Day #4 of Trip #3 to the hospital. Yesterday was terrible - so much pain and agitation that they didn't make any movement toward getting him adjusted to the pump he would be on at discharge. First he actually has to be stabilized. It was a really emotional day for everyone.
Today was better. When I visited on my lunch hour we actually got to take a walk around the nurses station and he was much more lucid. But I can see in his face that the pain is still there. Bone mets are real bitches.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
Floor 8 West
And it's back to the hospital we go....for the third time in three weeks. I mean, really? Seriously????
At least this time the order has already been made that when Dad goes home, he takes a pump with him - then whenever he is in pain, he pushes a button. Doc seems to think that with the pain under control, the nausea will subside. We're taking it one day at a time...
My two-year wedding anniversary is tomorrow. Ahhh, the romance.
At least this time the order has already been made that when Dad goes home, he takes a pump with him - then whenever he is in pain, he pushes a button. Doc seems to think that with the pain under control, the nausea will subside. We're taking it one day at a time...
My two-year wedding anniversary is tomorrow. Ahhh, the romance.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Viper
True confession...I have never been to Magic Mountain. As a southern Californian, I hear that this is apparently quite a travesty. My high school senior class went on "ditch day" but I missed the bus...kind of on purpose. But all of those death-defying drops and swirls and twirls just held no appeal for me. I have no desire to be suspended upside down in the name of fun.
Which brings me to today. There is this ride at Magic Mtn. called Viper that apparently features the world's tallest vertical loop, two additional loops, a corkscrew and a double barrel bommerang turn. It is not for the faint of heart. But I'm beginning to think I could handle it after the past three weeks. Viper can't hold a candle to this new thrill ride known as lung cancer.
Less than 48 hours after being discharged from the hospital, the nausea and pain are back. A trip to the day hospital got things under control for the time being, but my dad's stomach is so weak and he has no appetite. He's lost 6 more pounds. He hallucinates like I've never seen and his body is so agitated that he twitches while he sleeps. I think this week there will be no choice but to hook him up to a PCA - a personal control assistant (?) that will allow him to push a button whenever he is in pain. Oral meds just aren't doing it. You'd think the doctors would have figured it out by now, but every time he goes in the hospital he starts feeling better and they send him home. Um, perhaps the reason he feels better is because he has access to IV pain control?!?!?!?
The night he got home from the hospital, Dad was so excited that he'd soon be back on the upswing and things would be getting back to normal. But I think the definition of normal has changed. The "ups" are small victories such as him having one lucid hour in an entire day and the "downs" are beginning to be far too frequent.
So bring it on, Viper. You ain't nuthin'.
Which brings me to today. There is this ride at Magic Mtn. called Viper that apparently features the world's tallest vertical loop, two additional loops, a corkscrew and a double barrel bommerang turn. It is not for the faint of heart. But I'm beginning to think I could handle it after the past three weeks. Viper can't hold a candle to this new thrill ride known as lung cancer.
Less than 48 hours after being discharged from the hospital, the nausea and pain are back. A trip to the day hospital got things under control for the time being, but my dad's stomach is so weak and he has no appetite. He's lost 6 more pounds. He hallucinates like I've never seen and his body is so agitated that he twitches while he sleeps. I think this week there will be no choice but to hook him up to a PCA - a personal control assistant (?) that will allow him to push a button whenever he is in pain. Oral meds just aren't doing it. You'd think the doctors would have figured it out by now, but every time he goes in the hospital he starts feeling better and they send him home. Um, perhaps the reason he feels better is because he has access to IV pain control?!?!?!?
The night he got home from the hospital, Dad was so excited that he'd soon be back on the upswing and things would be getting back to normal. But I think the definition of normal has changed. The "ups" are small victories such as him having one lucid hour in an entire day and the "downs" are beginning to be far too frequent.
So bring it on, Viper. You ain't nuthin'.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Home Sweet Home
Dad was (finally) discharged from the hospital yesterday. They took him off IV pain control Thursday night to see how he responded to oral meds and apparently he did okay. Although his new doctor, a pain specialist, warned that the pain would increase once he got home because he'd be moving around more.
There is an elaborate list posted in the kitchen with all of his meds. We're keeping CVS in business.
There is an elaborate list posted in the kitchen with all of his meds. We're keeping CVS in business.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
IV Drugs ... A Cancer Patient's Best Friend
Well back to the hospital we go. Despite a completely vacant stomach, Dad's nausea revved back up last night so he was readmitted this morning. I went by on my lunch break and he was extremely groggy so I'm headed back there now to spend the evening chillin' with Dad.
Argh...
Argh...
Monday, August 13, 2007
It Hurts
Imagine the worst pain possible. So bad you can barely move, much less breathe. Every tiny motion sends waves of indescribable knife shards into your body.
