Oncologist Day: Official Diagnosis

Chapter 4 - Is it possible to feel every emotion in one day?

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

What do you do when you find out your husband has cancer and need to get out some frustration? Go exercise! I text a friend that morning to see if she wants to go to a zumba class with me. She texts back saying she can't do that, but she can do indoor soccer; it's at a more convenient time for her. That will be even better! I think. I can really get my aggression out that way! We decide to go to the class together and she'll pick me up.

As soon as my kids leave for school and Scott leaves for work, I text my friend whose house we stopped by at last night. I give her a brief summary of our weekend and ask her if we can meet with her sometime. I wait to hear from her. I hope she's available soon. I don't really know who else to turn to and I need someone.

I am alone in my house for the first time since everything has happened. My mind finally has time to process everything. I can feel myself losing it! I text my sis-in-law to call me immediately! She tried to call us the night before, but the timing didn't work out. I know she wants to talk and I desperately want to talk to her. She calls within a few minutes. I have already cried quite a bit by this time. I answer and can't even speak. She allows me time to just let it out. I spill my guts to her and she just lets me talk. I appreciate her listening ear. We have the best conversation and I'm so glad we talked. She is also one who can always cheer me up. She has that gift and I'm so grateful for it.

I go to indoor soccer with my friend. She gives me a big hug when she picks me up. She is one of the ward friends I have been keeping updated. I appreciate her prayers for our family too. We have a wonderful time playing indoor soccer, which I've never played before. I get out some of my aggression playing and the other half of the time hiding in a corner as goalie. I know too much human interaction will be a bit much for me right now.

Indoor soccer was fun and I'm glad I went. I don't want to be home alone but I also want to be away from people for a while. I get home and see that my stage 4 cancer friend has texted back. Her message is long, but so powerful! Everything I needed to hear. Oh how I love her and her fighting spirit! Her comforting words soothe my wounded soul. She wants to talk in person, but is enjoying Hawaii with her family and won't be back until the end of the week. She mentions Hawaii is healing for her. Boy, I imagine. Scott and I have a Hawaii trip planned for this summer for our 20 year anniversary. Nothing is stopping us from doing that; we are both looking forward to that immensely. We agree to meet sometime next week to talk, after she gets back.

Scott comes home at noon and we enjoy lunch together. He called the cancer doc and they squeezed him in for a 1:30 appointment that day.  It's not something we're looking forward to. When we get there, we do the check-in process, yet again, and have a seat. I don't want them to call his name. I don't want this to be real. I just want to wake up from this nightmare.

They call him back and a nice nurse shows us to the room. We haven't met one without a good bedside manner. I'm telling ya, I really think being nice is a job requirement. You'd have to be when you're dealing with anxious patients. The doctor comes in after a few minutes and says that since they squeezed us in, he might get interrupted a few times and hopefully can take the time we need to answer all of our questions without feeling rushed. Not very reassuring already! He jumps into the explanation of colon cancer; we already know he has that, but how far advanced is it? Stage one is the polyps; those were found on the colonoscopy. Stage 2 and 3 I can't remember; he shows us a bazillion diagrams and all of his words mush together and I can't remember anything. Stage 4 is when it's started to spread and the doctor confirms that it has spread to the liver and the lungs. They want to start chemo ASAP to try to shrink what's in his lungs. The lung lesions is why he has this cough. They don't want to do surgery or radiation, yet. They can't do surgery on the lungs as that is the most concerning to them at this point. They want him to come in every two weeks and have the chemo injections into a port in his chest so they don't have to stick him every time. That will be nice, since he hates needles. They'll do the chemo injections for at least 3-4 months and then do another CT scan of the lungs and see if anything has shrunk. Then they'll reassess and see if surgery or radiation is the next step for the colon and liver. The doctor is talking so fast and I can't process anything. There is no "cure" for stage 4 cancer; all they can do is improve his quality of life at this point!

How can he sit here so straight faced and tell us that Scott will die from this? Does he have a soul? Can he just stop talking so we can come up for air and try to process some of this? He asks if we have any questions. Scott has prepared some that he's thought of over the past few days. He takes the time to answer them. What about our cruise that we have planned in a few weeks for my mom's 70th birthday? If he starts the chemo before then, his immune system will be down and it's not a good idea, the doctor says. Well, we're still going to Hawaii in June. Nothing will stop us from that. I don't care what he says. Then Scott asks the question that we're all wondering but don't want to ask. "If there's no cure and you're improving my quality of life, what is the average time for other patients in my circumstance?" Why the hell did you just ask him that? Would you stop being so damn pessimistic? Actually, I'd probably ask the same thing if it were my life! I'd want to know how much time I had left with my family. The doctor responds that the average life span of someone with stage 4 colon cancer is 33 months! That's when the tears come! Three years?! My husband is only 45! If he's gone in 33 months or less, our baby will be 10 years old. That's too young to lose a father. Scott is too young to die. I can't be a single mom with kids still at home! Scott is so patient with the kids and helps me so much when our house is chaotic! I can't do this on my own! That's when I finally speak up! "Stop talking please!" I request. "How can a relatively healthy "young" man have stage 4 cancer and show no symptoms? I just don't get it!" The doctor explains that stage 1 can only show up in a screening, as well as stages 2 and 3. So basically we're screwed, I think. Because the insurance company wouldn't allow him to get a scope before the age of 45, this happened! Screw them! I'm so mad, I can't even talk. I listen to the doctor explain but all I hear is blah blah blah!

