I’ve been avoiding this post like the plague. Like committing it to the blog makes its finite, seals my fate. Like writing about it means there’s no turning back, and I have to face our future. But not writing about it doesn’t change any of that.
This week we found out that the fluid was indeed cancerous. The cancer has spread, meaning that there is no longer a cure to my father’s illness, it’s only about treatment.
To further that, they have determined that fluid is metastatic esophageal cancer. They had not originally thought the tumor in his rectum was a result of the esophageal cancer because of its location, it wasn’t typical of the spread of that type of cancer. Unfortunately, it was, and that’s why it didn’t respond to the treatment he had been receiving and continued to spread. We never had that 80% chance to beat it. He never had any chance.
Dad’s oncologist has given him nine months to a year as a timeframe. This is mainly so he knows to get his affairs in order. Maybe to also make me spaz out. Nine months may mean not another Christmas. It may mean he won’t see his 56th birthday. It means I will be a basketcase. Since we’ve found out I haven’t done real well being by myself. I curl up in bed with one of his sweaters and cry so hard I hyperventilate. I had no idea that I could cry so hard my chest would hurt days later. And I’ve been going through all my photos to find the ones of my Dad and the G. I don’t think I can handle this. (And I feel so selfish for saying that.)