Breaking Bad

About a week ago, my dad and I sat across from his oncologist, Dr. Patel and heard the results from his most recent set of scans.  Bear in mind that his last scans were good, but not terribly promising.  The last scans showed that all of the little tumors that were scattered across his entire abdomen were gone.  Great.  Wonderful.  However, the large mass, the two hands choking his ureters, had barely been effected.  We were told at that point not to get too hopeful because often when a tumor is this large it will remain in the body as scar tissue.  Even if the cancer has died.  Being an inoperable tumor, this meant my dad would have to use nephrostomy tubes to empty his kidneys for the rest of his life.  Crap.  Bullshit even.  My dad seemed to take it pretty well, but over the two weeks before hearing the results of his new scans, I saw him grow tense, frightened even.  I knew these results would determine whether he followed through with his treatment or just went home to Idaho to check into hospice.  I too was growing tense and scared.

So we were finally sitting in our moment of truth.  The doctor read the report to us.  I remember him saying all of the lymph nodes measured normal, the abdomen remained clear and there was no sign of disease.  I was trying to follow his words.  Nodding in my mind, almost saying, "uh-huh, uh-huh".  Yeah, yeah, but what about the main mass? Was it effected at all? Turns out that's what I needed to hear.  But it didn't come.  So when the doctor moved on to discuss cutting back chemo I interrupted him and said, "I'm sorry, can we go back to the scans?  What about the main mass?  Was it effected at all?"  God bless this man, this doctor.  He is so kind and patient.  Without a single twinge of annoyance.  He said to me gladly, "Well that's just it.  They don't mention it at all.  It was part of a lymph node and all of the lymph nodes are measuring normal."  So I sat there trying to grasp the words.  Trying to digest what I'd heard.  I responded, "So, it's gone?"  The doctor said he wanted to double check the scans himself, but that it appears the tumor is gone.  GONE!

I never really even let myself imagine how I would respond to that news.  One of the few big moments in my life that I hadn't rehearsed a thousand times in my head.  My dad and I had such a reserved reaction.  We were glad, but it was as if the news couldn't penetrate the lining of the bubble we've been living in.  I recently watched an episode of Breaking Bad where the main character goes into remission and the whole family is there and they all burst with relief and tears at the implausible news.  I would have thought that to be my reaction at the news I'd just received.  But it wasn't.  My dad and I responded more like, "Hmm.  Okay.  Okay."  It was neither belief nor disbelief.  We'd been in this hunkered down phase, pushing through treatment/bumps in the road for so long.  We simply couldn't absorb it that quickly.

I saw him lighten as he went to the room for his first maintenance phase chemo infusion.  It appeared to be much easier on him than the full on treatments have been.  He joked with nurses.  Helped himself to juice in the fridge for patients.  This news was exactly what he needed to hear.  The last six months of waves of agony paid off.

When we got home, I started cleaning his bathroom and he started making phone calls.  It wasn't until I heard him share the news with his sister that I felt relief myself.  Hearing the words from his mouth and the cry of joy from his sister.  As I wiped the spray cleaner from the mirror, I felt my heart open up and the elation flow.  I realized we are in the home stretch.  For real.

Right now we are sitting in the main building at MD Anderson, waiting to have the nephrostomy tubes pulled out of his body.  Praise God.  It's becoming bitter sweet for me.  I am so glad to see my dad regain his independence and his health.  But I know soon I will have to pass the baton to another sister.  My leg in this race will be complete.  The experience will be only a memory.

Preserve your memories.  They're all that's left you.