My Dad's Story

by Cathy Weeks

The Odyssey Begins: The diagnosis and
how I found out about it.
Alternate Title: The Amazing Story

October 30th, 1995: Mom called with an amazing story. She even called it that: "I have an Amazing Story to tell you." Dad had been having problems with ulcers. I even knew about it, though I didn't have any idea that they had been a problem for several months, or that they had been unresponsive to various therapies. Dad had been having stomach pains for awhile when he finally went to the doctor. They've found that many ulcers are actually caused by a bacterium called H. Pylori that grows in the lining of the stomach. Many people test positive for it, but have no symptoms. Dad tested positive for it, so they started the antibiotic regimen. Which didn't work. The antibiotics killed the bacteria as shown in later tests, but the pain persisted. So this time, the family doctor recommended that Dad go ahead and get an endoscopy and biopsy to figure out what was going on. She referred my parents to a gastroenterologist, who performed the procedure. (All of this occured prior to October 30th; I just didn't know about it).

No sooner did Dad wake up, than the Gastrodoc walked in and informed him and my mother that Dad had cancer. Not "there's a possiblity that you have cancer, but I need to run some more tests," but just a brusque "you have cancer." This was a Thursday, and the results of the biopsy wouldn't be in until the following Monday.

So my parents spent a hellish weekend, waiting until Monday, October 30th, to get the biopsy results. Dad wanted to call me and other family members, to tell us the news, but Mom convinced him to wait, because they really didn't know for sure that he had cancer. "Why worry us, when everything might be ok?" My mother also specifically didn't want me told until they knew for sure. I was going through such a tough time, that she wanted to protect me from it. I have very mixed feelings about it. I think they should have told me from the beginning, but with as depressed about teaching as I was, (I spent two years, and thousands of dollars getting a degree in a field that I wasn't cut out for) I think that she probably made the right decision. I really don't know what I would have done.

Prior to knowing anything about the cancer, I had made plans to go home for dinner the Friday after the biopsy results came in. My parents were having some close family friends over, and I enjoy their company very much. When Mom invited me, I noticed that she was acting rather strangely. When I asked if I could bring Chris (my fiance), she paused for a long time, and then asked my father, who I guess was in the same room, "Can Cathy bring Chris?" I heard him say, "yes," and Mom got back on the phone, and said "sure, bring him along." Normally, when I asked her if I could bring him home, she'd say "Of course," with no hesitation, and then discuss with me what she could serve that he'd be able to eat (he's a vegetarian). At the time I thought it was a little odd, but didn't think anything of it.

When Mom was telling me the amazing story, she actually explained her strange behavior: If the biopsy had been positive, they had planned to tell me about the cancer at that dinner. When I asked if I could bring Chris, she wasn't sure at first if she (or my father) would be comfortable with him there when they broke the news (they didn't know him very well). She told me that what she had decided at the time, was that Chris was going to be a part of the family, and that he should be there, if for no other reason than he'd be there for me.

On Monday, our family doctor called with the results of the tests. They came back negative. NEGATIVE!! My mother calls that time "the Rapture." Understandably, they were anxious to spread the good news. The gastroenterologist was unconvinced, and recommended to my parents that they heal heal the ulcers and get another endoscopy and deeper biopsy, but that didn't dampen my parents joy. Dad suddenly felt like he had a second chance at life, and Mom felt like she had nearly lost Dad, though the worst was yet to come. Mom told me on the phone that night that they had spent a lot of time together crying, and wondering about the future. My brothers are very young (more than 14 years younger than I am), ages 9 and 12 at the time, and my father is pretty much the breadwinner of the family.

The funny thing about that phone call, was that Mom insisted on telling me the whole story in chronological order, so I kept saying "Does Dad have Cancer???" "MOM! DOES DAD HAVE CANCER???!!!" and she kept saying, "just wait, you've got to hear this story." She really kept me in suspense. She told me when the next Endosopy was going to be (Thursday, November 9th), and when the results would be in (Monday, November 13).

I didn't worry too much; the negative results had to be a good sign, right? I told all my friends about the situation, but I made light of it: "Oh, guess what? My dad doesn't have Cancer!"

Monday November 13th: I went to see the movie "Seven" (or "SE7EN" as the movie posters called it), which was a thoroughly disturbing movie, and normally I have trouble sleeping when I see those types of movies. However, when I got home, I tried calling home. The phone was busy. I had a totally sinking feeling in my stomach. I called my friend Dave, because if I didn't talk to someone, I was going to burst. He convinced me that my parents could be telling people good news, and not to worry unless it was warranted. My fiance Chris walked in as I was getting off the phone with Dave. It was fairly late, and Chris had been up since early that morning, so he went to bed and was reading when I dialed my parents number.

This time the phone rang. Mom answered.

"So does Dad have cancer?" I asked.

"Why don't you ask him?" she said and handed the phone to my father.

"Yes, I do have cancer," he replied, when I had repeated my question. He started talking about it, and I started crying. I asked him to hold on a moment, while I called to Chris and asked him to come here. He came immediately, and sat on the floor behind me, put his arms around me and just held me for the rest of the phone call, which wasn't short.

The family doctor had given my parents the news, and she was white-faced and upset. She is a family friend in addition to being our doctor. Her husband later told us that she blamed herself for not pushing my parents to get an endoscopy done two months earlier, at the beginning of his ulcer problems, not at the end.

[sigh] writing this is harder than I would have expected. These events occured almost five months ago, (It's now almost April of 1996), and it's still bringing tears to my eyes.

After I got off the phone with my parents, the phone rang, and Chris answered it for me. It was Dave, and Chris told him the news. A few minutes later, the phone rang again, and it was another friend, Beth. News travels fast. Chris asked me if I wanted to talk to her, but since I was still crying I said no. He told Beth that I really didn't want to talk. He passed on the message to me that she had said that if I needed her, she'd be there.

November 14th, 1995: That morning, at work I started doing a Web search, and found little information, but what I did find was not at *all* encouraging. I found that Esophageal Cancer is a particularly vicious form of cancer, with the overall two-year survival rate only 30%. I also found that there were two types: Squamous Cell Carcinoma, and Adenocarcinoma, and that Adenocarcinoma was worse. But I had no idea which one Dad had. By this point, I was sobbing nearly uncontrollably. I didn't see that Dad could be in the 30% that makes it; I think I just knew that he was going to die. I left work and went home.

November 15th, 1995: Further tests showed that "Signet Cells had been found." I found out later that Signet cells are a defining characteristic of Adenocarcinoma; the cell nucleus is off-center, giving the cell the appearance of a men's signet pinky ring. Dad also told me that their oncologist had said that the tumor was poorly-differentiated adenocarcinoma. If a tumor is well-defined (differentiated), then it's more likely to be benign, or at least more easily treatable. But Dad's tumor wasn't well-defined at all. The news just got worse and worse. I found all this out from Mom, this time, not Dad. Dad had asked the oncologist not to tell him a prognosis or any statistics; he didn't want anything that might discourage him. However, the oncologist ignored Dad's wishes and told him anyway. This was the first time that Daddy lost his hopefullness. That night, he sat in front of the TV and told Mom that he didn't want to talk anymore, so she gave me the news instead.

Those few days were awful. I would find things to be hopeful about: maybe it's squamous cell, maybe it's well-differentiated, maybe it's no big deal. But as I did my research, and got more news from my parents, one-by-one, each of those hopes were taken away. My family and I grasped at the fact that couldn't be taken away: The tumor was discovered early. "We caught it early," became a sort of mantra.

Entry 3: The Interim Before Treatment.

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