My Dad has prostate cancer. He got the results today. The doctor says it is localised and that he is confident it can be treated successfully, but he won’t be able to make a full prognosis until the results of the CAT scan and bone scan my Dad is having on Wednesday are in.
It has been a very emotional day. My Dad is afraid. I can hear it in his voice. His best friend died four years ago of prostate cancer and it was a grisly, horrible death. It is very sobering to acknowledge that the horror you saw someone else experience may be the very horror you have to face yourself.
When it comes to cancer there are so many stories of survival, of triumph. Yet there are just as many stories of loss, of defeat. It’s hard to know what to believe and what not to believe. It is probably best to go down the road of accepting that each case is different and depends entirely on the person involved. And to take each day at a time. Each hour. Each moment.
All of us have a fear of something. A thing we really don’t want to hear about or know about. In my Dad’s case it has always been cancer.
It is funny what happens to us when that thing, that demon we are scared of facing rises up before us. We expect upon seeing it, upon knowing it that the sun will shine a little less brightly, that the sky will somehow be a paler shade of blue. That everything in the external world will change because we have changed, we are changing. But that doesn’t happen.
Things stay the same even if our worlds are falling apart around us. The outside world has nothing to do with it. We can weep on a serene, peaceful day just as we can rejoice in a thunderstorm. That the outside world remains constant as our hearts and minds are rendered inconstant is a comfort of sorts.
‘At least today I can see the sun shine,’ said my Dad. ‘That’s something.’
Small comfort for now, but definitely something.