The nurse comes in and continues explaining about chemo; how it's going to go, the side effects, etc. I don't even know how I'm feeling right now. I can tell she's getting toward the end and I interrupt her and say, "I need you to be human right now. Forget the medical jargon and just show us some compassion. We both need some reassurance right now. How can you help us?" She says there's a social worker on site that she will call as soon as she's done explaining everything. She says she will ask the doc if he can hold off on chemo until after the cruise. My tears subside a bit and I feel a tiny bit better.

We've been in that room for over an hour. We just want to get home and back to our kids. The nurse steps out to call the social worker, allowing us time to collect our thoughts. I don't even remember what we said to each other. We are both in shock. She returns saying that the social worker has an opening right now if we want to go down there. "Thank you so much," we say. We have no idea how to tell our kids and we need some guidance.

We walk down to the social worker's office with sad faces but the tears have dried. It definitely won't be the last of them today. We fill out all this stupid paperwork that doesn't relate to our situation, but is government mandated. I really hate the government. They call us back quickly and the social worker is kind and patient. He asks us what's going on and we both lose it. Amidst our tears, we tell him the situation and ask how to tell our kids. This a life changer; something they shouldn't have to experience at their age. We are both comforted in the social worker's office as he expresses sympathy and compassion. He tells us that this is like the elephant in the room; we just need to talk about it and not ignore it. Express that we will get through this together and we will help them in any way that they need. We leave feeling uplifted, not a feeling we've had leaving any other doctor's office this week.

We drive home and are both very agitated. We need to tell the kids, but our oldest son is working and won't be home until 8:00. That's going to be a torturous few hours. I text our bishop, the leader of our ward, who also happens to be our next door neighbor and dear friend. He has been texting me back and forth all day to check in and see how things are going. What is your schedule like this evening? We need to meet with you ASAP, the text says. We don't want to tell the kids until we get some guidance from him and a blessing. We really need them right now. He's free all evening and asks if we want him to come over. We're on our way home and we'll get back to him. We get home, after three hours of being gone, and are relieved to see the kids. We visit with them briefly and then go to the bishop's house. He answers the door and asks if we want to meet with him there. We notice that his family is home and Scott asks if we can meet at his office. He says he'll get his keys and meet us there. As we pull out of the driveway in our van, we can see our 15-year-old daughter watching from the window. Owww, if that doesn't pull at our heart strings! "She knows," Scott says and we both cry. We beat the bishop to the church and have another crying session. I've never seen my husband cry this much. I'm glad he's able to let it out. It's a bonding experience for us.

The bishop arrives at the church and lets us into his office. We sit down and he asks us what's up and then the water works start again for Scott. He can't even speak. I tell him about our doctor's visit today and all the feelings we've experienced. We both need blessings to comfort our souls before we tell the kids. He expresses sympathy and is so kind. He is a good man. We are so blessed to have him as our leader. He asks who wants to go first and Scott and I both point to him. The bishop gives him an incredible blessing and many tears are shed. Then it's my turn. Another beautiful blessing. He gives so many words of encouragement. I know they come directly from heaven. We visit for a bit after the blessings. He knows this will be a hard trial for our family. He is concerned about the time it will take away from our normal lives and wants to help us in any way he can.

He looks at me and says, "You're going to have a lot on your plate now. Do you want to be relieved ..."
"No!" I exclaim, before he even finishes ... "of your church duties?" (referring to my leadership calling in the ward of presiding over the Young women)
"That was a quick no," he says.
"I've thought a lot about it," I reply. "Those girls are what keep me going." You might as well ask me to give up my children, I think, cause that's what they are to me. 
He advises me to rely on the rest of my presidency members to help me out when I need it. "It's already done, Bishop. They know the situation (they were the church friends who came by last night) and are willing to step up and help at any time. I am so blessed to work with such amazing women." I thank him for his concern and he tells me to let him know when I feel like it's getting to be too much and I might need a break. I agree. For now, I'll stay put.

We feel like we can tell the kids now, but still need to wait until our oldest son gets home from work. The hours tick slowly and we try to establish a sense of normalcy, whatever that means now. We'll have a new normal now, but we refuse to let that bring us down.

8:00 finally rolls around and we hear the car pull into the driveway. It's go time, I'm sure we both think as we gather the children together on the couch. I go get the tissue. Scott begins by telling all the kids he loves them. "Oh great, it's not good if that's how he's starting out talking to us," says our oldest son, age 18. He then proceeds to tell them more details about the last few days. Up until now, they have only known that Dad had a colonoscopy and more tests done on his liver and lungs. When he said, "I have cancer," I look at all of my children. The tears have started to fall on our daughter's cheeks. Slowly, everyone begins to cry as Dad explains things, except for our ten-year-old son. He sits still and stone faced. That concerns me. He has always been very emotional, and wiggly. Sitting still is almost impossible for him. I know everyone expresses emotions in a different way and I'm not expecting all of our children to cry, but this is very out of character for him. I wonder what is going through his mind right now. Our 7-year-old is crying. He doesn't understand what cancer means. He only knows that his sister is crying and he loves her so much so he cries along with her. It touches my heart. Scott does most of the talking. He testifies of the plan of salvation and the Atonement of Jesus Christ and that because of Him we can return to live with Him again and together as a family. We have made sacred covenants in the temple that seal us together after this life, and that no matter what happens, we will be together again. We will get through this as a family and there is a reason for this experience, even if we don't know why right now. It is a sacred, special experience that we have with our children. We allow each of them to express their feelings and ask questions. Some talk and some don't. That is okay. We want them to feel safe and that they can talk when they are ready. This will not be the only conversation we have about it. We hug each other and say a family prayer. It's a good end to a very hellish day.