One year ago today, in the Winchester Hospital emergency room, a nurse practitioner diagnosed my dad with stage 4 lung cancer.
“Hello, this is the nurse practitioner in the emergency department. Unfortunately, it appears your father has metastatic cancer. In cases like these, we try to find where the primary cancer is coming from, and it looks like it may be in his left lung. To start working this up, I’ve already contacted our cancer team, and we’ve arranged for him to get a liver biopsy either today or tomorrow. He’ll need an MRI of his abdomen, and probably PET scan. He’ll be seen by our cancer team, who will determine staging, and make a better overall plan for care. Although I cannot definitively diagnose cancer from the emergency department, his presentation and imaging is most consistent with this. It caused a broken pelvis because it’s in his bones too.”
Adenocarcinoma, non-small cell lung cancer. Metastatic lung cancer that had spread to his liver and bones. Winchester Oncology gave him 6 to 12 months without treatment and 24 to 48 months with treatment. A few days later we would learn he required major surgery on his left hip and femur before we could even begin treatments. He would also endure multiple strokes and TIA’s prior to surgery, resulting in delaying surgery and treatment. Have a lapse in his health insurance that required a congressional inquiry to get reinstated. And a grand mal seizure later in the year.
So, one year ago today, I left work early—and my entire life up until that point—behind. I just didn’t know it yet. It’s a funny thing being thrust into a position of caregiving. Funny, like surreal, like a dream, but nothing else in the world matters except this one person and their diagnosis and trying to figure out where the fuck we go from here. I’d waited my whole life to get this man back, the man five-year-old-me always knew him to be. He was 16 months sober and I’d be damned if I was giving up one more second of our time. We’d already lost so much. This is personal, cancer. And you can fuck right off.
Queue that ADHD hyper-focus and I mitigated as much outside overstimulation as possible. Because everything about this is overstimulating. So, I lit the match that set everything else in my life on fire. I quit my job—my career of nearly 20 years—with no real plan, broke up with my boyfriend, and shed all of the deadweight and negative energy I had hanging around in my life. People, things, hatred, animosity, resentment–and I chose my dad. I chose my dad in every way, because I’ll never get this time back. And really, failure simply isn’t an option. Though, we know in the end, he will most likely die from his cancer. But, for now, we’re just figuring it out one day at a time.
I was terrified for my dad, still am, but I wasn’t much afraid for anything to do with me. And it still doesn’t worry me much. I mean, sometimes, but at the end of the day—it doesn’t really matter. I was going to do, and will continue to do, whatever is required of me to give my dad the best shot possible, at the best life possible, for as long as possible. He may have lost more of his life to alcoholism than he has left to live, but his sober years are worth so much more than anything we’ve lost. Immeasurable. Priceless. Even if it’s merely a snapshot in time. He’s just electric and one of the most brilliant, caring, and fun loving people I’ve ever known. And how lucky am I to call him Dad? For everything he’s taught me—I owe him thrice.
I definitely have my bad days. I get angry. I lose my shit and I yell and swear—like a truck driver. I can be a lot to handle, passionate. But I’m human, we have big emotions. And my bandwidth for bullshit is simply just not there. The difference? Now, generally, I try to not carry these big feelings with me beyond that moment. I get mad, I accept, and I move on. Because whatever it was, it probably doesn’t really matter and likely won’t change anything. But, my positivity and perseverance will.
I won’t lie, I still haven’t fully coped with the fact that he’s had these strokes and what they’ve done to him. All things considered, the strokes have truly been the worst part. They took quite a bit from him cognitively and it makes me very angry. He doesn’t deserve this after everything else he’s been through. He deserves to enjoy the things he loves, while he fights for his life, not struggle to relearn them. I’ve always been in awe of my dad, his mind, and how he worked through problems and planned projects. How he always just seemed to know how to fix things. What I didn’t know until recently is, it’s not that he necessarily knew how to do all of these things—or at least at one time—he knew how to work through them.
He wasn’t afraid to learn by doing, to make mistakes, and figure it out as he went. He asked questions and remained teachable, always. And that right there is the single most important thing he ever taught me. The confidence to figure it out. And the strength and the tenacity to keep trying. Didn’t turn out the way you wanted? Try it differently next time. Didn’t work the first time? Try again. And despite it all, I still see these qualities within him to this day, with the 50 failed picture frames in the burning barrel before he got one right.
What a year it’s been. We’ve lost so much, but maybe we’ve gained more than we thought. I’m closer than ever with my dad. Spending more time than ever with him, taking him to places he’s always wanted to go. Had a few reunions with old friends and family we haven’t seen in a while. I’ve learned new skills. I’ve pushed myself to new limits, been to my breaking point and back. Reevaluated what’s truly important to me and found time in my days that I never would have made before. And as hard as it can be to watch him struggle on his worst days, my dad inspires me every single day. He remains happy, engaged, and continues to enjoy his hobbies even though he may fumble through them. So, I work harder. Advocate more. We seek new specialists, additional tests, and new therapies—whatever tools we can put forth for his continued recovery.
I may never be able to call my dad again to ask, “Hey, Dad, how do I?”. “Hey, Dad, can you show me…?” But, as time has gone on this past year, the more I realize he’s already taught me most everything I ever needed to know. And now, it’s my turn. Stronger—mentally, physically. And every day I have with him is an absolute gift, even the hardest ones.
It ain’t over ‘til it’s over.
Thanks, Dad.
