Cancer has always been a reality in my family. As little girls my sisters and I watched it steal our grandfather away a little bit at a time. Later our aunt Jane, his sister, slowly faded from the vibrant, wise matriarch of our family to a shaking shell and then she too was gone. So when my father sat across from me in Olive Garden (of all places) and says "I have cancer" I panic. The only point of reference I have for cancer is a thief who sneaks in and takes away the people I love in pieces.
The panic, crying and general irrational reaction phase lasted about a week. Right up until the first real biopsy and the beginning of words like robotic surgery, feeding tube and chemo. There is no room for panic here. At some point between those horrifying losses and now I grew up. Today I have the tools and knowledge to cope with this. Tonight I sat down with my parents and talked about powers of attorney and living wills. Tomorrow my sisters and I are organizing care and support schedules to get Dad and Donna through the coming weeks. At some point before the weekend is out I am going to help Dad shave his head. In ten days they're taking out his epiglottis and hopefully the enlarged lymph node in his neck. He'll be on a feeding tube for a while and start six weeks of chemo and radiation. Hence the head shaving. This cancer is treatable and while it's going to be rough we're expecting positive results.
In the meanwhile we've decided several important things. People who are going to get stuck on feeding tubes get to eat whatever they want before hand. Also, it's very empowering to shave your head. And most important of all:
Fuck cancer.
