Delta

This coming Friday, my dad finally will have his second CAT scan. The delta (mathematical and statistical for ‘change’) between it and the baseline original scan will allow an estimation of the disease’s progression and timelines. I expect we’ll get the actual results on Monday, after a radiologist has had a chance to review the scan, which will look like this.

To quote myself:

Then we’ll know for sure if his apparent resurgence is in fact because of a diminution of his tumors and/or a reduction in their metastases, or simply the consequences of the palliative effects of the treatments. The odds are vastly for the latter.

Cross your fingers. Cross your toes. Cross anything possible. Well, if you cross your legs you’ll probably fall over. Or if you cross your eyes (and see this), you’ll almost certainly get a headache and walk into walls. (More succinctly and to be paranoically legalistic: please do not hurt yourself on my recommendation.) But anything else is fair game.

I know the uncertainties overshadowing the next few days will be very stressful for both of my parents—indeed for all our family.

Life Time

Time is relative. At least perceptually. Some events happen so fast we don’t even think about their occurence, such as light streaming out from bulb to wall when we flick on a light switch. Other events are so slow as to be imperceptible within human lifetimes. Such as any event that is measured in geologic time, like orogeny.

The watching of analog clocks (bereft of second hands) occupies an interesting place between these poles. It is difficult to perceive the instantaneous moving of the minute hand, yet if we watch it for a while, it becomes clear that the hand has moved.

Lately I’ve been writing that my dad generally has been of surprisingly good health, allowing for the occasional ‘bad day’. But it was only this morning that I realized that he is declining. He is a little slower, a little weaker. It’s impossible to see day–by–day but, in retrospect, enough change has occurred to be undeniable.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Flop Flip

He had a good day. Especially as compared to yesterday. He felt well enough to spend most of the day downstairs, much of it reading. He also socialized with me, my mother, and some good family friends (who brought much delicious food) over dinner. True, he didn’t eat very much, but it was still a vast improvement overall.

The indeterminancy is maddening.

Flip Flop

He’s having a bad day. A very bad day. He is tired, nauseous. He was out of bed for just about an hour, returning to it midmorning and falling asleep almost immediately. We don’t know why. We hope these symptoms are transitory, that he will be restored tomorrow to his previously relatively good health. We learned early on from friends and relatives that there would be good days and bad (trending towards the latter). And we’s certainly seen that already. But, as I’ve written before, we cannot foretell the future, save in gross abstract. So we just love and watch and tend and soothe and hope and wait.

If You Haven’t Already...

Please add yourself, including your name and your photo to the map! I will be showing the map again to my father tomorrow (Saturday).

Thanks!

I’m Still Here

Unfortunately, I returned from Yosemite to a veritable conflagration at Wells Fargo and my time has been consumed accordingly. In addition, my significant other (egad, what an ungainly term, but ‘girlfriend’ is so innocuous; I’m working on changing the nature of our relationship) came down with a bad case of norovirus—yes, the same thing that has beset San Quentin State Prison (looks kind of pretty in the photograph) and is flaring up around the world. So I’ve been also spending time ministering to her, leaving scant for myself. But things should calm down today.

Anyway, my dad seems generally happy, feisty (as always) and reasonably healthy—within the bounds of what could be expected. He still gets himself up and down the stairs between the floors of his house, with much less effort than a few weeks ago, actually. Last I knew, the oxygen remains untapped. And he still sleeps beside my mother as he has for much of the last fifty–one years (save for the many many months spent alone overseas).

Except for the cane, bathroom fixtures and chapeau, and a pronounced slowing down, it’s almost possible to fantasize that he’s fine, that there aren’t tumors spreading inside him.

I have yet to learn about the value of iridium infusion my dad received in my absence. Also, Kaiser rescheduled a number of appointments so he didn’t meet with his oncologist yesterday and the date of another CAT scan is up–in–the–air. Consequently, timelines are still indeterminate.

In sum, there really isn’t very much to relate right now, as I predicted. But keep checking back here. Because this comparative calm simply can’t last.

Back in the Saddle

It’s 2007 and I’m back after a very nice week in Yosemite. Three days of Nordic skiing, a snowshoe trip to a fabulous overlook near Badger Pass and a hike halfway up Yosemite Falls.

Anyway, to the matter at hand: My dad. I shall be brief because it is rather late.

• Despite being listed as such on the appointment schedule Kaiser provided my father, last Thursday was not a chemotherapy treatment. Instead, my mother says he was given an infusion of iridium. Although I’ve found several references to iridium in the treatment of lung cancer, none seems to apply here. I hope to get more details from my mom tomorrow, after which I will follow up.
  
• My dad did receive a chemotherapeutic treatment earlier today. When I saw him earlier this evening, he seemed and said he was fine, save for a bit of post–treatment nausea; which is not uncommon with chemotherapy. He did add that Kaiser administered an anti-nausea agent for the first time.
  
• Thursday is the next appointment with the oncologist. We’re expecting him to schedule another CAT scan. My thoughts are that it, along with its predecessor, will allow his physicians to assess the rapidity of the cancer growth and maybe—not to be morbid—make a gross prediction as to my dad’s longevity.