More Expectations

Eventually, this is what you should expect. No matter how many times you see your father like this, it is a shock every time.

What really to expect

It will steal his ability to make decisions for and take care of himself. When you ask the doctor what you should expect, he is not going to tell you the entire truth. Instead, he will dance around it and not really answer your question. He will smile as he looks at you and lies. You should expect this. He will not tell you that eventually, your father's children will be required to care for their father. He will not tell you about the things, that if I typed out here, you would quickly skim past. He will not tell you that over time, your father will become completely dependent, and all traces of dignity will be washed away with yesterday's dishwater. He will not tell you.

Cancer works slowly; taking one thing at a time. It's not a drastic change. Slowly, he will slip away and what he once was will be only a memory, and in his place will be a man fighting for his life against cancer. You will turn your head so that he will not see you crying. You will hang up the phone before your mother can hear the tears. You will do your best to be strong and be there for your family that needs you. When you get alone, and its just you there in the dark, and you don't have to be strong anymore, that is when you will let lose.

You should expect a lot of, "I know how you feel" and "I'm sure he will be okay." At first, this will make you feel better, but after awhile it will begin to grate on your nerves. "He might not be okay," you will want to scream! He might not, or "How could you possibly know how I feel? Both of your parents are fine!" You will want to say these things, but you won't. Instead, you will smile and say thank you.

There may be times when you will question your beliefs and the existence of God. "Where are you," is what you will frequently ask yourself. How could this happen? He has served you his entire life, and this is how it ends? If this were a movie, you would say, "God, this movie really sucks!" Its like Meg Ryan dying at the end of City of Angels, its just not fair. Life is not fair, is what they say.

They also say that, "God has a plan." You will think, "Well, if this is God's plan, I sure do not understand it." Maybe we are not always meant to understand, but our human nature requires us to try to understand everything. You will spend a significant amount of time trying to figure out this "grand plan," and you will fail. In the end, all you will understand is that your Superman has cancer, and there is not a gall darn thing that you can do about it.

Complications

He was healthy for a long time. He had a tumor removed in September of 2008 and had a year of clean MRIs. No cancer; no complications, but just because you cannot see it, doesn't mean that it is not there. It is a stealthy and sneaking opponent, and a thief. First it stole his short term memory and ability, at times, to transform his thoughts smoothly into words. Then it stole his ability to drive, followed by free and easy movement. His walking slowed, and he grew fatigued quite easily; a trip to the top of the stairs would wear him out completely.

If it cannot grow because of the treatments, it will use your weapon against you. Chemotherapy does not just kill cancer. It can also be used to efficiently and effectively kill ones immune system. What started out as a little red spot on the crown of his head, turned out to be an infection raging just below the surface. The plate that the had put in his head when they removed the second tumor, and grown infected. They removed the plate and found the infection had spread much more then they had originally anticipated. A normal person could fight this infection with ease and the assistance of antibiotics. As Superman lacks the former, he must rely solely upon the later. This would take eight to twelve weeks to fight; a normally healthy person could fight it in two.

As a result of the surgery, his body stopped absorbing the extra spinal fluid that his brain produced. This caused swelling in his brain, and swelling in the brain causes seizures. To correct this they put in shunt. This got infected, and it had to be removed, and an external one was put in instead. The extra spinal fluid still has to be drained. The cancer and lack of immune system makes this more complicated. Everything is more complicated...

A Summary

My story is not unique. My father has Glioblastoma Multiforme, aka GBMF, aka brain cancer. He was diagnosed in April of 2008. We came home and he was lying on the floor unresponsive. He was conscious but not really there, if you know what I mean. He was rushed to the hospital, intubated en route, and quickly sedated on arrival. He had had and was having seizures; he is not an epileptic. Terrifying.

Let me, at this point, say that prior to this day, my father was, quite literally, the healthiest man that I knew. Growing up, my father and I had an extremely close relationship. My father was always my hero, my superman.

The diagnosis was the most aggressive form of brain cancer one can have; a form of cancer typically non responsive to treatment. I went home and did the research: 12 - 18 months. You always think that you know what cancer means. You think you know what that word entails. You think you do; you don't, but you will. Just give it time.

Since then my father has had seven surgeries: two to remove tumors, 1 to remove an infected plate in his head, 1 to put in a shunt, 1 to repair skin that wouldn't heal because he has no immune system (the chemo killed it), 1 to remove the shunt because it go infected, and 1 to put in an external shunt. That does not include the various hospital stays he has had for different infections and seizures that he has had.

This is just a brief summary of the last two years. I am starting this blog to get my thoughts and feelings out. Somethings you want to say to someone, and you just can't. It wouldn't be "appropriate." Sometimes I just want to shake my fist at the sky and scream at the top of my lungs. Sometimes...