My dad had cancer twice in his lifetime. Three times if you count those little moles that pop up after having spent too much time in the sun.
The first major cancer treatment involved removing part of his tongue, pharynx, larynx, part of his lower jaw and a bit of surrounding tissue for those areas. The shape of his head was somewhat like an orange from which a large BITE had been taken on the lower right side.
He could no longer speak. Couldn’t breathe through his mouth or nose, and instead had to breathe through a permenant tracheotomy. His tracheotomy had to be formed by taking a large flap of skin from his shoulder, rolling it into a tube so that the epidermis formed the interior wall of the new airway, and sewing it inside his neck. Unfortunately, that didn’t stop hair from growing on the portion of skin, SO just for giggles, me (I was 14 at the time) or my mom got to use a hemostat to pluck the hair from inside his neck from time to time. Also, he had the hardest time swallowing anything. Since they had to remove the most of the muscles that control that function. Nearly everything my dad got to eat for the first year after that surgery was in a baby-food like texture. Oh, and since he couldn’t breathe through his nose any longer, his sense of smell was terribly poor. Hence, his sense of taste was poor as well. So, FOR HIM, the fact that “foods taste better after you stop smoking” didn’t actually apply.
Well, THAT little wake-up call stopped him from smoking.
He then went on to become an ANTI-smoker. Taking up the cause with the Cancer Society, he headed the “Lost Chords”.
A support group for those whom cancer has taken their voiceboxes. He trained with therapists in use of artificial (handheld) voiceboxes, pharyngeal speach (or literally, burping out your words), and personally traveled all over to be an advocate for those going through the same thing.
Unfortunately, more damage had already been done.
Five years later, he’s diagnosed with lung cancer. Given six months to live. (I suspect that he knew MUCH earlier than that, and that he knew it was terminal) I watched my dad dwindle from a vibrant individual in June, through stages of weakness, depression, pain, hospital visits, coughing up blood through the hole in his neck (oh, THAT’S a frightening sight!), and loss of bodily functions.
He died three days after Christmas.
That was in 1978.
My eyes still tear up thinking about it. Especially now that I have a son that he’ll never get to meet.
So, tell me, who do YOU want to clean up after you when you lose control of your bowels?
Who do you want to clean your airway of hairs and sputum?
How many months are you willing to dedicate to re-learn things like swallowing, speaking and breathing?
How much physical pain are you willing to endure?
How much emotional pain are you willing to inflict on your family and friends?
Who do you want to plan your funeral?
Yeah… I know, these questions are rhetorical. Because your family and friends will be saying among themselves that “he’s too weak and not in his right mind to know better”, and decide for you.
Please, my friend, stop now. Don’t wait. Get healthier and stronger as soon as possible.
Oh, and one thing I’d like you to know…
My dad’s name was Jack.