Now multiply that pain by about 1,000.
That was Dad's pain today.
He woke up this morning with a shoulder that felt like it was about to split in half, and nausea to boot. Despite a trip to the day hospital for some pretty heavy drugs, he continued to rate his pain at an 8 on a scale of 10 for the rest of the day. He finally got some rest about 6:00 this evening, but it didn't last long. A good friend of ours who happens to be an orthopedic surgeon says that the tumor in his shoulder has probably grown to the point that it split open the bone where it is growing. Just the thought makes my own body hurt.
Not to mention my heart. The worst part of all of this (for me) is watching the man who has always been my rock, physically, emotionally, practically, be so vulnerable that he can barely lift his arm. Seeing him shrink into his pillows and be unable to find a position that doesn't hurt. Seeing him keep his eyes wrenched shut to avoid any light that might sneak in and overwhelm his dizzy head. I had to leave the room for a few minutes and let the tears fall this afternoon. They just wouldn't stay put.
A very close friend of my father's (and a palliative care specialist) uttered the dreaded word to my mother: hospice. He also mentioned that the oncologists' estimate of 3-6 months is "optimistic." The plan is still to try round 2 of fighting this sucker but the fact that end-of-life issues are at the front of peoples' minds is not reassuring.
This is moving way too fast. I'm not ready for this at all.
Now multiply that pain by about 1,000.
That was Dad's pain today.
He woke up this morning with a shoulder that felt like it was about to split in half, and nausea to boot. Despite a trip to the day hospital for some pretty heavy drugs, he continued to rate his pain at an 8 on a scale of 10 for the rest of the day. He finally got some rest about 6:00 this evening, but it didn't last long. A good friend of ours who happens to be an orthopedic surgeon says that the tumor in his shoulder has probably grown to the point that it split open the bone where it is growing. Just the thought makes my own body hurt.
Not to mention my heart. The worst part of all of this (for me) is watching the man who has always been my rock, physically, emotionally, practically, be so vulnerable that he can barely lift his arm. Seeing him shrink into his pillows and be unable to find a position that doesn't hurt. Seeing him keep his eyes wrenched shut to avoid any light that might sneak in and overwhelm his dizzy head. I had to leave the room for a few minutes and let the tears fall this afternoon. They just wouldn't stay put.
A very close friend of my father's (and a palliative care specialist) uttered the dreaded word to my mother: hospice. He also mentioned that the oncologists' estimate of 3-6 months is "optimistic." The plan is still to try round 2 of fighting this sucker but the fact that end-of-life issues are at the front of peoples' minds is not reassuring.
This is moving way too fast. I'm not ready for this at all.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Worst Fears Put To Rest
Dad's nausea and pain continued to worsen yesterday and last night. Despite a completely empty stomach, he hasn't been able to stop throwing up and when he tried even a couple bites of an apple, he couldn't keep it down. His scheduled appointment with the oncologist this morning resulted in an admit to the hospital to get some of these symptoms under control. The doctor was also very worried that the increasing nausea was a sign that the cancer had spread to his brain so they did an MRI - it was CLEAR! Dad wanted to jump up and kiss the doctor when we found out! As a neuropsychologist, his worst fears are brain mets.
Whatever they gave him at the hospital seemed to work wonders. Dad wolfed down his dinner and has kept it down and is already looking forward to his lunch tomorrow! It will be a tricky day because they now have to wean him off of the heavy meds and see how he does. Good news is, his old buddy from college is visiting for the weekend and just happens to be a physician who specializes in palliative care and pain management.
So a roller coaster day to say the least but we can all go to bed with smiles on our faces tonight.
Whatever they gave him at the hospital seemed to work wonders. Dad wolfed down his dinner and has kept it down and is already looking forward to his lunch tomorrow! It will be a tricky day because they now have to wean him off of the heavy meds and see how he does. Good news is, his old buddy from college is visiting for the weekend and just happens to be a physician who specializes in palliative care and pain management.
So a roller coaster day to say the least but we can all go to bed with smiles on our faces tonight.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Sabbatical
That word has a bittersweet meaning these days. Dad has decided to retire and go on disability, and go on sabbatical from his teaching jobs. He was waiting on this week's scan results to make a final choice about work and alas, the scan results were not promising.
The gist of it is that the cancer has progressed. Despite six rounds of extremely aggressive chemo and 2 weeks of radiation, those stubborn little bone mets are putting up a good fight. In Dad's terms, at the end of the first period: Cancer 1, Team Dougie 0. The primary tumor in his lung has shrunk but not enough and there are a number of new spots throughout his bones, plus a new soft tissue spot in his lower back and growth in the soft tissue spot in his neck.
