31 January 2011
Dear Dad,
Well we're still waiting huh.
After an exhausting, brutally traumatic weekend we're still waiting for news, still waiting to hear from Doctors. No one's told you anything. What a cruel trick, you'd think that the doctor who tore the arse out of our world on Thursday and gave us renewed hope on Friday could at least call you today and say 'Hi, how are you coping? Your test results aren't back yet but I'll call you the second they do...'
Is no news good news? Or do they figure we don't care about the minor details now and only want to hear from the specialist?
It's so fucking frustrating!
Speaking of frustrating... the queen of frustrating, Mike's mother, rang on Saturday morning and bullied me into buying flights north for Mike's fuck-wit of a brother's wedding. Fan - fucking - tastic. You know what she said??
'Oh well if it's ONLY Chemo then there's no reason you can't come up for the wedding'
'Why can't Jenny and your Mum be there for him'
Clearly Jenny and Mum will be sitting around on their princess arses... oh wait.... no they WON'T! It's not about what Mum and Jenny are doing! It's about what I want!
'I know you're Dad's sick, but we're family too'
You know what!?
Fuck you Colleen!
And fuck you Mike for blowing up at me when I told you I'd spent $600 to shut your Mother up. Fuck you all! And a I'm a fucking idiot too for letting my fragile emotional self get bullied by the manipulative bitch.
FUCK!!!
This would have never happened if I was still on the Prozac...
Oh, about that... yeah I didn't tell you cos I was ashamed. So shhh! OK? it makes me a braver better person (and I know you still love me... nutty nut pills or not.... I'm just not ready to say it out loud to you yet )
How's Mum doing? I worry about her. She's the bloody emotional ice queen isn't she? I think she (like the rest of us) are secretly terrified that the LYMPHOMA is the mis diagnosis, and it IS liver cancer after all.
I don't know how I'll cope if that's true.
I've been talking to Jen, and we think that I should come with you when you see the specialist, OK? Someone to ask the hard questions and someone else to hear what he's saying and make the mental notes for you. There's no doubt it'll be overwhelming so I want to be there to make sure we hear and understand EVERYTHING he tells you. Don't worry, I'm big enough and brave enough :) And Mum can come too, I just want to hear it first hand. No arguing, alright?
Alright Dad, I better get the house cleaned up and get to bed, between the monkeys they managed to reduce my snooze hours to about 2 last night... you always hoped I'd get kids like me that didn't sleep...
I'll talk to you soon
Love you xo
Monday, January 31, 2011
Friday, January 28, 2011
Hope
28 January 2011
Dear Dad,
I know, I still haven't been to see you. I know you spent the day in Clyde being X rayed, and I know you're going to a vintage tractor rally tomorrow. You're a busy man.
Mum text me today telling me your lymph node biopsy results were back, and on specialist review you've now been diagnosed with Lymphoma rather than the almost always fatal Liver Cancer.
This is fantastic news - there's a chance with lymphoma, there's chemo and radiotherapy and bone marrow transplants. There's a plan of attack. There's a fantastic chance we're not going to watch you waste away. I never thought I'd be so happy to hear my Dad had cancer... but a treatable cancer rather than a creeping tumor.
It was good to talk to you on the phone tonight, you sound happy. Well you sounded happy last night but you sound extra happy now. Relived. You still weren't able to tell me what happens next but the doctor told you to relax, have a beer and enjoy your weekend. Much much better news than when just yesterday he told you to cancel your holiday and settle your affairs.
I'm so relieved. Don't get me wrong, Lymphoma is still Cancer, but it's Cancer that has a lot of treatment options. I hadn't been able to find ONE positive story about Liver Cancer. Not that I'd ever tell you that, but Dad, that shit would have killed you.
I'm so glad to have had good news. I'm so glad something can be done.
Love you Dad, talk to you soon xo
Dear Dad,
I know, I still haven't been to see you. I know you spent the day in Clyde being X rayed, and I know you're going to a vintage tractor rally tomorrow. You're a busy man.
