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.