You know you’re a certified neat-freak when even your dog knows that messes are bad. Doc spilled the water out of his water bowl this morning and what’s scary is that he knew it was naughty before I even did anything. As soon as it happened he cowered down by the floor and refused to look at me. When I stooped to clean up the mess he tried to rectify his error by giving me kisses and ended up licking my open and decidedly tongue-unfriendly eye. It was an interesting start to the day and my eye still feels a little weird.
Even still, I would rather that a weird eye were the most of my problems. The Very Bad News I received over the weekend has evolved into Spectacularly Bad News and I’ve not been doing very well at dealing with it. My Dad was diagnosed with lymphoma on Tuesday and the doctors should know what stage it’s in later today. He’s been in the hospital for over a week and is quite sick.
I have been struggling with the greatest sorrow I’ve ever felt coupled with increasing feelings of powerlessness. My Dad and brother both live in California and it’s been relentlessly frustrating and terrifying being two states away from everything that’s happening. Wes and I have discussed having me fly down to California to help out while my Dad’s doing chemo but everything is up in the air right now and waiting is driving me nuts.
I feel like I can’t fully grasp what’s happening, like I’m somehow removed from it. I’m incredulous that my father could be sick with cancer but even as I struggle with denial, the sadness and fear remind me that it’s real. The very idea of my Dad being sick is incongruous with my idea of him. I mean, this is a man who would rather watch “Pride and Prejudice” on a loop all day than admit that he’s in pain.
Right now, the future is really unclear. We don’t know what his treatment is going to entail so I don’t know if, or when, I’ll fly down to California. There are only two things I know. One: I’ve got hope in a choke-hold and there’s no way I’m letting go. Two: My Dad will probably be the first person in the history of chemo to approach the process with a completely inappropriate yet uproariously funny sense of humor (E.g. Almost every visit I’ve ever taken to visit my Dad and brother has involved the strategic placement of a fart-noise machine under the cat so that during sentimental moments in movies or lulls in conversation Felix can rip one and we can all laugh). Do you think his oncologist will appreciate a strategic toot-sound? I hope so.