Subnuts
08-09-06, 07:47 PM
This is an article I wrote for epinions a few days ago. I'm not exactly a regular here and never mentioned it before. I just thought I'd let everybody know.
Over the past couple of months some of my regular readers may have noticed a slight lapse in the quality of my reviews. Despite being a Top Reviewer in books, I’ve taken the easy way out and reviewed action figures and movies. I’ve also taken on a somewhat goofy online personality, which merely clouds my true feelings.
This August 10th, at 6 a.m., my father, Gordon Carpenter, is having surgery for bladder cancer at Hartford Hospital. This will involve removing his bladder and replacing it with part of his large intestine, forming a "pseudo-bladder." This procedure has been performed quite often in the U.K. but is relatively new here in the United States.
My mother left my father separated in late 1998 (which doesn’t mean she hates him, it just means she couldn’t deal with him anymore), and my relationship with him since then has been a complicated one. Up until about six months ago, I saw him about once a week and we’d go out for hikes, window shop a little bit, and maybe go out for dinner. You know, the whole Father-Son bonding thing.
My father has always had problems with depression, something I became acutely aware of in January. He became so depressed he refused to leave his apartment if it was cold or rainy. Every time I talked to him, he would say that his stomach was upset and he wanted to stay home. The first few times this happened I thought he was trying to avoid me, but by the sixth or seventh time, I realized that something was seriously wrong.
In March, while out for a hike with him at Gay City State Park, he found urine in his blood. It took him two weeks to set up an appointment with a doctor. On that day he was diagnosed with bladder cancer.
An appointment for an operation was set up almost immediately, but it was three weeks before it was performed. By that time, the cancer had grown to the size of a golf ball. The doctors scraped away most of the cancer cells, but had to stop for fear of puncturing the bladder. By that time one thing was inevitable: the bladder had to go or he would die.
Being a depressive, borderline co-dependant person (I love him, but that doesn’t mean he’s flawless), he couldn’t make a decision about the surgery. His first doctor insisted on a drastic procedure that required removing his bladder, lymph nodes, ureters, part of his large intestine, and possibly one of his kidneys. He would have to spend the rest of his life wearing an ostomy bag. He steadfastly refused.
After some cajoling, he underwent fairly extensive chemotherapy. He pretty much stopped eating for a month and lost almost 35 pounds. I didn’t see him again for about a month, but my spirits were lifted somewhat when I walked in the door and he made a Mr. Clean joke! Finally, he managed to get a hold of a doctor who could carry out a subtler operation. I saw him again a couple weeks later, and again last week when we went out for one last dinner before the surgery.
The next few days are going to be the hard part. I know that medical science has improved exponentially in the last 30 years, but I’m still scared. The operation could last six or even eight hours. I’m more concerned about the competence of the surgeons carrying out the operation than the techniques involved. My family, and many of the people I know online, have been very supportive over the last couple months. However, I feel left out. I’m a terrible conversationalist, I’m not particularly optimistic, and I have a hard time dealing with people.
One of my favorite songs of all time is Why. It’s a Fleetwood Mac song written way back in 1973 by Christine McVie. It’s about never giving up on someone, even when your relationship with that person has lead to heartbreak and depression. I wish I could be that optimistic. Obviously, the circumstances under which that song was written were completely different from mine, but I still get the chills and cry whenever I hear it. I know there’s a 95% chance that he’ll be all right, and I’ll spend more time with him after this ordeal so I can get to know him better. I just hope he realizes that there are people out there, even my Mom, that still love him.
Over the past couple of months some of my regular readers may have noticed a slight lapse in the quality of my reviews. Despite being a Top Reviewer in books, I’ve taken the easy way out and reviewed action figures and movies. I’ve also taken on a somewhat goofy online personality, which merely clouds my true feelings.
This August 10th, at 6 a.m., my father, Gordon Carpenter, is having surgery for bladder cancer at Hartford Hospital. This will involve removing his bladder and replacing it with part of his large intestine, forming a "pseudo-bladder." This procedure has been performed quite often in the U.K. but is relatively new here in the United States.
My mother left my father separated in late 1998 (which doesn’t mean she hates him, it just means she couldn’t deal with him anymore), and my relationship with him since then has been a complicated one. Up until about six months ago, I saw him about once a week and we’d go out for hikes, window shop a little bit, and maybe go out for dinner. You know, the whole Father-Son bonding thing.
My father has always had problems with depression, something I became acutely aware of in January. He became so depressed he refused to leave his apartment if it was cold or rainy. Every time I talked to him, he would say that his stomach was upset and he wanted to stay home. The first few times this happened I thought he was trying to avoid me, but by the sixth or seventh time, I realized that something was seriously wrong.
In March, while out for a hike with him at Gay City State Park, he found urine in his blood. It took him two weeks to set up an appointment with a doctor. On that day he was diagnosed with bladder cancer.
An appointment for an operation was set up almost immediately, but it was three weeks before it was performed. By that time, the cancer had grown to the size of a golf ball. The doctors scraped away most of the cancer cells, but had to stop for fear of puncturing the bladder. By that time one thing was inevitable: the bladder had to go or he would die.
Being a depressive, borderline co-dependant person (I love him, but that doesn’t mean he’s flawless), he couldn’t make a decision about the surgery. His first doctor insisted on a drastic procedure that required removing his bladder, lymph nodes, ureters, part of his large intestine, and possibly one of his kidneys. He would have to spend the rest of his life wearing an ostomy bag. He steadfastly refused.
After some cajoling, he underwent fairly extensive chemotherapy. He pretty much stopped eating for a month and lost almost 35 pounds. I didn’t see him again for about a month, but my spirits were lifted somewhat when I walked in the door and he made a Mr. Clean joke! Finally, he managed to get a hold of a doctor who could carry out a subtler operation. I saw him again a couple weeks later, and again last week when we went out for one last dinner before the surgery.
The next few days are going to be the hard part. I know that medical science has improved exponentially in the last 30 years, but I’m still scared. The operation could last six or even eight hours. I’m more concerned about the competence of the surgeons carrying out the operation than the techniques involved. My family, and many of the people I know online, have been very supportive over the last couple months. However, I feel left out. I’m a terrible conversationalist, I’m not particularly optimistic, and I have a hard time dealing with people.
One of my favorite songs of all time is Why. It’s a Fleetwood Mac song written way back in 1973 by Christine McVie. It’s about never giving up on someone, even when your relationship with that person has lead to heartbreak and depression. I wish I could be that optimistic. Obviously, the circumstances under which that song was written were completely different from mine, but I still get the chills and cry whenever I hear it. I know there’s a 95% chance that he’ll be all right, and I’ll spend more time with him after this ordeal so I can get to know him better. I just hope he realizes that there are people out there, even my Mom, that still love him.