Surreal...

"Surreal" is the best word to describe what's happening around me. My dad has been diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer with a possible lesion in his liver. We'll know the results later this week from his PET scan that was performed today. My dad asked the oncologist how long he had. The doctor kept saying, "Do you really want to know?" I think he asked my dad three times. He finally said, "ten months." But he said they don't like to tell their patients the estimate, which I understand. With chemo, it could be longer. If it's metastasized into the liver, it could be shorter.

Phyllis had her D and C last Tuesday. After waiting through a weekend that seemed to go on forever, the doctor called last night after hours. We had given up on him calling. When I was taking Buddy outside, I was wondering if he might call after his office closed. I walked back in the condo and Phyllis is on the phone. She's waving me over to the other phone to pick it up. I'm trying to judge by her facial expressions what he's said so far. I click the button and hear "oncologist." Phyllis tells him I'm on the phone and she repeats what the doctor had told her to confirm it: endometrial cancer. He wanted to confer with the oncologist today to make absolutely certain it was cancer before he called. The oncologist had an appointment opening this morning. Phyllis has a CA-125 blood test tomorrow to check for ovarian cancer and a CAT scan with contrast to make sure it hasn't spread outside the uterus. After they get those results, they'll decide on treatment (chemo/radiation). Surgery should be in the next three weeks when the OBGYN surgeon and the oncologist can coordinate a date.

While I was listening to him talk, I moved to a chair and sank down. I had feared Phyllis had uterine cancer because she was exhibiting a lot of the symptoms. In fact, we both thought she probably had uterine cancer. But thinking it and hearing it confirmed are two entirely different things.

After we got off the phone, we hugged each other and cried. Then we made phone calls. I sent out e-mails.

I had a therapist appointment today at 11:00. Phyllis's appointment was at 9:30. I told her I wasn't going to the therapist appointment. But she came out of his office and insisted I go (my therapist's office is just across the street from the hospital complex). She had to talk to them about scheduling the tests.

During my appointment with my therapist, I told him this was "surreal." And that I felt like I was watching someone else going through all of this. He said, "You realize that is normal, don't you?" I did. I also told him I found myself "compartmentalizing." That there was my dad's cancer and there is Phyllis's. I can't think of them at the same time. It was the only way I could deal with it.

My brother is coming in from overseas next weekend and will be here two weeks, which is good. We can talk as a family. And Phyllis has such a strong relationship with her family. Her family is my family, and mine is hers. We're very blessed that way.

The really odd thing was, as we were sitting in the oncologist exam room waiting on the resident to come in first, I stared at the linoleum. I was tapping my foot and my knee was bouncing. And I thought that this is just like the scene from my book, Two for the Show, when Lisa and Frankie were waiting for Frankie's doctor to enter the room to discuss the lump they had found in her breast. Again... surreal.

We've decided to still go on our trip to Atlanta for my book launch party Friday night. We'll be leaving early Thursday morning. We both need to get away, if only for a few days.

Phyllis is worried about me dealing with my dad and now this. I'm worried about my dad and her. But as long as I talk about it and continue to allow myself to feel what I'm feeling (like crying when I need to), I'll be okay. And as long as Phyllis is by my side, I'm okay. She has such a strong faith in God. She keeps saying, "I'm right where God wants me to be. Whatever happens, happens. He'll look over us." You know how some people say those words, but they're just words? They don't really mean them? But Phyllis? She means every word.

So we pray. We stay together as a family. And we accept that sometimes, that's the only thing you can do.

Random words... not quite a poem...

A blade of grass, a soft breeze, a vague memory of playing with childhood friends.
Life passes so quickly... the years become a blur.
But I hear the distant voices of my youth...
"Can Chrissy come out to play?"
And away I went on another adventure, another game of army, another game of football.
Life passes so quickly...
I still hear those voices, but only when I take time to watch the blade of grass move gently in the wind.
I feel like that blade of grass... fragile, yet strong, as I hold my own against the turmoil in my...
Life that passes so quickly....

Reality....

As I suspected, the phone call a week ago from the doctor's office was a mistake. What the woman should have said is "the results were inconclusive" and never uttered the words "good news" or "benign." The biopsy results came back on the second procedure my dad had done, and it is lung cancer. The next step is an appointment with the oncologist on February 14, the same day Phyllis has her D and C. Her procedure is at 6:45 a.m. I'm hoping I can get her settled at home and resting, then accompany my parents to the oncologist appointment in the afternoon.

