I’m writing this brief update from the waiting room of a hospital in California.  In a completely unexpected turn, my Dad’s health crashed last night and the doctors warned us he didn’t have much time.  I jumped on the first flight I could find and, after two hours of sleep and a short flight, here I am.

The doctors are certain that this is the end of the line for my Dad, so I’ll be staying in California for at least the next week.  Updates will be light.  My Dad fought an amazing fight, and now it’s time to say goodbye.  I’m just so blessed to have gotten here in time to do just that.

I feel like I’m awake and dreaming today.  I slept in on purpose this morning, knowing full well I didn’t have time to do that thanks to laundry and breakfast duties.  Then I skipped putting makeup on because I looked at my face and thought, “Good enough.”  A driver cut me off on my way to work and I barely noticed, hours keep slipping by with alacrity, and not a whit of any of it is registering with me today.

I’m not sure how many of you know this, but my Dad has cancer and has been fighting it for almost two years.  He’s incredibly strong, and more brave than anyone I know, and, against all odds, makes having cancer look like not a big deal.  I don’t talk about it much, mostly to respect his privacy.  I also keep mum on the topic because, when I look back on my archives, it delights me to re-live the things that made me smile, or fascinated me, or drove me to distraction.  I have little interest in re-visiting the things that make me cry.

That’s why I’m sharing this today.  My brother called me Monday afternoon to let me know my Dad was checking into the hospital for surgery and would be expected to stay for around four days.  I fretted most of Monday night, and spent Tuesday obsessively checking my phone for updates.  Testing it to make sure it was receiving calls, stopping myself from calling my brother, typical waiting stuff.

He did finally call and all is well.  The surgery went well, and my Dad’s recovering nicely with every intention of transferring back to a regular room later today.  After a call like that, it’s hard to get irritated about the petty annoyances of life.  I feel disconnected from everything, but not because I’m depressed or angry.  I’m transcendent at knowing that, once again, my Dad has demonstrated his remarkable ability to make impossible things look easy and that he’ll be much more comfortable now.

When someone you love fiercely pulls through surgery and comes out the other side waving and well, it’s pretty silly to get all bent out of shape over getting cut off in traffic.

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: