Katie and I have been talking about moving in together for a while now.  We’ve been planning it.  The only thing that has really stopped us, is that we weren’t sure what city we’d be living in.  Whether Philadelphia or Washington DC or Portland, OR or God knows where else.  We now know we’ll be living in Philadelphia, and so we’ve been looking for apartments.  We want to bring my brother, Stephen, with us. 

The current hangup about it, of course, is related to the most recent cancer news–that my dad will probably die before next Halloween.  I don’t want to “abandon” my mom, so to speak, leaving her alone with a bunch of pets and nothing else in the span of just a few months.  Her husband will leave her soon enough, and it seems unfair that her children will leave her alone to deal with it.  We wouldn’t be far away, of course, but I think it’s only fair to ask her, first, whether she’d prefer us to stay at least until after Dad passes. 

I’m going to ask her tonight.  We’ll see what she says. 

For the past week, at least, and for the past few days especially, my father’s face has been very swollen. He has bags under his eyes, certainly, but his cheeks and jaw and temples are swollen, like a balloon is being blown up inside his head.

To my knowledge, this isn’t a result of the chemotherapy or radiation treatment. At least, the internet doesn’t seem indicate that face swelling is a side effect of cancer treatments. The only time I’ve seen face swelling like this are from severe allergies, and from lung disease.

Apparently, Dad’s lungs are as strong and healthy as they could possibly be after 40 years of smoking, but I don’t know. Maybe it is a bad case of allergies. I don’t know. It is disconcerting, though.

My fiance, Katie, and I were treated to a late lunch and a couple of drinks by my mom yesterday.  We went to The Flying Pig in Malvern together.  This lunch had been planned for a while.  It was cancelled once for… well I forget why.  And it was canceled last weekend because we thought Dad was having a heart attack, and he had to go to the hospital.  What he actually had was pain in his L1 vertebrae, which is turning to mush, because of the patch of cancer there.

My mom found out on Friday that her husband had 3 months to a year left in his life.  She told my younger brother, Stephen, who told me.   Yesterday, at lunch, she said something to Katie and I about the news she heard the day before.  I told her I heard about it.  She asked how, and I explained that Stephen told me.  She couldn’t remember telling Stephen.  Mom can drink a bit, and so it’s equally possible that she can’t remember because she drank a bottle of wine that night, or because she was just so exhausted and upset she didn’t recall.  I guess it’s not important.

She was, understandably, trying to keep herself together, but, in the end, needed a tissue to wipe away a few tears that leaked out.

We’re all still trying to come to grips with it.  It.  The news.  The death clock.

We talked a bit, the three of us, about what would happen after he died.  About the stuff that would have to get sold, and about where my mom would move when she is alone.  We changed the subject quickly, but naturally, after that.  It’s a rough thing to sit on that for too long.

I am a 23 year old “young professional” living in a Philadelphian suburb.  I believe I qualify as a young professional because I was born in the 1980s and I work in an office.  I have my own cubicle and everything.  I live with my father, mother, and younger brother.  I have an older brother who lives in an apartment that isn’t far away.  I’m close to my younger brother, and less so to my older one.  I have a fiance, who is working for Michael Nutter, who will be the next mayor of Philadelphia, unless he has his own “wide-stance” incident.  We hope to move in together sometime in the next couple of months.  Oh, we also have a yellow lab, two pugs, and I own a cat named Dakota.

My father has been in and out of hospitals–for a cornucopia of reasons–for the past 5 years.  We’ll get more into detail about his hospital visits in a later post.  A couple of weeks ago, he was diagnosed with cancer.  This is his second bout with cancer.  About a year ago, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer.  The cancer was treated with radiation and chemotherapy, and it was destroyed, I supposed.  He had been feeling poorly lately, and upon going to the doctor and getting tested, cancer cells were found in his liver. These cells were not from the prostate cancer, and they were not liver cancer cells.  After searching around, the doctors found a patch of cancer at the bottom of his spine.

My father has small cell bone cancer.  It is turning his L1 vertebrae into mush, and it’s in his liver.  So far, we’ve heard about treatment, and what they hope to do.  No prognosis.  My uncle Bob, who we sarcastically nickname Dr Bob for his faux-expertise on everything, was also recently diagnosed with small cell cancer, in his lungs.  His “research” told him that both he and my dad could be successfully treated.  My research has told me that neither of them are likely to be alive in by the end of 2012.  I said nothing, because uncle Bob gave my mother hope, and, honestly,  I even had some hope because of his words, thinking that, perhaps, it was my reference material that was incorrect.

It appears, however, that this was not the case.  My mother called the doctor today.  I don’t know why.  And somehow, the prognosis came out, and my father has 3 to 12 months to live.  He is 55 years old.  Apparently, after finding out, she told my brother, and cried for the better part of ten straight minutes, and then went straight to bed.  I can’t say I blame her.  At this point, we don’t know if my father knows this prognosis.  If he does, he’s kept it very close to the vest.  As of last night, my mother did not believe my father knew.  As with many things in this house, we’re not going to talk about it, for the time being.  He has a visit with the doctor in a few days, and he’ll find out no later than then about how long he has to live.

So, what is this blog?  It’s a document of the last few months of my father’s life.  I have no idea when and if it will stop.  I don’t know if he’ll die and we’ll have the funeral and then POOF: no more entries, or if he’ll have a recovery and so we’ll quit then, at least, until he has a relapse, or if I’ll just keep this blog in perpetuity.  I’m not planning that far ahead.

My hope is that this finds some other people in similar situations, and that there can be some comfort derived from the experience of my family.  Or, at the very least, some commiseration.  In total disclosure, I don’t think I’d mind finding other people in the same situation for my own sake.  I don’t need advice or comfort–at least, not yet–but I appreciate commiseration as much as the next guy.

In the coming days (and who knows, weeks), we’ll talk about the various characters likely to crop up in this blog.  We’ll also keep tabs on the developments in my father’s health and treatment, as well as the response of my family and our friends.   I don’t know how personal I will allow this to get.  I will use everyone’s real names.  It’s easier that way.  I don’t know if I’ll post pictures or anything like that.  We’ll see.  If anyone has any preferences, you can say so in the comments.
Until next time.