This is...Tuesday? Yeah, because I'm at home in lieu of my regular Tuesday night speaker meeting. My husband had a board meeting, and I though my head would have liked to be in a meeting, my legs aren't quite cooperating. So, I'm here. Here and jigzone. I'm getting really good at those puzzles.
The oncologist met with us today. The surgeon who first dealt with my father told us Sunday that he had up to three months. The oncologist, after looking at the results of all the x-rays and tests revised that to "weeks." I still can't say the word "cancer" in front of my father. Just can't do it. We say "tumors" and "illness," but not "cancer."
Dad wanted some sweats or p.j.'s with a fly in them. Hospital pants don't have them. I got him a pair of flannels with the Superman shield all over them. He loved them. His roommate, a guy I went to high school with, chuckled when he saw them. I also had to buy deoderant while I was at the store. Mine quite working. The bank thermometers were reading mid-nineties today. I had to keep covering dad with blankets. He can't stay warm.
Dad still likes the nurses -- the longest he's ever been able to tolerate anyone in the medical profession. It's been twelve days. He may now need to tolerate them for "weeks." The oncologist does not think we need to deal with arranging help at home. He doesn't think my dad is going to make it home.
He has "weeks."
He's still here. Today, he's still here, and I've put in as many hours as I physically can at the hospital. I have no reason to doubt that my HP is going to give me what I need to get started again in the morning. Or every morning for "weeks." I want to be there if and when he wants to talk. Right now, his focus is still on those things --mowing grass, making sure that some of his vehicles get started once in awhile, keeping his garden watered -- that he would do or see to if he were home. I wonder how I would feel if I knew that I had something for which there is no cure. The oncologist used the phrase "seeing to his comfort" as the only viable treatment.
Hey...my HP gave me the strength to get through the couple of crazy months in the spring, when all kinds of good stuff -- English conferences, AA weekend retreats, town hall meetings, presentations and rallies at school, and PI work at another local college -- so why wouldn't She give me what I need now, when this is happening?
Dad asked me to rub his back today. It was hard to do it and not cry. He's got nothing but skin over bones, and I swear, he seems to be smaller, more fragile, than even twelve days ago when he was critical. Gee...I guess he's still critical, but as much as they can make him "comfortable."
I'd still like to tear something up, but I'm too tired. For now, it's enough not to cry when I'm with him, listen to his stories, and rub his back and feet. If anyone were to tell me two weeks ago that I would want to be by his side this much, I would have told them they were crazy. No way. Not me. I wish I were there right now.
Till later....
The oncologist met with us today. The surgeon who first dealt with my father told us Sunday that he had up to three months. The oncologist, after looking at the results of all the x-rays and tests revised that to "weeks." I still can't say the word "cancer" in front of my father. Just can't do it. We say "tumors" and "illness," but not "cancer."
Dad wanted some sweats or p.j.'s with a fly in them. Hospital pants don't have them. I got him a pair of flannels with the Superman shield all over them. He loved them. His roommate, a guy I went to high school with, chuckled when he saw them. I also had to buy deoderant while I was at the store. Mine quite working. The bank thermometers were reading mid-nineties today. I had to keep covering dad with blankets. He can't stay warm.
Dad still likes the nurses -- the longest he's ever been able to tolerate anyone in the medical profession. It's been twelve days. He may now need to tolerate them for "weeks." The oncologist does not think we need to deal with arranging help at home. He doesn't think my dad is going to make it home.
He has "weeks."
He's still here. Today, he's still here, and I've put in as many hours as I physically can at the hospital. I have no reason to doubt that my HP is going to give me what I need to get started again in the morning. Or every morning for "weeks." I want to be there if and when he wants to talk. Right now, his focus is still on those things --mowing grass, making sure that some of his vehicles get started once in awhile, keeping his garden watered -- that he would do or see to if he were home. I wonder how I would feel if I knew that I had something for which there is no cure. The oncologist used the phrase "seeing to his comfort" as the only viable treatment.
Hey...my HP gave me the strength to get through the couple of crazy months in the spring, when all kinds of good stuff -- English conferences, AA weekend retreats, town hall meetings, presentations and rallies at school, and PI work at another local college -- so why wouldn't She give me what I need now, when this is happening?
Dad asked me to rub his back today. It was hard to do it and not cry. He's got nothing but skin over bones, and I swear, he seems to be smaller, more fragile, than even twelve days ago when he was critical. Gee...I guess he's still critical, but as much as they can make him "comfortable."
I'd still like to tear something up, but I'm too tired. For now, it's enough not to cry when I'm with him, listen to his stories, and rub his back and feet. If anyone were to tell me two weeks ago that I would want to be by his side this much, I would have told them they were crazy. No way. Not me. I wish I were there right now.
Till later....
Comments