Crash course in cancer history
I came across "The Emperor of All Maladies" while listening to a podcast on one of my favourite shows, White Coat Black Art which airs on the CBC. I was captivated by Siddhartha Mukherjee's soothing voice, his calm and contemplative opinions on cancer treatment. I went out the next day and borrowed the book. A hundred pages in, I think I'll buy the book.
My mom's been dealing with my Dad's diagnosis by searching breathlessly for any 'natural' compound that will turn the tide. From ginger to limes in water and a wholesale ban on any food with MSG, she's determined the fix the only part of this puzzle that she feels she has any control over.
I've gone down another route. I'm finding relief in history. Mukherjee's book traces the course of cancer through time. It's medical storytelling at its best, with enough detail to leave the reader feeling like they know more about this disease while driving the story forward through the people that shaped cancer diagnosis and treatment.Â
I vacillate between wanting to know more about cancer and wanting to know nothing at all. When my Dad's doing well, it's easy to pretend like there's nothing wrong. Like we have no questions.
Part of what I struggle with is taking the lead with questions. My Dad says he doesn't want to ask the doctors questions any more. It's like we've moved past the point where he feels comfortable bringing up the most basic of concerns.Â
Initially, when we checked in to the cancer centre in our city, we were all still in shock. We met with a palliative care doctor who was sweet and kind and so gentle and who directed his questions to my Dad and not us. Mostly, my Dad gave one word answers and didn't elaborate. My Mom and I struggled to say anything without crying. It was another difficult moment in what felt like a stream of appointments where uncertainty was the only certainty.Â
I still firmly believe that the more we know about cancer and my Dad's specific condition, the more we'll be able to participate in a meaningful way in his treatment. But that's how I feel. And what I feel is not as important as what my Dad feels. He's naturally shy, soft-spoken, withdrawn and contemplative. He doesn't think aloud and needs time to form questions and get the courage to ask them. I think he's embarrassed, ashamed, confused and belittled by this disease. It pushes him further into his cocoon. This whole experience has led him to speak up less, to question less and to participate in life less. It's sad to see, but I don't know what to do about it.Â
For now, I bury myself in the comforting space of a narrative.Â
We have an appointment with a surgeon in Toronto next week, which gives us a chance to ask questions that have gone unanswered and to push for more answers. I'll be prepping for that in the coming days and will post all about it here.
