When Dad’s oncologist said that his prognosis was “2-4 months without treatment, and 6-12 with treatment”, my heart sunk, and I truly felt like we were in a nightmare. I could not help but be positive, I mean, people beat cancer all the time, right? Why can’t Dad be one of the few who manage to beat the odds?
Once the shock wore off, the “realist” in me began searching for answers, and I was just trying to “deal with it all”.
Now, the shock is back, and I am in complete disbelief that the man who I have adored my entire life is lying in a bed that he has become prisoner to.
My feelings today have completely changed.
I would give anything for a prognosis of 6-12 months, but I have come to the realization that it is not in the cards for Dad, and I cannot even begin to explain how terrified I am of losing him.
Every single day when I look at him, I realize that I am losing my Dad to Cancer, and I am not ready to accept that. Not yet. We haven’t had one pleasant day since he arrived from Florida in October. NOT ONE! He has been filled with pain and nausea, and has become dependent on everyone to help him with all of those daily tasks that we all take for granted. This man is not my Dad, yet he will always be. He will always be the first man I loved, the first man that I drove in a car with, the first man that taught me responsibility, and how to work hard, the first and only man that my husband had to ask permission from to marry me.
If I could just have one more good day with my Dad, one more day that we could sit and talk about all of the things that we used to talk about, go for a drive, cook out on the grill. Just one more day!
I cannot even write this without clearing the tears from my eyes so I am able to see. I cannot imagine life without my Dad in it. Not being able to call him, text him pictures, visit him in Florida and go to the beach, or go play miniature gulf just to come home and lounge in the pool. I’ll never again get to feel the excitement when he calls on his trip from Florida to visit and says that he’ll be at my house in a few hours.
All I can do now is be there with him while he fights the pain and the fear. Tell him I love him every chance I get. Hold his hand while he sleeps. At least I still have that. I still have the chance to love him unconditionally, the same way he has loved me unconditionally for my entire life.
I still have that.