We all had a feeling the news would not be good. Dad has experienced increased breakthrough pain and nausea and has spent four out of the last five days receiving hydration, IV pain meds and anti-nausea drugs at the day hospital. We knew this was coming, but it doesn't make it any easier to swallow.
So it's on to Plan B. There are a couple of different "second-line" options that are being considered, and Dad has appointments with lung specialists at three major university hospitals in the next three weeks. Two of his appointments are with doctors who conduct many of the area's clinical trials, so it is good to establish relationships with these docs in order to have a trial as an option. Really though, we're talking in terms of buying time, in months rather than years.
I'm glad that I came home.
The gist of it is that the cancer has progressed. Despite six rounds of extremely aggressive chemo and 2 weeks of radiation, those stubborn little bone mets are putting up a good fight. In Dad's terms, at the end of the first period: Cancer 1, Team Dougie 0. The primary tumor in his lung has shrunk but not enough and there are a number of new spots throughout his bones, plus a new soft tissue spot in his lower back and growth in the soft tissue spot in his neck.
We all had a feeling the news would not be good. Dad has experienced increased breakthrough pain and nausea and has spent four out of the last five days receiving hydration, IV pain meds and anti-nausea drugs at the day hospital. We knew this was coming, but it doesn't make it any easier to swallow.
So it's on to Plan B. There are a couple of different "second-line" options that are being considered, and Dad has appointments with lung specialists at three major university hospitals in the next three weeks. Two of his appointments are with doctors who conduct many of the area's clinical trials, so it is good to establish relationships with these docs in order to have a trial as an option. Really though, we're talking in terms of buying time, in months rather than years.
I'm glad that I came home.
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Home Sweet Home
So we made it. 3,400 miles later my sister and I are safe and sound in good ol' Newport Beach. We actually got home last weekend, but were back for less than 12 hours before proceeding to board the Jet Cat Express, bound for Santa Catalina Island.
Catalina is a magical little place where we practically grew up - my dad and his brothers co-owned a condo with their father for years and years and we spent about half of every summer and several weekends over in the seaside town of Avalon.
It was the type of place where we'd spend the morning at the penny arcade downtown, stop at Rosie's for fish and chips, then Big Olaf's for ice cream, and then hike back up the hill to Fairview Terrace and turn into water babies for the duration of the afternoon. There are a lot of really special memories on that island, so we figured it was only fitting we take a family vacation there. Several longtime friends came over for a few days here and there, so it was quite an adventure! Dad didn't really have the energy to fill the days like we used to, but it was still special for everyone.
While we were there, Dad reached the end of round 6 of his chemo. Scans are next week to determine how effective the treatment was. He's felt progressively worse over this week and some of the mets in his bones have really been bothering him, especially in his hip and shoulder. We're hoping that's a sign that the chemo is working and the pain is the mets losing the battle. But honestly I don't know.
There are still a few treatment options, whether or not the chemo was effective. But I have a sinking suspicion that there are so many "hot spots" throughout his body, it would be hard for ANYTHING to wipe them out completely. Let's just hope we shrink those little bastards enough to relieve his symptoms and give him lots of quality time!
It's strange to picture your future without someone who has been so integral to your life, especially a parent. Dad and I have grown closer as I have grown up, and I'm not ready to raise the white flag by any means. But it scares me to think in terms of my children not knowing their grandfather, my siblings not having Dad there on their own wedding day....
What an empty feeling.
Catalina is a magical little place where we practically grew up - my dad and his brothers co-owned a condo with their father for years and years and we spent about half of every summer and several weekends over in the seaside town of Avalon.
It was the type of place where we'd spend the morning at the penny arcade downtown, stop at Rosie's for fish and chips, then Big Olaf's for ice cream, and then hike back up the hill to Fairview Terrace and turn into water babies for the duration of the afternoon. There are a lot of really special memories on that island, so we figured it was only fitting we take a family vacation there. Several longtime friends came over for a few days here and there, so it was quite an adventure! Dad didn't really have the energy to fill the days like we used to, but it was still special for everyone.
While we were there, Dad reached the end of round 6 of his chemo. Scans are next week to determine how effective the treatment was. He's felt progressively worse over this week and some of the mets in his bones have really been bothering him, especially in his hip and shoulder. We're hoping that's a sign that the chemo is working and the pain is the mets losing the battle. But honestly I don't know.
There are still a few treatment options, whether or not the chemo was effective. But I have a sinking suspicion that there are so many "hot spots" throughout his body, it would be hard for ANYTHING to wipe them out completely. Let's just hope we shrink those little bastards enough to relieve his symptoms and give him lots of quality time!
It's strange to picture your future without someone who has been so integral to your life, especially a parent. Dad and I have grown closer as I have grown up, and I'm not ready to raise the white flag by any means. But it scares me to think in terms of my children not knowing their grandfather, my siblings not having Dad there on their own wedding day....
What an empty feeling.
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