Love and Cancer - part I (medicinal marijuana)

As I write this blog, my dad is lying in a hospital bed, cancer eating away at him, slowly killing him.

I have suffocated myself for the past 7 months, held off writing about this experience regarding dad’s cancer, but I just can’t remain silent anymore. I just can’t.

For whatever reason, people read this blog, this stupid asinine blog, originally only meant to entertain my friends.

Maybe, some kid is going through the same thing.

So here it is…

My dad is dying. To be more specific, he’s dying of lung cancer. Dad quit smoking over 28 years ago, but he still got lung cancer.

Dad’s body is currently too weak for chemo, too weak for insulin (dad is an insulin diabetic), and he can no longer eat on his own. Dad is fed through a feeding tube his wife monitors around the clock.

My friends wanted me to join a cancer support group. Not at first, because my friends know my long standing simple philosophical beliefs regarding death. But not everyone in my family shares my simple philosophical beliefs. And not everyone so easily accepts death (including my own) the way I do.

Specifically, my friends wanted me to join the cancer support group when (this) happened…

When dad started chemo, his appetite was gone. Dad stopped eating. Diabetics must eat when their body tells them to. Daily insulin diabetics, like dad, must take insulin on schedule. After taking chemo, dad stopped eating, which messed up his insulin, and he was losing weight, fast, which made his chemo treatments even harder.

“I want to live! I can beat this! I just need to stay positive! I want to live!” my dad kept saying. But the fact was is he was losing weight, and his body was taking a severe beating. So I did what any daughter would do, I had “the talk” with dad; “the talk” meaning medicinal marijuana.

“Just consider it as an option.” I said, “Until you get your weight back.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Dad replied firmly.

Well, okay then. I’m out of ideas. I don’t know what you can do to regain your appetite. The doctors couldn’t help dad. Practical medicine was making dad sick to begin with. How does one prescribe medicine to alter the side effects of another medicine, without diluting (that) medicine from killing dad’s cancer?  

Impossible.

Again, I brought up medicinal marijuana. Again, dad said absolutely not, and in the same breath he told me he was -5 pounds, then -3 more pounds, then -7 more pounds, then -4 more pounds, and so on. Dad was losing weight so fast, I could hear the fear in his fear in his voice. But dad refused medicinal marijuana as an option to regain his appetite. Instead, dad tried alternative methods to regain his appetite: herbal medicine, acupuncture, healing massage, praying, yoga, church… and yet the outcome was still the same each and every time, -3 more pounds, -4 more pounds, -2 more pounds, and the weight kept dropping off.

I’m a (big) believer that people should die the best way they see fit, especially with cancer or terminal illness. Only, my dad didn’t/doesn’t want to die. He wants to live!

I’m not a doctor. I’m not a scientist. I don’t know what medicinal qualities marijuana has, if any. I just wanted my dad to eat. And it was heart wrenching that he wouldn’t do this (one) thing that might actually help him eat. He did everything else just short of planting a turnip under the North Star at the stroke of midnight, but he flat out refused to smoke pot. So I tried to psyche dad into eating. Reminding him of the food he loves to eat, and all the celebrations we had at restaurants I know he loves dining in. And the next thing I know, my brother yells at me to back off, and let dad continue trying alternative healing methods to regain his appetite.    

“But if only dad tried this (one thing!) that might help him regain his appetite, why won’t he try it?? How can it hurt to smoke a joint, any more than having some little old Chinese woman stick pins in his face?!” I argued.

No matter.

Whatever.

I was the bad guy.

The end.

I wanted to bang my head against the wall. That’s when friends suggested I join a cancer support group. But what could any support group say to me I didn’t already know? Instead of feeling peaceful, I would just be more agitated having to listen to all their shit!

So I let dad do his thing without saying another word.

I sat back and did nothing.

And I continued to do nothing.

(Meanwhile)

-3 more pounds

-2 more pounds

-5 more pounds  

- 4 more pounds

And I’m going to work, trying to have a life, pretending everything is ok.

-3 more pounds

-2 more pounds.

So now, presently, dad’s in a hospital hooked up to a feeding tube, fighting one infection after another, too weak for chemo, and his insulin.

I can accept a lot of things. I truly can. I can accept how seriously ill dad is. I can accept he didn’t want to smoke pot. I can accept he may die any day now. What I have difficulty with, is that he refused to do the (one thing) that might have helped him at that time.

But, like I said, I believe people have a right to die however they see fit.

I’m just the selfish jerk who doesn’t want dad to die least of all (this) way.