The day after Christmas, two large presents remained neatly wrapped under our tree. Mom would not open hers until Dad came home from the hospital.
More days passed. Dead, brittle pine leaves dotted the peppermint patterned wrapping paper. The Christmas decorations should have come down by now. I began wondering if I should take initiative and unwrap the presents while Mom was away. I thought it might be easier if I made the gifts disappear, rather than allowing them to constantly remind us of our heartbreak.
The news that my dad’s cancer had spread to the blood in his brain # a condition with limited, mostly ineffective treatment options for an already incurable disease # left us broken. The doctors said Hospice would likely be the next step. My mom was faced with the task of telling my brother and I that our father had no more than a month to live.
As I saw my world crumbling around me and my worst nightmare coming true, I came to grips with the idea that my dad would never make it home to open his present. I couldn’t stop thinking about how much my life would change.
Petty things, like who would show me how to reboot the Internet router when the connection was slow? Who would moderate stupid fights between me and my mom? And bigger things, like who would I ask about finances and bills and jobs and everything else required of a functioning adult? I worried no one else would have the answers. I worried for my mom, who was about to lose the love of her life, and for my brother, who would have to make it through his second half of high school without a father.
Crippling fear ultimately overpowered these worries. On the night we first received the devastating news, I wrote on my blog, “I’m scared no one else will be able to make my mom, brother and I laugh every day and fill our hearts with so much happiness. I’m scared no one else will be able to show us so much love.” I cried over those words for hours.
After spending a few days sedated on an intubation tube for tests, my dad slowly began waking up in the hospital. I watched my mom look into her husband’s eyes and ask, “Do you know who I am?” Hearing my dad struggle to respond, “I don’t remember,” was one the lowest moments of my life. But Mom kept it together and I tried my best to do the same.
Over the next few days, my dad made tremendous strides in recovery. He was talking, eating, sitting up and even standing for shorts periods of time. He told one of the nurses I was going to school to be a journalist. One night before bed, I talked to him on the phone and he told me he loved me just like he always does. Things were still foggy, but he was my dad again. Even if it wouldn’t last long, I was so grateful to have that gift.
Though doctors seemed sure of the diagnosis, we were still waiting on results from one final test. They told us there were other possibilities, but those were hopelessly slim.
As I saw my dad improving so rapidly, it became harder to believe his battle with cancer was nearing it’s end. How was he getting better if his condition was getting worse? I began allowing myself to hope, but as a realist and believer in science, I respected the professional opinions we had been given.
On Thursday, Jan. 2, seven days after my dad was issued what seemed like a death sentence, our lives again changed within minutes. That one infinitely minute outcome — so minute it hadn’t even been listed as a possibility — was ours. Results from a spinal tap showed no signs of cancer in my dad’s brain. Doctors decided his symptoms must have come from a nasty infection, which subsided with antibiotics administered during the diagnostic process. He still had cancer, of course, but the thing that had been attacking his brain and making our lives hell was gone. He was going to be OK. He was going to live.
The news was almost incomprehensible. The idea of my dad having but weeks to live sunk in so deeply that the opposite seemed impossible.
In the 11 days my dad spent in the hospital, I felt like I was hit by a train at least 11 times. In those 11 days I experienced more fear, sadness, stress, confusion and hopelessness than I have in my entire life. But these feelings are now surmounted by ceaseless hope, joy and gratefulness.
My dad came home on Jan. 3, just in time to celebrate his 22nd wedding anniversary with my mom the next day. He unwrapped the sound bar speaker system that had been waiting for him under the tree and my mom finally opened her full length standing mirror.
What began as the worst holiday I could imagine ended with the most precious gift I could ask for. I’m now convinced my dad can overcome anything. And though the last few weeks left my family feeling broken and devastated, we survived. This experience has made us not only a stronger family, but stronger human beings.
My dad has been battling an incurable cancer for almost four years now and still has a long road ahead of him. But at least now we know he’ll have time to fight.
Tyler Killette is a senior majoring in mass communications and is editor-in-chief. She can be reached at me@tylerkillette.com or on Twitter @tylerkillette.
