My Dad.

I don’t know how to begin this post. Hell, I don’t know how to begin anything these days.

What follows is deeply personal and is probably too much for many of you. But I am in so much pain and am going through so much right now, I just need to let it out some way. I need to put it down to try to ease this heartbreak and emptiness that I feel right now. I’m sorry if this is hard to read or if you don’t want to read it; hell, I probably wouldn’t read it if I were the me of a few months ago. I don’t blame you if you want to go to the next blog and find a great vegan recipe or a recap of an awesome trip. But that’s not what you’re going to find in this post. I am too raw and too exhausted to write anything but what my life is like right now.

If you’ve been following my blog, you may remember that my Dad was diagnosed with AML (Acute Myeloid Leukemia) three months ago. It feels like a lifetime, to be honest. As hard as that was in the beginning, I’d give anything-anything- to have Cancer be the only thing we’re fighting against now.

Typically when someone gets cancer, they get a few rounds of chemo before we check to see if the cancer is gone, or if we have to go a few more rounds of chemo. If at any point it seems too much, we can decide on things like alternative options or, worse-case scenario, hospice care.

My dad has been up at the VA hospital in Portland every day since February 25th, minus one week he got to be home in North Bend, resting up.

I’ve been up at the VA Hospital 5 or 6 days a week every week since February 25th. Though I knew cancer would be a hard one to tackle, I also knew how flippin amazing my dad is. My dad is the most incredible, amazing, strong, funny, wise and joyful man you will ever meet. Though he was still grieving for his mom, who he just lost 5 days prior to being diagnosed with cancer, he maintained his positive attitude like the beautiful and amazing person he is.

Like the old hippie he also is, he’s been bucking the system since the day he was born–and he continued to do so in this case. Though shortly after he started chemo he was diagnosed with acute kidney failure, then atrial fibrillation (one part of his heart beats really really fast and unrythmically), and then pneumonia. While the chances were slim that he’d get all of those, he did. And while the chances were slim that he’d make it through all that, he did. He’s amazing, I’m telling you.

Every day, he’d get up, attached to monitors and gadgets, and he’d make his way down to the second floor of the VA Hospital, and over the skybridge to OHSU. He’d sit in the little cafe, snacking on strawberries, sandwiches, or iced tea, and wax poetical about life. Every one of his doctors would smile this big genuine smile when they’d see him, a cancer patient getting chemotherapy, walking every single day at least a mile. He’s amazing, I’m telling you.

When he came back for his second round of chemo, they really blasted him. They needed to kill all his blood cells to get to the cancerous ones. No problem, he took it like a champ. It played havoc on his body, but he maintained his positive thoughts and his stories and jokes–he often sat cross-legged in his hospital bed, looking for all the world like a wise old guru.

Shortly after that, he was blinded. Temporarily, it turns out. But right as his sight came back ("I can see you. You look beautiful, Ness."), his blood pressure dropped dangerously low. After a harried and stressful trip to the ER followed by a long visit to the ICU, we found out that he had an infection that blasted his whole body. It was pretty serious, but his amazing doctors took care of it, and a few days later he was on the road to recovery.

There have been a lot of ups and downs, and one thing I’ve learned though this process is to take everything one moment, one day, at a time. Still, I thought this latest triumph was it. I thought that he’s been through so much in the past few months, I simply cannot wait for his blood cells to climb back up and for him to start enjoying life again. Though we knew he’d still be fighting cancer, we also knew he’d enjoy the shit of life while doing it.

Unfortunately, illness doesn’t care who you are and how amazing you are. It attacks indiscriminately.

My dad was recovering like nobody’s business. He was charming the nurses, joking with Annie and I, getting deep with the doctors, looking out over the Cirque du Soleil tents and making plans with us to go as soon as he got out. Last Monday, he was walking around a bit, feeling great, and had just got news that he was to be released on Friday.

It had been a long 2 1/2 months and I was so happy to hear a bit of good news.

But that’s not what happened.

I may gloss over the next part because I cannot stop crying when I think about it.

On Wednesday morning, around 2am, in the hospital, he had a stroke. You know how they say that time lost is brain lost? Well, that’s true. Unless you are getting chemotherapy and you have no blood. Because blood thinner–what they usually give to a stroke victim right away–only works if you have blood to thin.

Here comes the glossing. The past week has been the hardest most emotionally draining and stupidest week of my life. I never knew I had so many tears. I never knew I could feel so empty and yet so broken at the same time. This hurts me in a place I never knew possible. It has quickly become so normal for me to cry in public–on the bus, at Powell’s, eating dinner, in bed… I want nothing more than for my dad to have some dignity. He is quite simply the most beautiful man in the world.

So please, I know that miracles happen, and I’m counting on about 8 of them for my dad. Please pray for him or think of him or send him good thoughts. And while you’re at, please–please–tell everyone that you love that you love them. Life is short and unpredictable, and the least we can do while we’re here is let everyone know how special they are and how much they mean to us.

Related posts: