Four. That is the number of times my father has told me he has cancer. It is hard to hear this from someone you love once, let alone three more times. The first time was skin cancer, which was digestible, as young as I was at least I could understand what was going on and that it wasn’t good. The second time was lymph node cancer which was in his throat area. This was more difficult to hear. He had to have surgery to have muscles removed from his upper shoulder; he had chemo and being that I had just gotten my license and the only one free over the summer, I was the one who took him to radiation. I watched all summer as he slowly shrank, losing weight and energy along the way. The effects of the radiation still affect him today. Since the radiation was centered around his throat, it closed it making it harder to swallow food and more difficult to taste things. He still gets coughing fits and always needs water with meals because of them. I used to be embarrassed by his coughing fits, especially in restaurants, but I’ve grown used to it, it’s a daily occurrence. After it was over, we found out that it had been stage four cancer. I tell people that it was the greatest blessing not to have known how bad it was, how severe it was, because if I had, I probably wouldn’t have been as optimistic about it as I was. I probably would have given up, but fighting made us stronger; my family was stronger.
The third time it was prostate cancer. I wasn’t around to see this one first because I had just started my freshman year at CNU. But the doctors were certain they could get it out. He had more surgery to remove cancer from his stomach area and more chemo shots. Everything was looking good. They wanted to run tests to make sure they had gotten everything, then they ran tests to make sure it hadn’t spread. On Monday, November 7, 2016, my dad called me at 4:30 PM to tell me it had spread to his bones. I listened as my parents told me that this is the most common place for prostate cancer to spread, that we are lucky it isn’t in his organs, but I didn’t feel lucky. I felt sad, sick and angry, but definitely not lucky. My parents kept talking. This meant that the chemo shots he is currently taking will hold the cancer off, but in 18 months they will stop working, which is why they want to start radiation immediately to give him three more years after that. In total, they told me I have five years left with my dad. In every other situation, there were never any definitives, never a deadline. The finality of it all shocked me. Hearing it while being away makes it even worse because you feel more helpless. When I had finally hung up the phone, all I could think about were the things he would miss: my brother’s college graduation, my wedding, his grandkids. I know he isn’t gone yet but I mourned and I mourned deeply. It doesn’t help that my mom called me later that week to let me know that the tumors she has behind her ear, though benign, can grow to cause pain and reduce brain function. She will later have surgery, but we can all only take life one step at a time.
If you know me at all you would know that I’m an open book—if you ask. I’ve never been one to put my events on other people. So, you may be wondering why I am writing this. Mostly to comprehend it, I need to get my emotions out and understand how I feel. I didn’t write this for awareness (but if my story has moved you please do feel free to donate to my Relay for Life page), I didn’t do this because I want people to feel bad for me or even to know what is going on. I wrote this because I love my dad and my family. So please cherish them while they last, because the hardest thing to learn about your parents is that they aren’t immortal.