Mum text me today telling me your lymph node biopsy results were back, and on specialist review you've now been diagnosed with Lymphoma rather than the almost always fatal Liver Cancer.
This is fantastic news - there's a chance with lymphoma, there's chemo and radiotherapy and bone marrow transplants. There's a plan of attack. There's a fantastic chance we're not going to watch you waste away. I never thought I'd be so happy to hear my Dad had cancer... but a treatable cancer rather than a creeping tumor.
It was good to talk to you on the phone tonight, you sound happy. Well you sounded happy last night but you sound extra happy now. Relived. You still weren't able to tell me what happens next but the doctor told you to relax, have a beer and enjoy your weekend. Much much better news than when just yesterday he told you to cancel your holiday and settle your affairs.
I'm so relieved. Don't get me wrong, Lymphoma is still Cancer, but it's Cancer that has a lot of treatment options. I hadn't been able to find ONE positive story about Liver Cancer. Not that I'd ever tell you that, but Dad, that shit would have killed you.
I'm so glad to have had good news. I'm so glad something can be done.
Love you Dad, talk to you soon xo
Diagnosis
27 January 2011
Dear Dad,
I got a phone call from Jen this morning. She wanted to know where you were. Apparently you weren't home last night when she tried to get in touch after tea, and there was no answer at you place this morning either. She wanted to know what I've heard, and if you'd stayed in town or not. Obviously neither of us had any idea you were in at the doctor getting the worst possible news.
Jen offered to head over to your place to see what's happening, and while I'm in the shower I miss her text message. She rings later.
'Dad has liver cancer'
What? What the fuck? CANCER? but how? She's in tears, and soon I am too. A mass was found on your liver during the ultrasound, and Verne had called you in at 7:30 this morning. You must have known when he told you to bring mum in with you that it was going to be bad news. You don't have to bring a support person in when it's good news. No one seems to know anything. The lymph tests aren't yet back, and you have a chest xray tomorrow at Dunstan Hospital. Jen says you and Mum seem fine.
I know you're not. But you're stoic, you know? not overly emotional, and never dramatic.
I feel the arse has fallen out of my world Dad. Your My Dad. My mate. the big strong man who's ALWAYS been there for us. The provider. The protector. How the hell can YOU be so sick! I saw you yesterday! you were FINE! you had indigestion! and now you're seriously ill? What the fuck!
I want to know what I can do to help. Jen tells me to come out over the weekend. She's cancelling your holiday to the Gold Coast booked for next month on the doctors recommendations. I Tell Paula and Richard.
I cry. A lot. I go into Dunedin with Mike to stock up the house in case I need to ditch him and spend time with you. I flip flop between being fine and bawling irrationally and embarrassingly at Pak n Save. I'm shocked and frightened. I'm not sure what to do. I tell Mike's parents, and I tell Liz. She's a nurse, she's been there with her own mum, and her husbands uncle just died of Liver Cancer. I need to talk to someone who knows, and I need advice, reassurance and comfort.
Liz isn't optimistic. I guess she's realistic. It's a comfort and terrifying. She's honest, she lets me rant and she tells my what I'm in for. She also tells me what I need to hear. I'm not sure if Liz will ever read this, but I want her to know that I'll forever be grateful for the kind ear and advice she gave me the day I found out about your cancer dad. She's a true friend, and I thank the gods she was bought into my life.
At about tea time, after the kids are in the bath I get brave and I ring you.
You just sound like Dad. You've been out all day drenching lambs. You feel well, and there's work to be done. You tell me you're not going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You've talked to your brother, and told Andy that while you'll need time off for Doctors visits you'll work as long as you feel well enough. You're incredible, you know that? You're my hero.
You don't seem worried at all.
