No, not me—my father.
My father was diagnosed with Protate Cancer about 2 years ago. At first, we had hope, hope that with radiation treatments, he'd do just fine. For the most part, for about a year that was the case. His PSA score skyrocketed which made the doctors take a second look—why was his PSA score so high? Until they gave him tests. Test after test which explained the reason why.
He was in stage 2 Prostate Cancer. At this point, nothing had spread beyond his Prostate so naturally, we were all optimisitc.
Until last summer. That optimism turned to fright. We were all scared that it was getting worse as the radiation was no longer working. His oncologist recommended that he move forward with chemotherapy. Well, we know what undergoing chemo can cause—with it came weakness, nausea, loss of hair, et al. It seemed to all come at once. At this point of his chemotherapy, he only needed treatments once every 3 weeks. As a result, his infrequency gave us another form of hope. It couldn't have been THAT serious, right?
Wrong.
By July of 2011, everything had changed; our world had started to come crumbling down. Even though his oncologist was still optimistic at that time, his chemotherapy had become more frequent and required to undergo the treatments one time a week. Regardless, we were still scared to death. My husband and I decided that this was the perfect opportunity to visit and spend quality time with them; make a vacation out of it—if you wanna call it that.
However, about 2 weeks prior to our "vacation," my stomach was literally in knots. To the point that I could barely eat or do anything. I was a blubbering mess. By the time we headed home, I had lost approximately 15 lbs. in one week. But in a way, I needed to go there, needed to see that for the most part, he was OK. I knew the reality would set in and I knew that once I saw him, he'd still look different. While growing up my father had been my pillar of strength so as you could imagine, it was extremely difficult to see him so weak compared to how he was while I was growing up. A strong willed, stubborn Italian with thick black hair. Obviously I was mature enough to see that he'd gone gray in recent years, but seeing most of it gone was an eye opening experience for me. I thought I'd be prepared, but once I saw him, it gave me the opposite reaction. But what was worse? Seeing his weakness, seeing how he could barely walk without the help of a walking cane. It was like a ton of bricks had hit me—right there in the face.
I wanted to cry. But I knew seeing me cry would have been the worst, the worst thing he could see. My mom needed reassurance that I would be and could be strong. I promised her that I would be, but I must admit, it was one of the most difficult things I've ever had to do. In private, in the hotel room, I did the opposite—I had to let it out.
As we spent an entire week with my parents, it became enjoyable, almost stress-free—trust me, it was rare that our trips to visit them were ever stress-free, so this was a really nice change. Unfortunately, it had to be under these circumstances.
As I look back during that time last summer, and as we were on our way home, we were optimistic, extremely positive with the outcome of his recovery. At that time, it hadn't spread beyond his prostate.
Until now.
I spoke with my mom about 2 months ago only to learn his cancer had not only gotten worse, but had spread to half his body. When she called, he was already in the hospital. My heart dropped and my world came tumbling down. I know he's 76 years old and in my eyes, he had at least 15+ more years ahead of him. Perhaps that's unrealistic, but again, he was and still is my pillar of strength. Even after all these years, his loud and intimidating voice still permeated throughout the house. He still scares me as though I'm 16 years old all over again.
At this time that I am writing this blog, he's still going strong, and according to my mom, doing very well. He is currently in a rehabilitation center because he has to learn to walk again, but next week, he is due home after spending a little over a month in the hospital and now the rehab center.
Once my medications start kicking in, my goal is to go visit them—which should be any day now (fingers crossed). I want to help my mom. I want to make sure she's OK in case the worst happens. But regardless, I want to help both of them. Not just to prove to them that they can count on me (especially since they haven't seen or spoken to my brother in over 2 years) but rely on me being there for them during their time of need; because throughout my whole life, they have always been there for me—financially and emotionally. It's time to return that favor.
I love you, dad, and I pray that you will be OK.
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