Three Little Words
I have waited my whole life for my father to say "I love you." These words do not come easily to him, they never have. I know he loves me, but I never hear him say it.
Recently, my father has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. He's not looked well since Christmas and on April 23, 2014, it was confirmed that he has the Big C. Since then, I have thought of nothing else in my spare time. Will he make it? Am I able to do anything for him? Will he suffer? Will he ever tell me he loves me? His PSA score was normal, but his Gleason rating is a 10. I knew nothing about either of these things until April 23, and now I know he has a very aggressive form of prostate cancer. With radiation, the doctor says, he could extend his life 5, 10 or 15 years. My dad is very positive and says "I couldn't ask for more than 15 more years."
Then we see another doctor who feels the slides from the biopsy should be re-examined. He "sees something". Upon further examination, he confirms that my dad has "small cell carcinoma of the prostate". I never heard of this, most people have never heard of this. It is an extremely rare form of prostate cancer, and actually a second type of cancer growing in my dad - and it's the primary cancer. It is not only rare, but extremely fast-moving. Now we have added chemo.
The stretch from the first symptoms to the actual diagnosis seems to have taken entirely too long. The waiting from one appointment to the next is agonizingly long and at each visit, we've had more devastating news. I am hopeful while I am at the hospital, but in the confines of my bedroom, or car, or shower, I have nothing but despair. Will he make it? Am I able to do anything for him? Will he suffer? Will he ever tell me he loves me?
"Small cell carcinoma" - the three words I never knew and wish I'd never heard. I hate these words.
"I love you" - the three words finally spoken from my father. He tells me every day. I love these words.
Recently, my father has been diagnosed with prostate cancer. He's not looked well since Christmas and on April 23, 2014, it was confirmed that he has the Big C. Since then, I have thought of nothing else in my spare time. Will he make it? Am I able to do anything for him? Will he suffer? Will he ever tell me he loves me? His PSA score was normal, but his Gleason rating is a 10. I knew nothing about either of these things until April 23, and now I know he has a very aggressive form of prostate cancer. With radiation, the doctor says, he could extend his life 5, 10 or 15 years. My dad is very positive and says "I couldn't ask for more than 15 more years."
Then we see another doctor who feels the slides from the biopsy should be re-examined. He "sees something". Upon further examination, he confirms that my dad has "small cell carcinoma of the prostate". I never heard of this, most people have never heard of this. It is an extremely rare form of prostate cancer, and actually a second type of cancer growing in my dad - and it's the primary cancer. It is not only rare, but extremely fast-moving. Now we have added chemo.
The stretch from the first symptoms to the actual diagnosis seems to have taken entirely too long. The waiting from one appointment to the next is agonizingly long and at each visit, we've had more devastating news. I am hopeful while I am at the hospital, but in the confines of my bedroom, or car, or shower, I have nothing but despair. Will he make it? Am I able to do anything for him? Will he suffer? Will he ever tell me he loves me?
"Small cell carcinoma" - the three words I never knew and wish I'd never heard. I hate these words.
"I love you" - the three words finally spoken from my father. He tells me every day. I love these words.
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