May 26th, 2010: And So It Begins

After about five weeks of preparation to make this journey possible, I have left Los Angeles today and arrived in Philadelphia. I have come here to help take care of my two ailing parents.

Dad is slowly dying from Lewy Body Disease, something most people have never heard of when I mention it. But that's ok. In short, it's like having Alzheimer's and Parkinson's disease, so I'm fond of calling it "the peanut butter and jelly of senility". But I only say that to make me laugh. The joke doesn't change how fucking awful it is to watch your own father deteriorate before your eyes, but at least it helps me chuckle darkly. Every little bit helps.

Mom is battling breast cancer. It started about three or so years ago when, a series of small lumps were found in one of mom's boobs. Rather than pull out each lump, she elected to have a mastectomy. Then radiation. Then chemotherapy. That was topped off by having an implant surgically inserted where her real breast had been so she would - at the very least - look symmetrical. And, gosh darnit: all of it worked. Mom was doing great and getting a clean bill of health.


For a while.


Then, about six weeks ago, during a check-up to which I was invited, Mom was given the news: her cancer has metastasized, or spread. And it had done so dramatically, spreading to her liver, both lungs, and all of the bones in her upper body from her skull to her spine to her hips. This is known as Stage IV cancer and although it's not a death sentence, it's awful close. The average survival rate with cancer like this is somewhere between 18-24 months. More recent data says mom has a 27% chance of lasting five years.


But her doctor's didn't tell Mom this. Instead, when they broke the news to her, Mom asked them a simple and direct question: "Should I be making long-term plans...?". Her doctor told her, "Oh yes: absolutely!" Dr. Goldstein spoke of how the radiation and chemotherapy Mom now required would help in this way and that and tra-la-la, isn't everything so nice and bright and chipper?!

I understand not wishing to convince a patient into believing that death is certain. I get it. And I understand the desire to help keep a patient optimistic and positive. But I don't understand lying or omitting the truth when a patient with a potentially terminal disease asks you a direct question about their long term survival. If I were Mom's doctor, I'd have gotten quiet, told the truth, been humble and then help her to be as positive as she could in order to fight the disease and become a survivor.

So fuck you, Doctor: you're a woman, you're an oncologist, and you know better. If it makes you uncomfortable to tell the truth to someone who might have a terminal disease, then maybe you should have thought about that shit before you decided to become a fucking cancer doctor, you know?

I flew home to Los Angeles a few days later, decided that I needed to be at home to be with both of my parents and assist in any way I could during this process. I didn't hesitate for a moment. That was the weird part. I just knew this is what I needed to do. So I put in the paperwork to take advantage of the Family Medical Leave Act, got a cat sitter, parked my car in a friend's driveway, arranged for mail and... five weeks later, here I am.

I am scared. I am nervous. I am hopeful. And I am here to help. I am willing to take care of myself while I'm here and I hope that remember to do so. There is a lot to be done. Tonight, I sleep on the pull out sofa and tomorrow I drive us all up to New Jersey. The following morning, my brother and his wife will welcome their newest child into the world via c-section. It will be good to start off this journey with some new life, new blood and new excitement.