Oh, dear god, please make it stop already!

I really do need to come up with a better, more socially appropriate way to respond to people who politely ask about how my father is doing. I mean, my current response--"Well, he's dying, so it's only downhill from here"--isn't really what most people want to hear.

I did hear from his girlfriend today, in between appointments at the VA medical center up where they live. Apparently, he was sick enough for them to insist he lie on a stretcher while he waited for the next doctor to see him, and he'd fallen almost immediately asleep. In the meantime, the hospice worker had told Dad's girlfriend that it was time to set up a room for him downstairs, and time for her to order a hospital bed, a wheelchair, etc.

"They think it's moving along quickly," she confided. "They think it's going to be sooner rather than later." I did my best to respond empathetically, while thinking to myself, "What later? Who ever said there was going to be a later?" It cannot come soon enough, by my reckoning. Later, I mean. The end, I mean. This is already no kind of end of life. And as I said, it's only downhill from here.

But today's real medical crisis came courtesy not of my dad, but of my doggie, Snug, the canine love of all of our lives. Long (and I do mean long) story short, after transfusions of plasma at the local vet's office, he was transfered tonight over to the local emergency vet clinic. He is bleeding from various orifices (his mouth, his rectum, his penis); he also seems to be bleeding internally. His spleen is enlarged; his stomach has blood in it. He's running a low-grade fever. He's moving like he's a 20-year-old dog, not a 20 month old dog. His platelets are low. His clotting times are slow. He's a sick puppy.

And the worst part? My fault. Our fault. Proabably, at least. Because the current working diagnosis is that it's likely a tick-borne disease that's causing all of this (despite the fact that the initial tick titre done in the vet's office came back negative; it's apparently not a foolproof test, and the blood work that will be back in the morning will tell the real truth). How did he get a tick-borne disease? Well, probably because his idiot owners don't always remember to give him his Frontline every month...or every other month. Clearly, catch-as-catch-can flea and tick protection isn't all that good at keeping a dog healthy. Who knew? Besides you and you and you and you and everyone but idiot us, I mean.

Poor pup.

Plan v. Reality

The plan: Fly into NY Tuesday, April 24; get up the next morning and go in to the city to meet with my new boss and *her* boss from 10 to noon.

The reality: Wednesday's meeting stretched from 10 to almost 5. Thursday's hastily scheduled 1 pm meeting stretched from 1 to 4. Monday's hastily scheduled 9 am meeting stretched all the way until 6:30 that afternoon. And there was still so much that didn't get done.

The plan: Drive upstate with my sister and nephew to see my dad on Saturday, expecting him to make a huge deal about us staying overnight in a hotel and only having brunch with him the next morning.

The reality: The pain meds my dad is taking caused the "usual" (as those of us who've needed narcotics at any time in our lives know) side effect of extreme, um, bowel issues. Dad was in such pain from the side effects of the pain meds--and how ironic is that?--that he couldn't concentrate long enough to have any kind of conversation. We got to where he's living with his girlfriend at around 2 on Saturday, stayed less than an hour before he was unable to keep his eyes open any longer, helped get him tucked into bed, then went to check into the hotel. Returned at around 5:30 for dinner; he couldn't even make it downstairs long enough to sit with us--because of the cancer, he hasn't eaten an actual solid meal in over two months--so we just had dinner with his girlfriend. He came down for about 45 minutes after dessert, and then we went back to the hotel. The next morning, his girlfriend called to tell us that she was going to be taking him to the hospital (an hour and a half away), because he was just that sick from the side effects, but that he wanted to see us before he left. So we went for less than half an hour, said goodbye to him, and returned to the city.

