Listen Yall: Nothing Can Prepare You.

The way life can take a sharp turn all of a sudden can be a good thing. It also, unfortunately, can be a bad thing. I remember sitting in the hospital with my dad on November 10, 2020 when the neurosurgeon came to speak with us. My Dad had undergone an MRI already and I believe a few CT scans. Bloodwork had been done, results had come back. We didn’t know it when he walked in with his PA, that our lives were about to change drastically.

At the time, my dad wasn’t comprehending the medical terminology they shared with us. The neurosurgeon said “malignant,” my Dad thought that was the good kind of tumor. The non-cancerous kind, but it wasn’t. As we sat there, processing, the room around me became blurry and everything sounded far off in the distance. Voices took on an echo and syllables were drawn out longer than normal. Everything in my world seemingly came to a stop, but the doctors and nurses kept talking and moving about the room.

They told us that because of the type of tumor they found, with surgery and treatment, my Dad may get 1 to 5 years. When the surgeon said this, I snapped back into reality. I looked up and asked if he meant this was terminal and he blatantly, and without hesitation, said yes. Yall, when I say my world shattered into a million pieces around me, it shattered into a million pieces.

Things were just starting to get back to a “new normal” after having lost my Mom just 4 months before. Thanks a lot covid.

My Dad was scheduled and prepped for surgery two days later. I prayed with him and held his hand in the pre-op waiting area refusing to let go until I absolutely had to. Waiting for him to get out of surgery was the longest wait I’ve ever experienced. Due to covid they weren’t allowing anyone in the waiting room except the one person who had been cleared to stay overnight (me) but somehow my Aunt was able to sit with me and we weren’t bothered about it. Thanks Momma!

Once Daddy was out of surgery and stable in his ICU room, I was able to see him. He was heavily sedated and kept saying “Get this shit off me!” (talking about the oxygen tubes and his drain tube.) If you knew my Dad, you can hear him saying that. I wasn’t able to stay overnight in the ICU room but I went every day during the day, as long as they would let me.

One particular day in ICU was a notably harder day for Daddy. He was very uncooperative and extremely restless. The nurse had to give him, what they called, a cocktail. It was three or four different drugs that when combined and used together, was able to essentially sedate the patient so that the nurses could give them the care they needed while all parties were safe. Oh, I forgot to mention that same day, Daddy tried to swing at his nurse. It scared me and her both. Once the “cocktail” kicked in, Daddy was unable to respond, except for groans, and was unable to stand on his own. Five nurses had to come in to help transfer my Dad from the chair he was in to his bed.

Daddy would continue to have a hard recovery. At some point in the hospital he contracted covid, which set his recovery back. Even if he hadn’t gotten covid in the hospital, his outcome would have been the same.

Initially, the Glioblastoma measured roughly 2x3x4 centimeters. Yes, centimeters. For those who do not know, the human body is typically measured in millimeters. During surgery, they removed all they safely could, however there was still a small spot they couldn’t safely reach without essentially turning my Dad into a vegetable. Once diagnosed with Covid, they had to take him into isolation. I couldn’t see him anymore and his new room did not have windows. He would stay there the remainder of his time in this hospital. Communication between doctors and nurses was frustrating. No one ever seemed to be on the same page. Fast forward to his discharge from the hospital and rehab, to January 5th. He had an MRI done for the neuro oncologist (for a third opinion). At the neuro oncologists office, January 6th, we got the results of that MRI. The tumor, in two months, had doubled in size. Even after surgery.

Pathology came back and told us that the tumor did not have the markers that show the cancer would respond well to treatment. The doctor told us our options, which weren’t great. While Daddy had some blood drawn, Trevor stepped into the hall. He asked the Doctor what she would do if this was her Dad. She told him that she would not pursue treatment because it will only hurt him and push him into a state of decline quicker than if my Dad chose hospice.

Once home from this appointment, Trevor, my Dad, and I all sat around our kitchen table. We laid everything out, both pros and cons of doing treatment and not doing treatment. Ultimately it was my Dad’s decision. As many of you know, he chose hospice.

Hospice means no treatment, but to let it ride it’s course. And that is exactly what we did.

More information and details will come later. I am so sorry it took me so long to write this. Life is still hectic for us and I am still processing losing both parents in just seven months, both in traumatic ways.

Life goes on for everyone else, even you. You won’t be ready. I wasn’t but it keeps passing by, unforgivingly.

Stay True,

Hails