Exactly One Month

Today marks one month after learning of our dad's tumor...a "large," rarely noncancerous mass in his upper left lobe. It is strange--still--to me that the night before this whole nightmare began, I did not sleep well and did not understand why. I remember tossing and turning that night before 'the news' and being awake while the whole house was asleep. When the 7am phone call came, I remember looking at the caller ID and wondering whether my mom was calling early to chastise me for not making a Sunday, "how is everyone?" pbone call to my parents' house. If only I could have been so lucky. Instead, I recall screaming--screaming, when my mom called with the news--hysterically asking her "why did you not call any of us during the night?!?" and not being able to stand while I tried to shower while sobbing. I wonder, with much pain in my heart, how our mom must have felt hearing the words from the ER doctors; and then, I cannot bear to imagine how she managed to bear the agony of repeating the words--four times--to each of us that day. True strength. Unimaginable.

I know I did not sleep well last night and believe it had a great deal to do with this one month marker. I had dreams that woke me in a start. I suspect none of us slept well, thinking of the reminder of last month's crude awakening. This month has gone by so quickly, and yet, so slowly, if that makes any sense. Our dad has been through the most intense and physically painful month of his existence. And we would each do anything for him to take this all away.

I heard from Gina that our dad, despite an active and happy day, did not sleep well Sunday night. She said when our mom and he parted with their tender kiss and loving goodbye, he saw tears in our dad's eyes. The two of them have this crazy connection--intense and fiesty, yet deeply committed. Gina said she could not handle our dad's stifled tears. I said I had to leave prior to seeing my mom weep in her goodbye. Gina again mentions how horribly she feels that our dad cannot sleep. Gina and I talk about how, even with a small, seemingly insignificant problem, sleeping can be difficult. We know, with our dad, the quiet of night must be agonizing. He is left alone with his thoughts and is tormented. Gina hears him sighing restlessly and in pain through the baby monitor. She does not know quite how to handle the pain. She wants him to sleep. She does not want to interrupt him by visiting his room. Yet, she does not want him to feel ignored. She just wants him to have rest. He remains restless until she, at last, distributes another pain pill. It was a difficult night, especially since he did well all day. The night, with its silence, seems to feed on the pain.

He is running out of pain meds and is getting frustrated. Gina called Dr. Krishnan's nurse today to ask them to reissue his pain meds. Kristin only offered one of the two for refill. Our dad felt noticeably upset when he learned his "round the clock, every 12 hour med" would not be refreshed. Gina, clinically, did not quite understand it either. Nor did any of us. It has not even been a week since he started these meds. "Too addictive," remarked NP Kristin. Yet, at the same time, Kristin informed Gina that our dad would feel a host of agonies, "numbness, dullness, pinching, prodding, and throbbing (to name a few) for weeks." But no more "biggie" pain meds. Gina expressed distraught for our dad. She said he was visibly annoyed, to say the least..."they never said it would feel this bad." We all feel miserable for him. He is moving; he is trying to be active, both physically, and while seated, with his Incentives Spirometer and his Flutter Valve. Yet his pain remains. Bone, cartilage, muscle, organ--all removed--just over a week ago. Pain. Real pain. Why can we not modify it a bit longer?

I keep thinking about last month--February 23rd. The phone call that literally has changed my life, and that of our entire family. I feel selfish sometimes when I think of us....every family has its problems. Every person has his or her Big issues. But I cannot help but feel deeply for our dad. I still do not understand all of this. Every health problem he has seems to be a "biggie:" prostate cancer=aggressive surgical removal; heart problem=double bypass surgery, not angioplasty; and now lung cancer. Even writing the words seem to stop me in disbelief. Why? And why? Not just a lobectomy, but a thoracotomy too. Why?? Maybe our strong and ever faithful dad will not ask. I will. I do not have his strength.

This all has begun for us on the eve of Lent. As I drove to Milwaukee to see my dad this very day last month, I thought about this shock to our family and this unfathomable diagnosis for him, presenting itself on the Eve of Lent. I wondered, and still do, why our dad is a constant sacrifice and symbol of pain, for our family. I am weeping thinking about this amazing man and his unbelievable gift of himself to all of us. I understand, but at the same time, do not.

Our mom told me, when we talked last week about our dad and Lent, that Carmelo's wife Michelle poignantly said it is interesting that this is all happening--for our dad and all of us who are closest to him--during the Lenten season: the Holiest time our our year. The Holiest. He was diagnosed the day before Ash Wednesday. The meaning for Catholics could not be greater. I still cannot get the symbolism out of my mind. I find Michelle's perspective full of so much Wisdom--wisdom I never would have seen. I see it only as Sacrifice and Pain. But I am holding on to Michelle's wisdom. She is right. Somehow, in spite of this unbearable pain, I do believe in the meaning of all of this, during the most Holy time for our Faith. And I would like to believe that his hospital discharge on the day that symbolizes our "Irish Luck" would bode well for our dad somewhere, somehow.

Optimism. It makes so much sense. Yet it can be such a difficult concept. I know I am trying my best. I do believe in our dad. I do. I desperately want to feel confident that he has optimism too. 12 more days until Easter. Hope. Hope. Hope....