The Emergency Room was crammed with people. Most didn't seem to be in dire agony as was my father. The wait was arduous. Dad complained he couldn't tolerate the pain. Numerous times, I went up to the desk trying to hurry them. I told my father that I should have called 911. He would have gotten immediate attention! Repeatedly, now he was demanding I phone 911 from the Emergency Room.
After 4 hours, my father was taken to see a doctor, then hospitalized. Later I received a jolting phone call. A large, cancerous tumor was found in his colon. -- My mother died of colon cancer that spread into the liver. An operation was scheduled.
The day of the surgery, I was frantic and sick to my stomach. Thankfully, he survived. But the news was horrendous. As with my mother, the cancer had spread into his liver. Six months to live, was the doctor's diagnosis.
I asked if my father knew. They assured me he did. However when I visited, Dad seemed in uncharacteristically good spirits. He even made jokes. It broke my heart.
I took the nurse aside. I questioned whether my father was aware of the diagnosis. She told me he had been informed. Still, I had my doubts. On subsequent visits, I came away with that same uneasy feeling. -- I'm certain my father's reaction would have been stronger. Histrionic, would be more like it!
I phoned the doctor's office with my concern. Again, I was told the same thing. I reminded them my father was hard of hearing and probably didn't understand. A medical professional needed to tell him. I did not want to be the one to relate horrible news of that magnitude.
A few days later, a cancer specialist was scheduled to come and converse with Dad in front of me. The doctor delivered the news in the same tone of voice as if he was ordering a sandwich. -- I wanted to punch him! My father broke into loud sobs, and I joined him.
We were told chemotherapy might prolong his life, but not by much. The cancer had spread too far. I cried in the car all the way home!
My father decided to go the chemotherapy route and it seemed to be working. The downside was that he had even less control of his bodily functions. He refused to wear an adult diaper because he found them uncomfortable.
I washed a load of nasty-smelling laundry every single day. Sometimes 2, because I refused to wash my clothes in the same batch. I was constantly cleaning up his messes. I remember scrubbing the bathroom floor so many times my hands were red and raw, they burned.
The first thing I did every morning was empty his plastic urinal. Often, it would splash back on my arm. I bleached it every day, otherwise you could smell it throughout the house. Sometimes, by accident he would knock it over on the carpet. Whenever I hear the phrase, THE INDIGNITY OF OLD AGE, I think of my father.
I was 50 yrs old at the time and going through the change of life. I began getting severe migraine headaches. I couldn't eat, even water made me nauseous. Glasses hurt my face. My head throbbed too painfully to sleep. But I still had to care for Dad, because their was no one else.
I recall arising from a sick bed, vomiting, then I driving my father to a doctor's appointment. As Dad was seeing the doctor, I was in the bathroom vomiting, mostly dry heaves. The room was spinning. I told my father I didn't think I could drive. -- But I had no choice! Miraculously, we made it back intact. After returning home, I had to prepare Dad's supper before going back to bed.
My father had a bicycle horn in case he needed to go to the bathroom, or made a mess. Still, he refused to wear adult diapers. I set my alarm clock for 10:00 PM so I could ready him for bed.
I dreaded the weekend, because the phone rang constantly. Neighbors, new and old, as well as relatives, and acquaintances all phoned to inquire as to my father's heath. I found it annoying! I was busy and stressed tending Dad and these were unwelcome interruptions. Besides, at this stage his condition didn't change from week-to-week.
The answering machine we brought from Stuart didn't work in this house. Plus we were home every weekend. The ringing drove me crazy, so I just took the phone off the hook! -- It was better than an answering machine.
My friend and long time pen-pal Margaret, came from the Orlando area to help me celebrate Dad's birthday on May 3. She arrived in one of her R.V.s, the smaller of two. We both enjoyed her visit. I told her I hoped she would return for his next birthday. She replied that my father would have no more birthdays. I was startled, and a little angry. I hoped she was wrong.
The chemotherapy enabled Dad to live for 6 months longer than the doctor's diagnosis. My father was largely pain-free during this period. Unfortunately, after a year the chemo began to make him sick. Dad wanted to discontinue. I remembered my mother having the same reaction. She discontinued and died a month later. I wondered if Dad remembered. But it was his decision.
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