I'm glad I was able to talk to my parents and make sure they didn't accept the "benign" diagnosis but rather wait until this next procedure. That I thought it meant the doctor hadn't gotten enough of the mass for an accurate pathology report. And thank God, we were all being realists about this. It doesn't take away the anger I have with the phone call giving my parents that little bit of hope last Friday morning. It wasn't handled right. At all.

My parents sound remarkably okay over the phone. I wasn't able to go to the pulmonologist appointment yesterday afternoon. I was at my own appointment on the far northside and couldn't be reached. Phyllis and I didn't find out until last night. In order to get their minds off everything, my parents went to the casino and didn't get back until late. After we got off the phone, Phyllis started crying. I held her. Then it was her turn to hold me while I cried.

I'm sitting here listening to my "Most Relaxing Classical Music in the Universe" double CD. Samuel Barber's "Adagio for Strings" just played. It's such a haunting melody and it fits my mood. Now, I think I'll put in some Melissa Etheridge and tune out the world.

Sometimes, reality sucks.

From one extreme to the other....

This morning, on our way to Phyllis's doctor's appointment, we got a phone call from my parents. The pulmonologist's office called and said, "We have good news. It's benign." But they also scheduled another procedure for my dad next Wednesday where he has blood work done at 6:30 a.m., plus some other procedure where he's put under and is asleep for four hours. My parents were a little sketchy on details. I don't know if this is where the doctor goes through the chest wall with a needle. He said he thought he had gotten to the mass but wasn't sure if he got enough tissue. I do know whatever my dad is having done Wednesday is to confirm 100% that it is NOT cancer. I just don't know if it's the procedure the pulmonologist had talked about on Tuesday.

While I'm very happy about this report, I'm almost afraid to be too happy. I don't think I will be completely relieved until they confirm everything.

I don't know how the doctor could stand there and say, "Yes, it is cancer" and start talking about chemo and radiology. I almost want to smack him when I see him again for putting us through this if it does turn out to be benign, which I hope to God it does. I tried calling my mom and dad, but I think they may be out celebrating at the casino.

I hope to be completely ecstatic when they get the results back from this latest procedure.

Phyllis's D and C is scheduled for February 14. The doctor explained everything to us this morning, that he wasn't worried about the fibroids. But he is concerned about the bleeding and the thickening of the lining of the uterus. I look forward to the end of this month when alllll of this is resolved. I feel like a yo-yo or that I've been on a roller coaster, you know? At least a roller coaster of emotions....

Waiting for the prognosis...

My dad's bronchoscopy showed a large mass that the pulmonologist said was cancer. He showed me the images on the computer screen. The photographic image looks exactly like a photo I saw in a medical text book in college showing a lung with a malignancy. Knowing it's your dad's... I don't know how to explain it. It seems surreal. And talking to the doctor, I almost felt like I wasn't there as I asked questions with a detachment--like it wasn't me asking the question. It was after he walked away that I allowed it to sink in. But I know none of this has hit me the way it will in the coming months. I have periods when I cry, then they pass. My dreams have been disjointed, so that when I wake up, I don't really feel like I've rested.

I'm trying to stay busy. My day job is helping in that regard. But I need to do my own writing. I'm sitting here listening to Elvis's "Ultimate Gospel." I try to draw comfort from little things like this.

Tomorrow is the visit to Phyllis's doctor appointment. We'll see how that goes. Just spoke with my dad. I've been dreading picking up the phone when I see it's my parents' number. His doctor's office called while they were out. He has to go through another procedure. The doctor must not have gotten all the way to the mass. He had told me if they didn't, they'd have to go through the chest wall. That will probably be next week.

On a totally different note, it's been crazy here in Indy with the Super Bowl and it got crazier with the out-of-towners arriving today. It's cool, though. Phyllis is working at the City County Building's observatory deck tonight, running the elevator until ten. She said Lucas Oil Stadium looks fantastic with spotlights and a huge Super Bowl XLVI sign out front.

Okay... time for dinner. Thank you, Elvis, for these songs.