I have a vivid memory of being a child, and my dad taking me to the doctor because I’d been really sick. I was feeling terribly nauseous, and when we were there, I puked in the waiting room. I remember my dad cleaning me up, in my little pink sundress, and making me laugh until we could finally get into the doctor’s office and then go home.
Today, the roles will switch, as I take my dad to get his chest port put in for his chemotherapy, which will start on Monday. I will be the one driving and the one in the waiting room. It will be a switch from the traditional chain of events.
I’ve hesitated in writing a whole lot about my dad’s journey, for many reasons: some of it is private, some of it is because I know I wouldn’t want to read depressing stories every day nor would I want to write them, but most of all, there’s been part of me that keeps wishing, hoping, thinking and praying that maybe, somehow, this won’t be real—that one morning, I will wake up and everything will be normal, and our family won’t be facing this huge, ugly thing.
Today makes it real. Next week, it will be my daddy who is receiving strong chemo, and having radiation. It’s my mom who will be caring for him. It’s our family that will be different.
I realize every day how blessed I am to have the family that I do. We are incredibly close, and I am beyond grateful for that. The four of us have seen one another through tough times before, but the thing that’s hardest is that you can’t fix it. I can’t go through chemo for him, or take radiation for him, or alleviate anything. And believe me, if I could take it on, I would, without a moment’s hesitation. All I can do is be there, the best I can, whenever I can. It feels terrible that we can’t fix it, or make it okay; that no amount of money or jokes or anything that can correct this.
Yesterday, my dad’s doctor was incredibly reassuring that this is curable–not just treatable–but curable, with the proper treatments. Chemo and radiation aren’t our only options to fix this, and the truth is that doctor’s are optimistic that this will fix the issue completely.
So, at least we have hope. The next two months will be rough, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel. I feel a peace that we will beat this, that it will be okay; however, I would give anything in the world to change things, to ease them and to make this all go away.
I know that many of you are already praying, wishing, hoping for our family, but please—we would be so grateful as we finally get the treatment underway. It means the world to us.