One of Veronica's seemingly endless tasks was to request, collect and overnight all of dad's medical records, which included a disc with PET scan images. For a PET scan, you are injected with what is called a tracer which produces radioactive positrons. And after a bunch more snooze-ville jargon, you can tell where cancer cells/tumors exist in a body. I had to copy these records and images to take to MD Anderson for my dad's initial appointment. When I put the disc into my computer, I wasn't sure I'd even be able to open the images. But the images did indeed open. Working specifically in oncology research, I can tell on paper the difference between a small, large and gi-nourmous tumor. I was devastated by what I saw. It was like a pair of weathered, angry hands, clasped together, literally choking off his ureters. I was horrified by their size. It was right there in front of me in black and white and bright yellow/orange. These nasty, evil, bastard hands strangling the life out of him from the inside. What a nightmare. I was humbled by the reminder of how fragile it all really is. I couldn't believe I was looking at an image of my dad.
The day of his first appointment will go down in my personal history as one of the worst day's of my life. For many reasons. For starters, I am not a morning person. And we had to get up at, as my mom says, (and please forgive me for the corny reference), O'dark hundred. (What the what?!? O'dark hundred?) Anyway, we had to get up crazy early to be sure we did not get stuck in rush hour traffic. You have to understand that my dad would rather sleep on the sidewalk in front of the hospital overnight, as if he were camping out to buy Springsteen tickets for the Tunnel of Love tour, instead of being five minutes late for an appointment that will make you wait at least an hour no matter how early you get there. So O'dark hundred it was. The second snag in my plans is because I am addicted to caffeine. There. I said it. My name is Mel and I'm a caffeine-oholic. So much so that I actually consider coffee to be a food group and needless to say, it's my favorite. So much do I love coffee, that if I don't drink a cup early enough in the morning, say by 11:00 am, my head feels like I'm wearing a racoon skull cap and the varmint is eating my brains out from behind my eyeballs. My error with coffee on that morning was that I assumed MD Anderson would be like all doctor's offices, if not worse, and that I would have PLENTY of time to grab a cup of coffee. But I was wrong. That place is a well oiled, finely tuned machine. You walk through the doors and hit the ground running. We checked in, we registered, and before I knew it, my dad and I were in the examination room waiting for Dr. Wolff.
Dr. Wolff appeared, spoke to the gravity of the situation and was gone. His words affirming the devastation conjured up from the images and reports I had reviewed only days before.
From there we were sent to the lab where my dad gave blood. My sisters were anxious to hear what the oncologist had to say. As my dad walked toward the nurse who had just called his name, their questioning began. I held up one finger to them, watched my dad walk behind a door, turned to my sisters and completely fell apart. All I could say was, "It's so bad. It's so bad." I felt as though I'd been holding my breath for hours. I had never felt sick like this before. I wanted to throw up, but couldn't. By the time I got coffee it was way too late. I couldn't even drink more than a couple of sips.
The valet brought the car around and we headed back home. Everyone starving and emotionally exhausted. We decided on Mexican food, but by the time my plate was placed in front of me, I couldn't eat more than a bite. I took my lunch to go in the hopes I would one day be able to eat again. I unlocked the door to my house. We entered. I went straight to my bedroom, called my mother-in-law and fell apart once again. My entire being was in denial and all I could do was take Tylenol, put a cold wash cloth on my forehead and pray for sleep.
