(no subject)
I received a call from my Mum yesterday. My Dad's brain tumour has grown bigger over the last few weeks or so, to the point where it is starting to affect him. He can no longer drive or work. On Thursday they will be going to see the neurologist to discuss everything and then soon he will be flying to Townsville to have surgery and have it removed.
It was discovered in 2005, and until this year has remained the same size and has had little to no effects on my Dad, aside from the occasional headache and tiredness. As far as we are aware, the tumour is benign (at least, I would assume so due to it being there for seven years). However, there are risks with his brain surgery. It could affect him in any number of ways, and there is always the risk that he could die from it.
I spoke to him on the phone last night and I have never heard him so dejected or lost. I've always seen him as a strong man, and to hear him so frightened is heartbreaking.
I am scared. I know I live over 500kms away and don't get to see him every day, but I just can't fathom him not being there. I've always visualised him walking me down the aisle or holding my or my brothers' children, and the thought of him missing out on those important milestones just crushes me. I know I shouldn't over-think things until we learn more during the appointment on Thursday, but I can't help it.
Once my parents find out on Thursday when his surgery is, I will be flying up to Cairns for the week prior to it to spend time with the family before he goes to Townsville to have it done. I will try to have my exams postponed (depending on when his surgery is) or try to do them before I fly up.
I don't know what to do or how to distract myself. I and my family have always know that the tumour could get worse, but now it is a tangible, real thing. I have never had a family member I have been close to die, and to have this realisation of how impermanent and fragile our lives are is, to be honest, shocking.
I, in all honesty, am lost.
I want to talk about all of this to someone, but I have nothing I can say.
I want someone to do something to help me, but then I realise there is nothing they can do or say to make me feel any better.
I want to know what is going to be the outcome, but at the same time I don't.
It was discovered in 2005, and until this year has remained the same size and has had little to no effects on my Dad, aside from the occasional headache and tiredness. As far as we are aware, the tumour is benign (at least, I would assume so due to it being there for seven years). However, there are risks with his brain surgery. It could affect him in any number of ways, and there is always the risk that he could die from it.
I spoke to him on the phone last night and I have never heard him so dejected or lost. I've always seen him as a strong man, and to hear him so frightened is heartbreaking.
I am scared. I know I live over 500kms away and don't get to see him every day, but I just can't fathom him not being there. I've always visualised him walking me down the aisle or holding my or my brothers' children, and the thought of him missing out on those important milestones just crushes me. I know I shouldn't over-think things until we learn more during the appointment on Thursday, but I can't help it.
Once my parents find out on Thursday when his surgery is, I will be flying up to Cairns for the week prior to it to spend time with the family before he goes to Townsville to have it done. I will try to have my exams postponed (depending on when his surgery is) or try to do them before I fly up.
I don't know what to do or how to distract myself. I and my family have always know that the tumour could get worse, but now it is a tangible, real thing. I have never had a family member I have been close to die, and to have this realisation of how impermanent and fragile our lives are is, to be honest, shocking.
I, in all honesty, am lost.
I want to talk about all of this to someone, but I have nothing I can say.
I want someone to do something to help me, but then I realise there is nothing they can do or say to make me feel any better.
I want to know what is going to be the outcome, but at the same time I don't.