I know that's only a recitation of fact. I just don't have much more than that to say. I got back home yesterday afternoon, and I'm simply exhausted. That was the closest I've even come to spending seven straight days steeped in pure, unadulterated stress. Thank god for my funny, sweet, silly nephew, who took me to Special Friends Day at his school on Friday, and who absolutely personified denial when we were at my dad's. To wit:

Dad's girlfriend, at the dinner table: Matt, how are you doing with all of this? Are you OK?
Matt: I really like that broccoli.
Girlfriend: Thanks. But are you doing OK with the way Grandpa is looking and acting?
Matt: The garlic in the broccoli is the best part.

Me? I did an internet search on ways to relieve constipation in people taking large doses of narcotics, and I fell asleep the second we walked in the door after we checked into the hotel, while Matt and my sister took a swim. I didn't say Matt had a monopoly on denial, did I?

Here I am

We found out about my dad on Thursday; four days later (a week ago today), I found out that my boss at ParentsConnect had resigned. I'm going to be taking over for her for the interim, which is a lot of pressure at the same time as that of my dad's diagnosis. Worst of it is that the people in New York who run ParentsConnect want someone to replace her in New York. Which makes sense if you're not a person who lives in LA who was hoping to take over part of her job on a permanent basis and finally get a staff position (read: benefits). So that's more stress--the stress of who will come in to replace my boss, and will she want me to continue to work at this more managerial level to which I've become accustomed? Or will she want her entire staff to be in New York with her (it could be a him, but it's unlikely, given that this is a site aimed primarily at mommies) and thus will I find myself suddenly out of a job--out of the only job I have right now, the only job anyone in this whole family has right now?

Oh, and the kids are off for spring break this week. And I'm heading out to New York to see my dad and meet with the ParentsConnect folks a week from tomorrow.

There isn't enough Xanax in the world to keep me calm.

Telling the kids

They are 6 and 9. N has met my father a total of three times, the first of which was the day he was born and my father, more engaged in my life at the time than he had been in many years or would be for many years hence, had flown to LA from New York to try to be there for the birth. Em has seen him maybe a single handfull of times. Neither of them is likely to see him before this is all over. They do talk to him on the phone once or twice a month, but that could easily be finessed if you didn't want a kid to know what was going on behind the scenes

Given this, I'm sure there are many people who wouldn't have chosen to tell them about their grandfather's terminal illness. I'm also sure there are many people who would be able to keep their emotions to themselves, to be careful what they say on the phone when the kids are in earshot, to discuss travel plans and financial issues when they're in school. I am not one of those people. So told they were, with no sugar-coating, because I think it's better for them to think the worst is coming, and soon, and then maybe--just maybe--have something miraculous occur and have him around for more time than they think they will, than to have it go the other way, where they think they might see him for an afternoon this summer as they have the past two years, and then be disappointed when it doesn't happen.

Em, who is 9 going on 39, responded precisely as I thought she would. She cried. She sobbed. She talked about how even though she doesn't get to see him much, he's still her grandfather, and she's going to miss him. Then she cried and sobbed some more. Then, bless her incredible little heart, she told me that she thought I needed to "let it out" myself, that she could see how sad I was, but that I wasn't crying, and I should. I told her it wasn't that simple. We did a lot of hugging. She cried some more. Then she went for a sleepover at her friend C's house. That, in a nutshell, is Em.

N, who is 6 going on, um, maybe 5-and-a-half, came closest to making me cry. He often follows Em's emotional lead, because he doesn't always know what feelings are expected. Baroy and I were expecting him to fake/force cry, trying to get attention away from Em, as he usually does in these instances. Instead, he pushed out his lower lip and furrowed his brow in his classic distressed/angry look, and refused to be held or kissed or cuddled. For N, this is tantamount to refusing to take in a breath of air, to refusing oxygen. At one point, Em was asking a question, and N followed by trying to ask one of his own, but then lost his train of thought, or couldn't come up with the words or something, and began grunting and hitting himself in his head with his fist, angry at his brain. I have literally never seen him do ANYthing like that before. He was really hurting, my little boy. Not that Em wasn't and isn't, mind you, but she does her thing, gets it out, and moves on with her life. N hit himself in the head, gave up, and insisted he wanted to go outside and play basketball while Em and I finished our conversation.

