PlazaJen: Passion Knit

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

An Open Letter To Rare Forms of Cancer

(and all the rest, of course, but most pointedly at the crap multiplying inside my father.)

So yes, back to you, Mr. Rare C:

Fuck you. I hate you. I hate you more than I ever thought I could hate something. I hate this up-down-spin-me-round crap you have imposed on my family, our lives, our hearts, and our strength. I wish a fiery death upon you, and elimination from the face of the earth.

Thought you'd like to know,

I knew, last Friday, that the good news came with caveats. This was not a first-class, Lear Jet champagne-service ride out of the darkness and unanswered questions to a private island with a chef and a beach all to yourself. I had hoped for an over-packed, sardine-esque flight with long layovers and trying times, but the news that came today, this is more like flying with some drug runner who uses a forty-year old plane and angry motherfuckers are shooting at you while you try to grab on to anything to keep you from hurtling around the tin-can interior. And when you think you've reached cruising altitude, a wing falls off.

Don't get me wrong, because I'm grateful he went to Mayo. We wouldn't have known, we wouldn't have known what they knew, what they saw. The lesion on his spine, the one he's been wanting to radiate, that his oncologist in Dubuque didn't feel necessary to order radiated? That lesion's grown. And it's close to connecting with his spinal cord, and when that happens, it's paralysis followed by death. In a matter of days. Right now, if he did nothing, and had proceeded with the chemo in Madison, he'd probably have died within a week. So, as the doctors at Mayo have recommended, there's an urgent rush to get 5 consecutive radiation sessions, starting NOW, to pinpoint this lesion and stop it in time. I told James tonight, after my meltdown, that this is like helplessly watching some surreal movie, where someone's told me the ending already, but I have no idea how long it's going to run, and I keep hoping for a reprieve, and there's still a chance for one, because he will start chemo once this radiation happens, and we have to fervently pray that all the pieces click together and it gets us more time, but you never know when another two-by-four is going to swing out unexpectedly and lay you out flat. I keep hoping that this all isn't real, that it's a giant mistake. I know - it's all stages: grief, anger, denial, bargaining..... and they don't have a particular pattern, and I have to just keep sucking it up and coping.

So many ifs. So many hopes. So so so many tears.
posted by PlazaJen, 12:47 AM