The morning of the surgery we get up, pack and head to Portland. Traffic was non-existent. We had no trouble finding the hospital. We arrived about an hour early, went right into admitting, and moved right into the short-stay pre-op room. The doctors and nurses were very good. The Ostomy nurse explained the Ileostomy and how the appliance works, and answered all of our questions. She was wonderful. I didn’t realize how small this thing is, and how many people out there actually have this, and we don’t even know. I was feeling much better, even if he had to have the bag forever, it would be a nuisance, but it wouldn’t be truly life altering. The surgeon came in, answered our questions and I was very optimistic. My dad was quiet. I assumed it was just nerves, and so much unknown.
My grandma, my dad’s mom, died in 1983, she was in her 50s. My grandpa, dad’s dad, died in 1989 after a long bout with lung cancer. He was in his mid 60s. I’m sure my dad was thinking about this, and what that would mean to us. He’s never really done anything for himself. He is always pretty flexible, and will do whatever the group wants. It frustrates me so much when I ask what he wants for dinner, or to watch on TV, or what movie to see, or anything, and his response was always “Don’t matter to me”. Even as I type this it just angers me. Just pick!
My Uncle Tom, my dad’s older brother, was in the hospital around 10am. He sat with all of us in pre-op. My dad’s younger brother, Duane, was working in Portland and would be over to visit as soon as possible. Tom made all the calls to the extended family telling about the surgery, and what was going on. He and I had a nice conversation on Friday May 18th. He and Duane both said that if there is anything we need, including financial support we just have to ask. Tom wanted me to hear this, because I know my parents wouldn’t ask. When I first went to Linfield we needed some help with the initial tuition payment, and Tom wrote a check with no questions asked.
The anesthesiologist came in was short, and brief in conversation. We said our good byes, and my dad was wheeled out to surgery. He had a very glassed over look in his eyes. I wished there was some way that I could just remove all his fears. During all of these conversations before this day, I had talked about my friend Marilyn and her surgery, how it worked, how she felt, etc.
The surgery was to be 3 hours (originally said to be 8 hours, then 6, now 3), and the doctor planned on coming out and chatting with us during and after the surgery. Tom, my mom and I wait outside the chapel. At 2:15, my mom says “It’s good news that the doctor hasn’t come out yet, that means he’s probably doing the bag, and scans were wrong, the cancer hadn’t spread. At 2:25 the doctor called. He said it was bad news. It was worse than he had originally thought. He was coming out now.
The 3 minutes it took the doctor to arrive was the longest time of my life. My mom sitting their wringing her hands, my uncle staring off into space, I’m sure his mind racing. I didn’t tell my mom that the doctor said it was bad news. I figured it was best for him to tell her. The doctor arrives, and asks us to join him in a private room. That is never a good sign. We sit down. The doctor says that he found that the cancer had spread. He couldn’t remove part of the colon because the cancer had attached itself to the abdominal wall, and he couldn’t get at it. The removal of the colon is a major surgery, and it would add absolutely no benefit to my dad. The colon was to be removed so the cancer wouldn’t spread, if it spread already, it was a moot point.
The doctor just rerouted part of the colon so an obstruction wouldn’t require an emergency surgery. The doctor had called my dad’s PCP, and the McMinnville Colon Specialist. They all agreed that the McMinnville Cancer center would be where the treatment would occur, as a doctor that Whiteford worked with, and highly recommended works at the clinic part time (usually based in Salem). We asked how long the chemo would last, and what it would do. My mom asks if this means he’ll have months or…. The doctor looks at the floor, looks back at us and says “…months, or maybe years…” years trailed off, which makes me believe “years” is not truly an option. My mom and I sit there crying. I try to be strong, but it is what it is my. Uncle Tom was shocked. Not saying anything, he looked blind sided. The doctor tells us my dad will be put into his hospital room in about 90 minutes, and we can go seem him whenever.
We stay in the room. We cry. My stomach churns. I go to the washroom and spend the next 10 minutes throwing up. I clean up and hurry back to the room. We cry again. When I come back in, I see my uncle wipe tears. I have never seen my uncle, or any male in my family cry. I don’t even remember seeing any of the women cry either. After 5 more minutes I head to the washroom and vomit again. Back in the room, a volunteer comes in and asks us if we’d like the chaplain to come in. We agreed to allow him in. He was just there to listen to us, and to be a calming supporting force for us. He was a bit creepy, but I’m not into organized religion, and I think I felt bad for this man. This is his job, to help people when they find out a loved one is dying or has just died. Possibly the worst job in the world.
The chaplain escorts us up to my dad’s room. It is a private room with a view of the west hills of Portland. Beautiful homes dot the hill, with lush greenery surrounding the area. My uncle Duane arrives. We cry again. We didn’t talk much. We just sat. Horrified. Stunned. Confused. What comes next? How do we tell my dad? The surgeon says that mostly the patients know that it is a dire situation.
My dad is rolled in. He looks pale, but surprisingly good. He is very groggy, and drifting in and out of consciousness. My cousin, Corrina – Duane’s daughter comes in. We wait for the surgeon to come in. Very little is said. Corrina does complain that she wasn’t told about the surgery until a few days ago. Too bad, I think. This isn’t about you. The surgeon came in, Duane, Tom, and Corrina leave. He did talk a bit about the surgery, but nothing really about the prognosis. I figure the oncologist will know more about timelines. The doctor did say that he did a slight reroute to bypass a possible blockage in the future, but he wasn’t able to do the drastic surgery because there wouldn’t be much of a benefit. Or that’s what I heard. That’s what Tom hear (earlier). My dad (who was drugged), and my mom ( who is in denial) heard that after the chemo there would be a major surgery, and all would be better.
The chaplain wouldn’t have come in and talked about not how my dad is “dying, but how much living we all can still do”. Tom wouldn’t have cried if it wasn’t terminal. Obviously my parents are in denial. Unfortunately I didn’t realize that until late in the night.
I was hoping to have the doctor come in and really sit us down today and talk about what this truly means for my dad. I want this to be a full disclosure moment, with all of us in a lucid state.
My uncle made the phone calls to the family. I’m glad he did that. If it was another member of the family, I’d want to know what was going on, but there is no way I was going to call these people.
My dad goes back to sleep, my mom and I go check into the hotel, and go to dinner. We cry again. We return to the hospital and spend a couple hours with my dad. We watched TV. He keeps talking about after the chemo what the major surgery will be. I don’t know how to say “Dad, there won’t be a major surgery after the chemo. There will be nothing after the chemo…there will be nothing.” I think it is better for the doctor to talk to us all again.
I go back to the hotel at 9:30. My mom stays with my dad. My friend Bry comes to visit me. We go drinking. A healthy alternative, I know.
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