A Post of Reflection and Classy Dance Moves

The day of Dad's bowel resection was really something.  We went from laughing hysterically to crying hysterically in less than a few hours.  It was the worst emotional whiplash imaginable.  I've got the video footage to prove it.  You're welcome Father.

Mom got him to the hospital about 90 minutes before his scheduled surgery.  Naturally, the 90 minute wait turned into a 2 1/2 hour wait.  I arrived just in time to see this...

Only to be followed by this (keep in mind he had been given juuuust enough medication to help keep him relaxed, which made him ever so slightly tipsy - as hilarious as regular Dad is, tipsy Dad is so much better)...

By the time his surgery actually rolled around we were all feeling pretty dang good about the whole thing.  Mom, Pete, and I camped out in the waiting room for about an hour and a half at which point his surgeon came in to talk to us.  I had already seen several surgeons come in and chat with their patient's families right there in the waiting area, so I immediately became nervous when he asked us to meet with him in a nearby consultation room.  I remember feeling my heart rate double.  Heat rates are smart like that.

I'll spare you the details, but we were led to believe that Dad most likely had a fast growing, incurable form of intestinal canser.  Dr. Doom was even throwing around time lines.  The kind of time lines that literally knock the wind out of you.  In full disclosure, about 5 minutes into the conversation, I stood up and stormed out of the room (Me?  Dramatic?  Noooooo...).  I don't know what happened.  I just suddenly couldn't listen anymore.  So Mom and Pete sat there calmly and asked as many questions as they could think of.  Then they fell apart too.  We started the painful process of calling our siblings to deliver the news that we knew would change their lives.  It was heartbreaking.  Plans were altered and flights were booked.  Because the only thing we cared about was being together.  

We knew it wouldn't be a good idea to tell Dad everything the Dr. had said until he was recovered from the anesthesia, so we faked it.  We put on our happy faces in his room, which was surprisingly not all that difficult, and then we would each take our turn to go out to the hall and have a good cry.  This cycle went on for several hours.  I still haven't asked Dad if he suspected that we were all putting on an act that night, but he probably did.  We're pretty sucky actors.  I love this clip of Pete, Dusty, and my husband Ryan walking with Dad and his nurse down the hall only a few hours after surgery.  They have their game faces on.    

Never mind my man voice in the background.

The emotional torment of the 48 hours after his surgery is something that will never leave me.  It was two full days of desperately searching for what we knew there was no answer for.  Why him?  But then, almost like a miracle, a ray of hope appeared.  We were told that the canser was actually testing more like lymphoma.  I think we were all hesitant to even consider the possibility until a day or so later, when Mom sent out a text that said, "Good news (I think)!  Dr. just called to say the path report is definitely lymphoma.  Never thought I'd be celebrating lymphoma".  The kind of news that usually makes people collapse in a heap of woe and tears had us literally celebrating.  I even started doing the Cabbage Patch when I read her text.  In my running clothes.  At a soccer game.  Just keepin it classy.

Here.  Now you can be classy too.  

Oh YouTube, what priceless little nuggets you provide us with.

Not a day has gone by since that post-surgery chat we had with Dad's surgeon that I haven't thought about how fortunate I am to have such a stellar family.  They are all incredible as individual people and as individual young families.  But together, as a group of brothers, sisters, and parents who all have each others backs, they are immovable.  They are rock solid.  And canser will not change that, no sir-ree.