I always forget to add stuff until later and then you get two posts in one day like today and yesterday. Bonus!

The first thing I forgot to tell you is that there’ s a new post up on Qvisory and you can check it out here. It’s about steps you can take now to prevent the potential recession from kicking your career in the shins.

The good news is that my Dad is doing great! He had his third round of chemo yesterday and is feeling fine. The terrific news, that’s put a smile on my face all day, is that the nurse says that his kidneys are almost 100% functional again! They have to do one more test to confirm but it looks like he’ll be spending a lot less time in dialysis soon! Huzzah!

I totally called this one. My Dad is tough and he’s kicking cancer’s butt harder than a kangaroo kicking a beachball.

There are two reasons I know my Dad will beat cancer. One: he is young and strong and his doctors say so. Two: I have scientific proof (because pictures=proof) that my Dad is tough, not to be messed with, and fully equipped to kick that cancer right in its follicular little face. Please see Exhibit A: This is a photo of my Dad killing a snake with a pointy stick. We were camping in the wilds of Northern California and an unwelcome intruder showed up. My Dad dispatched said intruder with the aid of a pointy stick and a flashlight. A pointy stick, people. That is some hard-core toughness. For further proof, please see Exhibit B:
This is a picture of my Dad from his youth when he trained attack dogs. He’s holding back a vicious German Shepherd who will attack at his command. That’s right, my Dad trained attack dogs when he was my age. You have to be tough to get German Shepherds to listen to you and you have to be super-tough to be able to train them to be attack dogs. This cancer hasn’t got a chance.

Hold on to your seats, everyone, because I’m about to hit you with some knowledge. My Dad has cancer but it’s treatable and responds well to chemo and there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s going to beat the heck out of it. He has stage 3 follicular lymphoma. This basically means that there are cancerous cells in the lymph nodes throughout his body. The cancer has not spread to other organs, though, which means that it’s highly likely that after treatment his cancer will go into full remission. After doing some research, I discovered that there is an interconnected series of lymph nodes throughout the body and that stage 3 indicates that the lymph nodes in the top half as well as the lower half of the body are affected.

My Dad starts chemo today and will hopefully get to go home on Sunday. I’m still not sure what his treatment schedule looks like so I don’t know when I’ll be visiting. Wes isn’t thrilled at the idea of me being away from home for so long without him but has assured me that he’ll manage. I’ve already spoken with his mother and sister and both have assured me that they will feed him from time to time. You see, Wes has an abiding love for Velveeta Shells & Cheese and Red Baron pizzas and I know in my bones that if I’m not cooking our fridge will be filled with utter crap.

I guess what I’m truly worried about is that dinner every night will look like this:

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.