The next 48 hours were torturous -- a game of tag between denial and the diagnosis. Tears of despair flow freely, no use trying to keep a stiff upper lip, they are uncontrollable. We finished the conversation with one imporatant question from me: what's the prognosis? My father said that at first the doctor wouldn't commit to an answer. But my father pressed and gave him a timeline to which he could negate or agree: one year? The doctor replied, "that would be a very long time."
My head started knocking on a virtual wall that was built upon bricks of fear, regret and shame. He couldn't leave so soon because no matter how many times he had said it in my lifetime I wanted him to be proud of me. Or maybe I just wanted to be proud enough of myself that it didn't matter what he thought anymore. Either way, I soon learned that no one is ever ready for this news. There's never enough until death.
We hung up and I took a long walk with a friend. For the record, it is true when you receive life-changing news: nothing will ever be the same again. But none of us are prepared to move forward when the road is uncharted -- we've been trained to plan and forecast before taking the next step. All that I could count on from this day forward was the fact that my father would not die in his sleep after a long, lazy dinner and a great bottle of Chateau Margaux accompanied by a host of assorted chocolates -- Dad's favorite combination. How the end would occur now depended entirely on how faced the diagnosis, explored every option under the sun and then acted with vigor and a commitment to, if not total victory over cancer, at least a victory over the grim statistics.
I reminded myself once again that miracles happen. That David was/is a miracle. And that aided and abetted by our faith, intellectual curiosity and physical stamina we could land in the top 10th percentile of this illness. Instead of 3 to 6 months I started thinking in terms of years. Maybe four more years. I wanted to end the walk and get back to the house. I knew that prolonging his life wasn't going to be a matter of positive thinking but a combination of the above and now there was work to do because in the grand scheme of things there was precious time left.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Friday, January 30, 2009
Family Ties
On January 8th I returned home from Hawaii tanned, rested and a week into following through with my first New Year's resolution: run three times a week, 3 to 4 miles. I was feeling good. So good in fact that when I went to my Buddhist toso (weekly meeting where we chant, study and inspire each other) the next morning I said aloud to my group: I really want this year to be about serenity and tranquility. I want my family to truly achieve peace and unity. I want us to be supremely happy.
My friends understood that what might otherwise seem like a familiar plea, commonplace, not out of the ordinary, what most people yearn for was not coming from me. There was another layer to my determination. The summer before my brother was the miraculous recipient of a double transplant -- a liver and a kidney at Cedars Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. How we made it to the finish line and crossed over victoriously was harrowing. But his success was like a cleaning out of my family's closet full of skeletons. Everyone emerged almost surgically altered by the experience even if David was the only one who bore the scars. We were made better, more whole by an event that nearly took my brother's life. We were a Lifetime movie in the making with a big happy ending and I'm thrilled to say that David is today the poster child for transplant recipients. Healthy, energetic and optimistic even if his pharmaceutical protocol should come with an assistant to help administer.
So you see I really meant it. I wanted us to start the year in the same warm and cozy place we left 2008 as a result of seeing the very best emerge from the very worst circumstances. We we living proof that you must never ever give up. No matter what. We were the grateful benefactors of this profound philosophy. From that experience forward nothing could shake this foundation. Or so I thought.
As I drove home I thought a great deal about what peace and consistency would mean to me -- how much writing I could get done, how much Italian I would learn, what a better friend I would be, the various volunteer positions I had signed up for -- all this great benefit was just waiting for me at the end of the drive and into my home.
Once inside, I checked my voicemail and my father had called. He sounded grave. He said something about a doctor's appointment and a CT scan. I called him immediately. He was actually at the doctor's office with my step-mom. He explained that his diabetic protocol (more on that later) was not giving him any relief and that he had requested a CT scan to find out what in the world was really wrong with him. He said that a mass had appeared on the scan and that he was meeting with the doctor to discuss. We only spoke for a few minutes and he promised to call me as soon as he left the doctor's office. I hung up and thought: well this could be anything but it's not. My father had over the last few months dropped an inexplicable and alarming 26 lbs. When he went to see his MD, he was diagnosed with diabetes -- another unusual twist because my father has never followed a diet prone to diabetes. In fact, during his recent checkup his recent checkup his cardiologist told him that he would live to a hundred.
Why I didn't speak up then I don't know. I trusted his doctor and more importantly I respected his trust in his doctor.
I sat for two hours waiting for the phone to ring. When it did my father spoke calmly and lovingly and he said "I wish I was there to put my arms around you when I tell you this, but I have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer." I heard the words. I understood what they meant. But I coudn't figure out how they had anything to do with the plea I had invoked an hour earlier for my family's serenity and tranquility.
My friends understood that what might otherwise seem like a familiar plea, commonplace, not out of the ordinary, what most people yearn for was not coming from me. There was another layer to my determination. The summer before my brother was the miraculous recipient of a double transplant -- a liver and a kidney at Cedars Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles. How we made it to the finish line and crossed over victoriously was harrowing. But his success was like a cleaning out of my family's closet full of skeletons. Everyone emerged almost surgically altered by the experience even if David was the only one who bore the scars. We were made better, more whole by an event that nearly took my brother's life. We were a Lifetime movie in the making with a big happy ending and I'm thrilled to say that David is today the poster child for transplant recipients. Healthy, energetic and optimistic even if his pharmaceutical protocol should come with an assistant to help administer.
So you see I really meant it. I wanted us to start the year in the same warm and cozy place we left 2008 as a result of seeing the very best emerge from the very worst circumstances. We we living proof that you must never ever give up. No matter what. We were the grateful benefactors of this profound philosophy. From that experience forward nothing could shake this foundation. Or so I thought.
As I drove home I thought a great deal about what peace and consistency would mean to me -- how much writing I could get done, how much Italian I would learn, what a better friend I would be, the various volunteer positions I had signed up for -- all this great benefit was just waiting for me at the end of the drive and into my home.
Once inside, I checked my voicemail and my father had called. He sounded grave. He said something about a doctor's appointment and a CT scan. I called him immediately. He was actually at the doctor's office with my step-mom. He explained that his diabetic protocol (more on that later) was not giving him any relief and that he had requested a CT scan to find out what in the world was really wrong with him. He said that a mass had appeared on the scan and that he was meeting with the doctor to discuss. We only spoke for a few minutes and he promised to call me as soon as he left the doctor's office. I hung up and thought: well this could be anything but it's not. My father had over the last few months dropped an inexplicable and alarming 26 lbs. When he went to see his MD, he was diagnosed with diabetes -- another unusual twist because my father has never followed a diet prone to diabetes. In fact, during his recent checkup his recent checkup his cardiologist told him that he would live to a hundred.
Why I didn't speak up then I don't know. I trusted his doctor and more importantly I respected his trust in his doctor.
I sat for two hours waiting for the phone to ring. When it did my father spoke calmly and lovingly and he said "I wish I was there to put my arms around you when I tell you this, but I have been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer." I heard the words. I understood what they meant. But I coudn't figure out how they had anything to do with the plea I had invoked an hour earlier for my family's serenity and tranquility.
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