Perspective (addendum)

I just spoke to my mom. She says my dad is definitely doing better. Notably, his color has improved from its disconcerting pallor of a few days ago.

My dad began his new oral chemotherapy regimen today. Hopefully it will be as successful at staving off tumor growth as was the traditional intravenous treatment, while allowing him to simultaneously feel better. However, given Dr. Canin’s preference for the intravenous, I’m guarded in my hopes.

Perspective

I spoke to my dad earlier today. He sounded more cheerful than he’s been of late, but still very weak. His speech was quiet and labored. I had to listen carefully when he spoke into the telephone. At least he is again regularly making the effort to leave his bedroom and go downstairs to the television room on the main floor of my parents’ home. The sad irony of celebrating this small achievement by a man who formerly adventured around the globe is not lost on me.

Abort

The chemo was aborted today. Dr. Canin, my dad’s oncologist, and my mom agreed that my dad is just too weak. My mother said to me that “the quality of life is just not there” [with the current intraveneous regimen]. For the next month my dad will receive daily oral chemotherapy, which isn’t nearly as potent as the every–few–weeks infused kind, but will be considerably less harsh on his system.

[This post has been renamed, from “Quality,” and slightly amended. Both changes were for clarity.]

Just Another Tuesday

As I write this, it is about 10:15 on a Tuesday morning. As I write this, my father is sitting in a large, fairly comfortable reclining chair. He has been lightly dozing for over an hour, the result of several milligrams of Benadryl having been dripped into his veins through an intravenous line. That drug in turn has been followed by his standard chemotherapeutic cocktail of Taxol and Carboplatin. This is, if I am correct, his fifth such infusion.

The entire treatment will last at least five hours, after which my father will go home, sleep, and probably awaken tomorrow to feel—to use his own words—“like shit.” Such is a typical post–chemotherapy state, for my dad and most other chemo recipients. This isn’t surprising when you appreciate that chemotherapuetic drugs are powerful toxins whoses goal is to poison malignant cells—hopefully without poisoning the healthy host cells (the patient) too much.

Through all this my mother simply waits. Perhaps she will wander over to nearby Broadway Plaza and shop a bit or grab a meal. But, on the whole, she will just wait. Alone. Then she will drive them the thirty minutes or so back to their home.

So, how is your day going?

Back at it...

I was sick for a week. Lost five lbs. Great new diet treatment! (Can’t be any worse than the zillions of others being hawked on television these days. My millions await.) My mother told me that when she stopped by my apartment, she hadn’t seen me “look so sick in many years.” And yet, even as I lay abed, coughing incessantly, sinuses running, head throbbing, I feared that my father generally feels far worse than I did. This was sobering and forced me to abstain from any self–pity.

Speaking of him, my dad is still trending better. Slowly. Two steps forward, 1.9 steps back. Yesterday definitely was a step or two back. He looked ashen. Pallid. No color to his skin. He was tired. But today... Well, I haven’t yet seen him but when I spoke to him by phone earlier, he said he was feeling better and he sounded more upbeat.

Forward backwar forward backwar forward backwar...

Upswing

Just in the last two days, he is finally feeling better. This, after having felt pretty damn awful for well over two weeks. We’ll just hope that this upswing continues for a while. Which it probably will—maybe till his next chemo treatment next week.

It’s all so routine now. The jargon, heretofore experienced primarily on television medical dramas has become part of our every day dialog: (representational)

Hi Mom.
Hi Brian.
How’s Dad today?
Oh, he’s doing a bit better. We’re just about to leave for Kaiser.
What’s going to happen today?
Well, he’s going to have another Aredia drip. He has chemo tomorrow and another scan next week.
Oh, okay. Well, tell Dad I love him and that I’ll talk to him this evening.
I will honey. Bye bye.
Bye Mom.

Amazing. How did treatment of a terminal illness become such a blasé topic?

Siege and Sick

The siege of long hours and crushing deadlines has ended at last. But, right on the heels of that alleviation, I have contracted a pesky virus. I’ll start posting again when I feel comfortable sitting upright for more than two minutes!

For now know that we are all still here and that my dad has been very weak for two weeks. A period of such duration that I don’t believe the symptoms to be consequential of his most recent chemotherapy, albeit it is worth reflecting on their commencement being within a day of that treatment. At least his spirits are improving and he seems to be more comfortable.

I’ll be back soon. My apologies.