Play It As It Lies

Once Dad knew he had cancer and it was serious, he wasn’t interested in waiting to start his treatments. The enemy now had a name and it was time to attack. His first treatment was on Monday, Sept. 29, 2014. The side effects of chemo can range from mild but tolerable to nauseating and debilitating. If having cancer that could kill you being treated with poison that could kill you weren’t enough, waiting for the inevitable side effects to manifest themselves is another layer of stress. After that first treatment, I talked to him that night and he wasn’t feeling anything. Yet. The staff at the clinic told him if he felt the “extreme fatigue” that is typical of the chemo he was getting, he’d feel like he has a very bad case of the flu that would show up in the next day or two. One issue that had to be taken into consideration is his testosterone level. Testosterone is the major male hormone that regulates sexual function such as puberty-related development during adolescence and later sex drive, muscle and bone growth among other things. It is also something that prostate cancer feeds on, the “fuel” so to speak that enables it to spread. His levels will have to be reduced by a series of shots and those have a litany of side effects, too, including“menopausal” symptoms such as hot flashes. “How do you feel about all of this, Mr. Hoffman,” asked one of the staff members at the clinic. Typical responses would be “scared” and “terrified.” Dad’s not typical; “I’m curious,” he said. Dad didn’t experience any side effects until the weekend. Delayed didn’t mean denied. He was miserable – very tired, constipated, extremely upset stomach and accompanying reflux that made it impossible to get comfortable let alone get any sleep. After I talked to him Saturday, he sounded awful and I didn’t bother calling Sunday so he could some rest. I was learning that side effects aren’t limited to the person taking the chemo. Dad was going through a lot more than I was, but I didn’t like the way I was feeling. I wasn’t looking forward to our next round of golf. Instead, I wondered if the one in August would prove to be our last one together. I wondered if … That’s when me, myself and I had a talk. “C’mon Nick. You know that winter is always followed by spring. It might not occur at the same time or look the same every year, but it always comes. Then, it’s followed by summer. Then fall. And winter again. Life is a cycle of seasons. This is a season, no matter how or when it ends. There will be an outcome. Dr. Nordquist knows what he’s doing. Dad’s in the best hands he could be in. Jesus said worry avails us nothing. If you want to do something, pray.” For someone who calls himself a believer, I wasn’t especially proud of the way I was feeling. If faith scampers when the clouds gather, it’s not faith. It wouldn’t be the last time me, myself and I had that conversation. I called Dad on Monday, but immediately wished I hadn’t. “Oh, son, I’m a mess,” he whispered in a barely recognizable voice. He couldn’t sleep. That left him very fatigued. He’s lost 6 pounds in a week. If that weren’t enough, there was a constant, unrelenting “vicious” nausea and reflux. Dad was close to his limit. He had the option of stopping the treatments and having surgery, though at nearly 80, doing so would extinguish realistic hope for being cured and be a matter of buying some time. I found myself fighting off the annoying thought that this was becoming more about me … poor me. Recovering alcoholics and drug addicts such as I know all too well about that. Some of my best friends lost their fathers young. Jim Olivio was 12. Jim Ceriani was 29. Pete Varischetti was 32. I’m 52. Dad is still alive. I had no reason to brood. Whenever it happens, however it happens, it’s our turn - Dad’s to face his mortality and mine to face a massive change in my life. It was made worse because there was no way to rehears it, no mulligans and no do-overs. On the other hand, we only have to go through it once, which is definitely enough. No matter how much I rationalized and tried to be all the king’s horses and all the king’s men putting Humpty Dumpty together again, I couldn’t escape the emotion, the sense that a dense fog had descended and would never lift. My phone rang a couple hours later. It was Dad on his way home from the clinic. He sounded almost like himself. When he shared his agony, the clinic staff hooked him up to an IV -a cocktail - with something to counteract every symptom. They were going to adjust the chemo dose the next time to minimize the side effects. Dad choked up several times telling about the care and concern, including Dr. Nordquist taking time to write out a label on a prescription to make sure the information was correct. “Maybe we need to go through something like this to make us appreciate how good it is to feel good.” That’s my Dad! He didn’t stop there. He reasoned that if his urologist hadn’t sat idly by while Dad’s PSA soared to 33, he wouldn’t have ended up being a patient of Dr. Nordquist’s. “I think God intended Dr. Nordquist to come into my life at this time.” His body might be wracked with cancer, but his soul was intact.