So. Cancer, then.
The dreaded 'c' word. It's not fun is it.
I'm reeling right now from the news that my Dad's Consultant was wrong. It has spread. There are cancerous cells in his stomach. Which means he can't have radiotherapy, it's too invasive and might damage the stomach. So he's faced with a choice. Have hormone therapy injections for life or take part in a clinical trial that will most probably involve chemotherapy.
Ah, chemotherapy. The other dreaded 'c' word. I saw my Mum go through chemotherapy for breast cancer a few years ago and it was pretty much soul destroying. I've always seen my Dad as this big, strong, invincible man. I can't bear the thought of him losing his hair (what little the baldy has left anyway), of him being weak, of him being sick. I don't want to see my Dad as fragile. I guess I don't want to face his mortality. I don't want to face the possibility that the treatment, God forbid, might not work. Stupid selfish thoughts enter my head like 'who'll help me decorate my first house?', 'who'll give me away when I get married?'. But the overriding thought?
I don't want my Dad to die.
He's the most decent, honest, wonderful man in the whole world and I can't imagine how dark my world would be without him in it.
Of course, I'm reeling. I'm in shock. I'm probably overreacting. But when cancer steps up and smacks you in the face, it's hard not to fear the worst.
