on to the calm waters of not pulling the 8-5 day. This is forced benching. Culling the weak. Already he’s been removed from the call list for work if a strike happens (union contracts are being negotiated). Yesterday, he said he was glad, but you can hear that momentary pause of knowing he’s being benched, little by little. His prime has passed.
I’m sad for me, knowing that the loss of my father is edging closer and closer, but mostly I’m sorry for my dad. I know what’s coming. While I don’t know how devastating it will feel at that moment for him, I know it will be devastating. We’re coming up on Thanksgiving and Christmas. A full social calendar will be quiet for him. I worry about him feeling forgotten.
And with all this, my reaction is so quintessentially me. I’m forever seeking a solution to a problem and maneuvering 5 steps ahead so that when faced with the problem in reality, I know exactly what to do. But likewise, I have all of this emotion just waiting to surface. I don’t ignore that emotion, but rather push pause. It’s not time for that. It’s time to make sure the path is laid for my father. It’s time to make sure that all that can be done is, so that when his world crashes down, he’ll land on soft grass. But someday, all that emotion has to go somewhere. Logically, I know that we have less time than more. At some point the critical mass of cancer to organs will be reached, and the cancer will win out, chemo or no chemo. I have no doubt that that balance is close. But when it comes, who knows whether it’ll be swift or slow.
Cancer cancer everywhere. Cancer shows no mercy. It doesn’t care if you’re fat or thin, smart or dumb, young or old. It doesn’t care what you have left to accomplish, or how accomplished you already are. Cancer sucks.
The INTJ Female 