Cancer. Cancer. Cancer.
I keep saying it and it just doesn’t seem right.
Pleural Mesothelioma.
Almost sounds pretty until you know what that really is. It’s not some tropical flower. I wish it was.
On May 25, 2018, we had D Day. Or diagnosis day. I cried so hard. I drank a lot. I reached out to people who offered support. It’s very overwhelming.
The oncology appointment isn’t until next week and I wonder, will waiting a week make a difference? Will that mean the difference between living and dying? I don’t know.
My dad worked on the USS Richard B Anderson, in the engine room. This was during the Vietnam war. He worked around everything covered in asbestos and would have to cut insulation to make repairs. Now, so many years later, he has a rare cancer. One that they are still trying to find viable treatments for. The war didn’t kill him then. It waited until now to come back for him.
I spent time with Dad on Saturday, day 2. We did the car brakes. 4 hours of sweaty labor. We didn’t really talk, except to do the brakes. I couldn’t say much and I don’t think either of us was much into contemplating life’s mysteries. So we worked. And I went home. But it was good. My kids took some pictures and video for me. I need all of that. I need to remember.
My emotions are all over. I am tired. I am overwhelmed. I am scared. I feel selfish for worrying about myself. I want to push Dad to push everyone else to get this show on the road. I don’t have much say in any of this. I am not in control.
Cancer. Cancer. Cancer. Plueral Mesothelioma. No flowers.
The Cancer Chronicles 