November 5th- St. Vincent's Hospital, Evansville, IN
I watched Dad's face as the doctor went over the CT Scan results from the evening before. He had swallowed some dye and then imaging was done to see if there was a hole or a fistula communicating between his esophagus and right lung. Dad finally felt hungry today. He looked forward to eating for the first time since his cancer diagnosis in June. I didn't need to hear what the results were. All I could see was despair on Dad's face. He just stared at the wall. It was a look of pain like I've never seen. All I could say was "I'm sorry Dad". He probably didn't even hear me over the sound of the high flow oxygen he was receiving. He stared off most of the day, or had his eyes shut. I hated that he wouldn't talk to me.
How does a daughter help her father during such a difficult cancer journey? Where is the balance between optimism, guarded hope and harsh reality? Being at his side has been a blessing and a curse I watched him become paralyzed to do anything but exist since his diagnosis. He didn't pull himself up by his bootstraps, start living a healthy life and a new fitness routine as if assuming the stance of a cancer warrior. Rather, he seemed to collapse in on himself, so deep into darkness, that daylight caused him pain.
I watched him lose 20 pounds, then 30 pounds and I feared he would actually starve to death. I called Dr. Poirier to talk some sense into Dad about getting a g-tube. Dad reluctantly agreed. He had all the chemo and radiation and now all that was left was for him to do was to get stronger and put on weight.
His lungs and esophagus were irritated from the radiation, so Dad had copious amounts of sticky thick secretions. He was dehydrated, got pneumonia, and then got c-diff. We began once daily IV antibiotics at home. He had nurses, physical therapists and occupational therapists coming by throughout the week.
He finally admitted he was depressed and yet still refused to talk to anyone or take anything for it. He was failing to thrive and my hands were tied on how much motivation, reprimanding and pleading that I could do. He wouldn't hear any of it. So I loved him. I stopped blaming character flaws for his poor health and I cared for him. He was still Dad and yet he became a man who was dying of cancer. I'm sure that compassion and empathy are more readily available when all my emotional memories and needs were put away. I'm not saying I only looked at Dad through rose colored glasses. I'm saying I chose to look beyond who he was to me and see him as the person who needs me. I had many moments of anger and frustration at how stubborn he was being, but with the help of God's grace I became tolerant of his, understandably, foul moods and depressed outlook. Eeyore must have had esophageal cancer. I started asking myself who he needed me to be. More often than not, all he needed was his daughter in the corner looking out for him. Mom taught me how to be present without being intrusive when she stayed by my side at the hospital in Indianapolis when I had Dengue Fever.
Today, sometime between the news of the fistula and me leaving the hospital for the night, Dad came to terms with something. I'll probably never know what brought it on, but when I was leaving I told him to "Give 'em hell tonight" and he laughed a real laugh. I love you Dad.
November 11, 2019 IU University Hospital, Indianapolis, IN
It's Veteran's Day. Because Dad's situation is so complex we asked to be transferred to Indy. This is where his post-chemo and radiation surgery will be if he ever is able to have his esophageal tumor resected. We transferred on Friday night. Today will be a week without any nutrition. I want to list briefly how Dad's course has gone.
After diagnosis, Dad did very little to improve his health to take on chemo and radiation. He actually went through them pretty well. He was weak, but also depressed and didn't do much more than go from the couch to the bed.
December 21, 2019
It's been a month today since Dad died.
I watched Dad's face as the doctor went over the CT Scan results from the evening before. He had swallowed some dye and then imaging was done to see if there was a hole or a fistula communicating between his esophagus and right lung. Dad finally felt hungry today. He looked forward to eating for the first time since his cancer diagnosis in June. I didn't need to hear what the results were. All I could see was despair on Dad's face. He just stared at the wall. It was a look of pain like I've never seen. All I could say was "I'm sorry Dad". He probably didn't even hear me over the sound of the high flow oxygen he was receiving. He stared off most of the day, or had his eyes shut. I hated that he wouldn't talk to me.
How does a daughter help her father during such a difficult cancer journey? Where is the balance between optimism, guarded hope and harsh reality? Being at his side has been a blessing and a curse I watched him become paralyzed to do anything but exist since his diagnosis. He didn't pull himself up by his bootstraps, start living a healthy life and a new fitness routine as if assuming the stance of a cancer warrior. Rather, he seemed to collapse in on himself, so deep into darkness, that daylight caused him pain.
I watched him lose 20 pounds, then 30 pounds and I feared he would actually starve to death. I called Dr. Poirier to talk some sense into Dad about getting a g-tube. Dad reluctantly agreed. He had all the chemo and radiation and now all that was left was for him to do was to get stronger and put on weight.
His lungs and esophagus were irritated from the radiation, so Dad had copious amounts of sticky thick secretions. He was dehydrated, got pneumonia, and then got c-diff. We began once daily IV antibiotics at home. He had nurses, physical therapists and occupational therapists coming by throughout the week.
He finally admitted he was depressed and yet still refused to talk to anyone or take anything for it. He was failing to thrive and my hands were tied on how much motivation, reprimanding and pleading that I could do. He wouldn't hear any of it. So I loved him. I stopped blaming character flaws for his poor health and I cared for him. He was still Dad and yet he became a man who was dying of cancer. I'm sure that compassion and empathy are more readily available when all my emotional memories and needs were put away. I'm not saying I only looked at Dad through rose colored glasses. I'm saying I chose to look beyond who he was to me and see him as the person who needs me. I had many moments of anger and frustration at how stubborn he was being, but with the help of God's grace I became tolerant of his, understandably, foul moods and depressed outlook. Eeyore must have had esophageal cancer. I started asking myself who he needed me to be. More often than not, all he needed was his daughter in the corner looking out for him. Mom taught me how to be present without being intrusive when she stayed by my side at the hospital in Indianapolis when I had Dengue Fever.
Today, sometime between the news of the fistula and me leaving the hospital for the night, Dad came to terms with something. I'll probably never know what brought it on, but when I was leaving I told him to "Give 'em hell tonight" and he laughed a real laugh. I love you Dad.
November 11, 2019 IU University Hospital, Indianapolis, IN
It's Veteran's Day. Because Dad's situation is so complex we asked to be transferred to Indy. This is where his post-chemo and radiation surgery will be if he ever is able to have his esophageal tumor resected. We transferred on Friday night. Today will be a week without any nutrition. I want to list briefly how Dad's course has gone.
After diagnosis, Dad did very little to improve his health to take on chemo and radiation. He actually went through them pretty well. He was weak, but also depressed and didn't do much more than go from the couch to the bed.
December 21, 2019
It's been a month today since Dad died.
