Tag Archives: hospital

day.eighty.seven.

mom and dad out for a walk.  we got word today that dad’s chemotherapy will begin tonight.  it will be a stronger, more brutal dose. ten times the amount last time, and every twelve hours instead of once a day.  the intent is to annihilate all the evil cells destroying dad’s blood and body. once and for all. leave no one behind. with such intensity though there are risks of side effects. there is risk of  the chemo affecting dad’s brain, leaving him with the inability to walk or talk.  um. what? he could survive the cancer but not be able to enjoy the life given to him? i don’t want my dad to be wheelchair bound never speaking again. i don’t want my dad to hurt, suffer, be in pain. cancer sucks. big time. it has ruined this man’s life. this man who doesn’t deserve it.  please do not let this walk today be his last.

the boy and i fly home tomorrow, so today was my last day here. i hate that thought creeping into my head that it could be the last time i see him.  the last time.  emotions are so hyped right now. fear. sadness. love. pain. joy. nostalgia. anger. i hate it.  i hate the distractions that i force to make happen. that i even need to be distracted. even dad says this is all for the glory of God.  God who is in control of all of this. whose control i need to give in to. let go and let God … right? cancer. i’m now one of those people who will post a meme on facebook about showing my love and support for a loved one battling cancer. let this battle end, soon. let God’s glory be revealed. let people see the hand of God at work. i’d love to see a miracle. i’d love to see the cancer get what it deserves: annihilation. i’d love to see dad live another thirty years sharing a story of his miraculous healing. i’d love to see dad not in a hospital gown. i’d love to see dad not cry because his is afraid. i’d love to see him again, walking and talking. please God, hear our prayers. our pleas. our begging. our cries for mercy. look upon my dad, sitting there in his hospital bed, waiting for the chemo to be given. waiting to see what will happen. pour your mercy over him now. show him your face. reveal to him your unfaltering love and peace.

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day.eighty.four.

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my family. dad. sister. brother. mom.  it’s been a long time since we have all been in the same room, together, sans spouses, kids.  in the haunting early hours this morning dad found himself here again: duke university hospital cancer center. turns out the last round of treatment nearly a month ago killed all but a few rogue cells.  these cells decided to go on a revenge spree causing dad’s white blood cell count to rise and rise rapidly. after having a meal home together last night with kids and grandkids, he was feeling like he did last time. he was suspicious of the leukemia returning. and it had. we knew it would come back, but not this soon.  at least it waited until after family dinner. so here he sits. in a different smaller room, but surrounded by the same tender care and brilliance behind the staff of this cancer center.  and there we sat around him. talking about football, long gone family members, home repair dilemmas, who wanted dad’s motorcycle.  and then we prayed. barely getting a word out.  tears streaming down our cheeks. asking God to heal. to comfort. to get dad out of here.  what God does is his perfect will. i know that.  i just don’t know when it will unfold.

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day.sixty.nine.

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I do not like hospitals. the last time I was in one as a patient was not a good one. Hospitals are supposed to heal, rejuvenate. But when I walked through the cancer ward today on the way to my dad’s room I felt the opposite. I felt the pain and suffering every single one of the patients (including my dad) was feeling. The air was thick with this feeling. These people are not going to be healed. That why cancer is pure evil. It may allow patients to survive, but the cancer will always be lurking.

Later in the evening as I left the hospital with mom I saw a window draped with thousands of ribbons. Each ribbon was color coded to at least 10 different types of cancer and each ribbon had a patient’s name on it.

imageA name of a survivor or not. If I had a pen I would have added an orange ribbon. I’m kind of glad I didn’t have a pen because I’m still in denial that my dad has this killer of a cancer. I’m praying it won’t kill him.

Cancer might take my dad away . Or cancer will let him live a few more years. The thought of “what if” haunted me all day.  I haunted  me when I left the house at 5:45 am.  When I was taking my seat on the plane. When I entered my dad’s room. When he winced in pain. When my mom showed up. When mom and I drove home. I cried every single time. Tears of “please, God….don’t let the ‘what if’ be today.” So. Now we wait. Which I’m learning cancer loves to make us do. Wait for improvement or not.

There is no doubt heaven is waiting. I believe there are millions of angel ready for dad’s arrival. Jesus himself will be holding the biggest “welcome home” sign of all. But I also believe God can heal. I pray for the latter. I pray God  kicks cancer’s ass.  Hard.  Let his will be done.  His perfect will. And may my feeble heart accept it.

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day.fifty.one.

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my dad. as soon as i got off the phone with my mom tonight i found the photo albums shoved in the back of my son’s bedroom closet. i was looking for a photo i know i have seen before of him holding me as an infant. i forever hold that image in my head when i think of him. a dad who holds me close and simply loves me. in my search i couldn’t find that photo, but several others, including the one posted above. a family posing one easter morning in bennington, vermont.  (that’s me in the pink three piece suit) my dad on the far left. mom must have taken the photo.

my dad. tonight, i found myself having a repeat conversation with my mom. dad’s in the hospital. again. he’s not a sickly man, but just getting old, i suppose.  three years ago it was a brain aneurism. last year it was a quadruple bypass. tonight i hear words like high white blood cell count….leukemia….bone marrow biopsy…chemotherapy.  but nothing determined until tests are done. mom passed the phone to my dad and neither of us could get as much as a ‘happy thanksgiving’ muttered. i think we were both trying not to cry. the man that held his infant daughter with such tenderness. i want him here, now.

our GOD who heals, please heal. our GOD who hears, listen. do not let this be what we fear it may be. administer your mercy.

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