I'm going to see you tomorrow, after your chest xray. I know you probably won't know anything, it's not a radiologists job to give a diagnosis, but I'm glad you're getting the best testing as quickly as you can. There's been talk of a full body CAT Scan too, Liver cancer is generally a secondary cancer, so they have to find the primary one before they can form a plan of attack. I want to be there, and see you for myself. I want to take a hundred photo's of you and the kids while you look well, in case chemo takes you hair, or the cancer turns you yellow. I'm frightened Dad. I'm really frightened and I want a hundred good memories of you for these kids, for me, in case the worst happens. I should have been taking photo's anyway. I just thought I had time, you know?
Your upbeat attitude is a big comfort Dad. If any one's got a chance at beating this, it HAS to be you. You're not a big drinker, you haven't smoked in 15 years, you've always been your ideal weight and you've always been fit (how many other 64 year olds do you know still do the muster on foot??).
I'm frightened, I'm shocked and I just want answers. I just want everything to be alright, and I just want to tell you I love you in person.
I love you Dad.
Dear Dad,
I got a phone call from Jen this morning. She wanted to know where you were. Apparently you weren't home last night when she tried to get in touch after tea, and there was no answer at you place this morning either. She wanted to know what I've heard, and if you'd stayed in town or not. Obviously neither of us had any idea you were in at the doctor getting the worst possible news.
Jen offered to head over to your place to see what's happening, and while I'm in the shower I miss her text message. She rings later.
'Dad has liver cancer'
What? What the fuck? CANCER? but how? She's in tears, and soon I am too. A mass was found on your liver during the ultrasound, and Verne had called you in at 7:30 this morning. You must have known when he told you to bring mum in with you that it was going to be bad news. You don't have to bring a support person in when it's good news. No one seems to know anything. The lymph tests aren't yet back, and you have a chest xray tomorrow at Dunstan Hospital. Jen says you and Mum seem fine.
I know you're not. But you're stoic, you know? not overly emotional, and never dramatic.
I feel the arse has fallen out of my world Dad. Your My Dad. My mate. the big strong man who's ALWAYS been there for us. The provider. The protector. How the hell can YOU be so sick! I saw you yesterday! you were FINE! you had indigestion! and now you're seriously ill? What the fuck!
I want to know what I can do to help. Jen tells me to come out over the weekend. She's cancelling your holiday to the Gold Coast booked for next month on the doctors recommendations. I Tell Paula and Richard.
I cry. A lot. I go into Dunedin with Mike to stock up the house in case I need to ditch him and spend time with you. I flip flop between being fine and bawling irrationally and embarrassingly at Pak n Save. I'm shocked and frightened. I'm not sure what to do. I tell Mike's parents, and I tell Liz. She's a nurse, she's been there with her own mum, and her husbands uncle just died of Liver Cancer. I need to talk to someone who knows, and I need advice, reassurance and comfort.
Liz isn't optimistic. I guess she's realistic. It's a comfort and terrifying. She's honest, she lets me rant and she tells my what I'm in for. She also tells me what I need to hear. I'm not sure if Liz will ever read this, but I want her to know that I'll forever be grateful for the kind ear and advice she gave me the day I found out about your cancer dad. She's a true friend, and I thank the gods she was bought into my life.
At about tea time, after the kids are in the bath I get brave and I ring you.
You just sound like Dad. You've been out all day drenching lambs. You feel well, and there's work to be done. You tell me you're not going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself. You've talked to your brother, and told Andy that while you'll need time off for Doctors visits you'll work as long as you feel well enough. You're incredible, you know that? You're my hero.
You don't seem worried at all.
I'm going to see you tomorrow, after your chest xray. I know you probably won't know anything, it's not a radiologists job to give a diagnosis, but I'm glad you're getting the best testing as quickly as you can. There's been talk of a full body CAT Scan too, Liver cancer is generally a secondary cancer, so they have to find the primary one before they can form a plan of attack. I want to be there, and see you for myself. I want to take a hundred photo's of you and the kids while you look well, in case chemo takes you hair, or the cancer turns you yellow. I'm frightened Dad. I'm really frightened and I want a hundred good memories of you for these kids, for me, in case the worst happens. I should have been taking photo's anyway. I just thought I had time, you know?