He did come in a few minutes later, however, to ask me if we were going to bury Grandpa Jack, and I almost answered in the affirmative before I realized, in a flash, that he was wondering if we were going to bury Grandpa Jack in a hole in the backyard, the way we did with Buddy the guinea pig a few weeks ago. We ended up having a somewhat surreal conversation about cemetaries and coffins, as well as about what cremation means. Apparently, my born-in-Nazi-Germany Jewish father, having escaped the Holocaust, wants to be cremated. Don't ask.

Two days later, they're both fine. There will be more questions, I'm sure. But for now, they're fine, and dealing. Even N seems to recognize and accept the concept of the finality of it. Yesterday, he announced that he is going to find "the most beautiful rock ever" to give to Grandpa Jack. He doesn't bestow rocks lightly, my boy. It's his way of saying goodbye to Grandpa Jack...and, eerily, a throw-forward to the future, since leaving pebbles on gravesites when you've visited is a Jewish tradition. Perhaps I won't point that out to either him or my father just now, though.

Dad

For the last couple of months, my father's been convinced he's dying. His long-time girlfriend and I have been convinced he's insane. Since he's bipolar and medicated to his gills, it's not a real stretch to be convinced of the latter. And we are, of course, right.

But so is he.

Turns out that despite some negative enzyme test several weeks ago, he does indeed have the pancreatic cancer he has been convinced he has. He's been waiting for this diagnosis since he was 52, the age at which his father died of pancreatic cancer. (Thanks for THAT genetic legacy, dad. First bipolar, now two generations of pancreatic cancer. Fun.) He's been convinced of this diagnosis for the past five weeks, during which he's dropped over 40 pounds (off of an I-figure-it's-gotta-be-nearly-300-pound frame, but still...) and complained constantly of severe pain. Since this is the man who taught me how to be a hypochondriac ("but I HAVE THINGS!"), it's not surprising we didn't really believe him.

I feel a little bit like shit for that.

The cancer is in his pancreas and in his colon and, considering the complaints he had a few months back where he was convinced he'd had a stroke and was having trouble walking, possibly in his brain as well. He's had symptoms for five weeks. The average survival time for pancreatic cancer (which is more than 99% fatal, the deadliest of the cancers) is three to four months from diagnosis. The cancer is not only not operable, it's not treatable; they sent him home today after the doctor appointment in which he was told about his cancer with pain killers and a promise of home hospice care when (not if) he needs it. (Thank god for the VA benefits he gets.) He's going to be 69 in August. The chances of him seeing that birthday are exceptionally slim.

I have a lot to say about this, and I'm sure I'll say it all eventually, but for now, I'm going to be selfish and narcissistic and make this all about me and myyyyyyy neeeeeeeeeds and mmmmmyyyyyyyyyyy feeeeeeeeeelings and say only that I'm learning something, um, interesting/pathological about myself from this. My one and only reaction to this news has been to spiral immediately into a full-blown, physical-only panic attack. It's obvious that my body has now programmed itself to take any and all strong emotions--depression, fear, grief, confusion, indifference, whatever--and turn them into panic. How fucked up is that? (Rhetorical question...)

So, next up: Book a flight to NYC sometime in the next couple of weeks to see him/say goodbye to him, maybe/take care of business. I'm purported to be the executor of his will, but nobody is quite sure that he actually HAS a will. Of course, that's OK, because he also doesn't have an estate. All he has, best I know, is debt. Oh, and ex-wives who hate him. And children who don't speak to him. And family members who have written him off.

Don't you want to be a fly on the wall at THIS funeral? I do...but mostly that's because I don't want to have to deal directly with people I cut out of my life and heart over 20 years ago.

I may not know exactly how I feeeeeeel right now, but I do know one thing: This sucks.