snapshots of my so-called life

My Dad has been diagnosed with colorectal cancer 4 years ago. He’s been living a normal life since his surgery and 6 chemo sessions back in 2003. The battle was won…or so we thought. His recent laboratory results showed that his CEA count (marker to determine cancer cells) continues to increase, it even came to a point where it went way beyond the normal level, at an almost alarming level. His doctors performed all the necessary tests to determine where the cancer is concentrated but what’s surprising is that they can’t seem to trace the exact location as to where it has spread. His oncologist, thinking of his foremost well-being advised him to have another round of chemo sessions so as to prevent the cancer from further spreading despite not knowing where it is. It’s like having a blind target.

Being the obedient patient that he was, he and my Mom immediately booked his chemo schedules at the hospital. The first 2 sessions were already done as of this writing. He was advised to take at least 3 then they’ll check again if his body is reacting positively to the medicines. His recent chemo sessions were far more different than the ones he had 4 years ago. This time, the medicines injected into his body are stronger, not to mention the 3000 mg of chemo tablets that he also had to take daily for two straight weeks for maintenance. We all noticed how weak he looked after the sessions. I just act and appear strong in front of my family but deep inside, I feel weak whenever I see him all curled up in bed and not having an appetite to eat. Knowing my Dad, he’s always active around the house and always has a hearty appetite. I realized how really affected he was with his chemo when he hands me the car keys on trips to the church or to the mall. He normally would not entrust the car to me to drive when he’s around, he’d normally be the one driving.

My Dad never complained nor whined about the physical pains that he’s experiencing. There was never a time that he blurted out how difficult and painful the chemo was. We’d just see him there lying in bed as if not feeling anything. But there was an instance when I got to hear him speak about his thoughts and feelings about his cancer for the first time. This was when Tita Emma Garcia, a friend from the community invited us to dinner one evening. Tita Emma was a cancer survivor herself. The topic during dinner was about what else, cancer and death. My Dad said that if he’d be asked, 59 (his age) is already a good number of years to live. He said that there’s nothing more that he could ask for, that if he’d be given additional years to live then it would already be a “bonus” from God. I felt sad hearing those words from him. I realized that time is truly of the essence in our situation. What if there weren’t time left for him to see me get my damn master’s degree, to walk me down the aisle, to hold his grandchild, to see me fulfilled with my career, etc.

We can never tell what happens tomorrow. That’s why I’m now rushing to make something out of my life while he’s still there, while he’s still around.