Your upbeat attitude is a big comfort Dad. If any one's got a chance at beating this, it HAS to be you. You're not a big drinker, you haven't smoked in 15 years, you've always been your ideal weight and you've always been fit (how many other 64 year olds do you know still do the muster on foot??).
I'm frightened, I'm shocked and I just want answers. I just want everything to be alright, and I just want to tell you I love you in person.
I love you Dad.
Testing
26 January 2011
Dear Dad,
It's Wednesday morning, and I'm on the computer loading photo's I took of Rammstein at the Big Day Out onto a fan forum. Yep I'm almost 30 and STILL listening to that 'industrial noise' as you call it. According to you it's 'not music'. A sudden shriek of joy from Cameron and Cole's wet nose on the ranch slider heralds you and Mum's arrival. You're here and you've bought our dog with you.
I offer you coffee, but you tell me that you're nil by mouth until after the ultrasound. Fair enough. When asked what exactly's wrong you tell me that you've had some acid reflux for a couple of weeks now, and you've found a hard lump under your breastbone. You're not overly concerned, worrying instead that you've had some sort of hernia. You haven't been sick, you look well. You look like you always do. Fit, tanned and relaxed.
We chat about nothing. I tell you and mum about the trip. You tell me a story about my Sister's almost 4 year old instructing his mum on how to move the irrigater. You're proud that a kid so small can remember exactly how to set up complicated irrigation equipment, and you're proud that Jen's even used a bowline knot to tie the irrigater off. I vividly remember you teaching us how to tie a bowline knot as kids. Hell I could probably tie a bowline before I could tie my shoelaces. You taught us well, and you're obviously teaching the grandsons well too.
I love that you're so proud of your grand kids, and I'm glad to be living close enough for them to see you and Mum regularly.
To be honest at this stage I'm still not overly concerned about the testing. You don't seem sick. I tell you 'good luck!' for the tests and you're off in Mum's Rav4. Everything's fine. Life is good.
Dear Dad,
It's Wednesday morning, and I'm on the computer loading photo's I took of Rammstein at the Big Day Out onto a fan forum. Yep I'm almost 30 and STILL listening to that 'industrial noise' as you call it. According to you it's 'not music'. A sudden shriek of joy from Cameron and Cole's wet nose on the ranch slider heralds you and Mum's arrival. You're here and you've bought our dog with you.
I offer you coffee, but you tell me that you're nil by mouth until after the ultrasound. Fair enough. When asked what exactly's wrong you tell me that you've had some acid reflux for a couple of weeks now, and you've found a hard lump under your breastbone. You're not overly concerned, worrying instead that you've had some sort of hernia. You haven't been sick, you look well. You look like you always do. Fit, tanned and relaxed.
We chat about nothing. I tell you and mum about the trip. You tell me a story about my Sister's almost 4 year old instructing his mum on how to move the irrigater. You're proud that a kid so small can remember exactly how to set up complicated irrigation equipment, and you're proud that Jen's even used a bowline knot to tie the irrigater off. I vividly remember you teaching us how to tie a bowline knot as kids. Hell I could probably tie a bowline before I could tie my shoelaces. You taught us well, and you're obviously teaching the grandsons well too.
I love that you're so proud of your grand kids, and I'm glad to be living close enough for them to see you and Mum regularly.
To be honest at this stage I'm still not overly concerned about the testing. You don't seem sick. I tell you 'good luck!' for the tests and you're off in Mum's Rav4. Everything's fine. Life is good.
Text Messages
It's Monday the 24th of January, and My husband and I are stuck at the airport in Auckland. It's the end of our summer holiday in which we've taken Cam (almost 3) and Lucy (3 months) to visit family and friends in the North Island and catch one last rock concert before we turn 30.
Our flight is 4 hours delayed, and while both the kids are behaving beautifully we're all tired and getting frazzeled. It would still a four hour drive home after we get back to Christchurch and there was a long night waiting for us to get to children so young back home and into bed while holding onto some shred of sanity.
My Parents have been very kindly looking after our dog Cole at their farm on the beautiful Maniototo Plain, about 80 km from our home in Palmerston. Knowing it'll be very late when we get home, and not looking forward to getting up and straight back into yet another car for the 2 hour round trip the next day I send a text to my mum. Just a harmless, short message conversation.
ME: Hiya, our plane's been delayed by 3 or 4 hours, so depending on how wild the kids are we might just stay in chch tonight, is Cole cool with you for another night?
MUM: Yes have to take Dad to Dunedin for some tests wednesday so might be able to deliver cole home
ME: Awesome, thanks. What's wrong with Dad?
MUM: Had an upset gut since new year and saw Verne (the family GP) today and he's organised an ultrasound and some lymph tests cause they are up
ME: That's a worry. Glad Verne's onto it though
MUM: Yes Dad has himself burried already
(This message was from my sister Jen on Mum's phone. She was, of course, joking at Dad's dramatics, Dad hasn't been to a doctor for years and being sent straight for tests for a sore stomach was obviously a shock to him. It doesn't seem funny now)
ME: Are they doing bloods or a biopsy?
(I'm in the very early stages of training to become a nurse, and one of my dearest friends is a nurse, who watched her mum die of cancer. So while I in no way claim to be any sort of medical professional, my spidey senses were tingling over the speed at which he was being referred fro further testing on a 'crook guts')
MUM: Not sure, not up on the medical jargon
ME: I'm sure Verne's just doing his job
MUM: Yes, one test is a scan, the other is just looking at his glands
ME: Sweet that should tell them all they need to know :)
and that's it. Mum carrys on with her day, I go and get a coffee and take Cam for yet another ride on the 'helicopter' where you put a dollar in and it bumps around and plays a funny song while your 3 year old reenacts 'Apocalypse Now'.
I hardly give the text conversation another thought.
Our flight is 4 hours delayed, and while both the kids are behaving beautifully we're all tired and getting frazzeled. It would still a four hour drive home after we get back to Christchurch and there was a long night waiting for us to get to children so young back home and into bed while holding onto some shred of sanity.
My Parents have been very kindly looking after our dog Cole at their farm on the beautiful Maniototo Plain, about 80 km from our home in Palmerston. Knowing it'll be very late when we get home, and not looking forward to getting up and straight back into yet another car for the 2 hour round trip the next day I send a text to my mum. Just a harmless, short message conversation.
ME: Hiya, our plane's been delayed by 3 or 4 hours, so depending on how wild the kids are we might just stay in chch tonight, is Cole cool with you for another night?
MUM: Yes have to take Dad to Dunedin for some tests wednesday so might be able to deliver cole home
ME: Awesome, thanks. What's wrong with Dad?
MUM: Had an upset gut since new year and saw Verne (the family GP) today and he's organised an ultrasound and some lymph tests cause they are up
ME: That's a worry. Glad Verne's onto it though
MUM: Yes Dad has himself burried already
(This message was from my sister Jen on Mum's phone. She was, of course, joking at Dad's dramatics, Dad hasn't been to a doctor for years and being sent straight for tests for a sore stomach was obviously a shock to him. It doesn't seem funny now)
ME: Are they doing bloods or a biopsy?
(I'm in the very early stages of training to become a nurse, and one of my dearest friends is a nurse, who watched her mum die of cancer. So while I in no way claim to be any sort of medical professional, my spidey senses were tingling over the speed at which he was being referred fro further testing on a 'crook guts')
MUM: Not sure, not up on the medical jargon
ME: I'm sure Verne's just doing his job
MUM: Yes, one test is a scan, the other is just looking at his glands
ME: Sweet that should tell them all they need to know :)
and that's it. Mum carrys on with her day, I go and get a coffee and take Cam for yet another ride on the 'helicopter' where you put a dollar in and it bumps around and plays a funny song while your 3 year old reenacts 'Apocalypse Now'.
I hardly give the text conversation another thought.
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