Thoughtlines

     It's the bottom of the 3:00AM hour and here I am, contemplating the first string of words to open this blog with. I find it interesting that, with all the thoughts and ideas in my mind, the opening line is simply a statement of my lack of words. I'm unsure of what outcome will result from this blog, but I do intend to digitally scribble some of my thoughts. So much runs through my mind at all hours of the day, I often find it hard to decipher the logic within the obscurity.

     It's confusing to try and make sense sometimes.. Onward to my ramblings:

     Tonight, it's difficult to find a place in my head that isn't filled with thoughts of my father. At the age of 59, he has been diagnosed with cancer for a third time. Having suffered little more than a few (OK, many) sports- and ignorance-related injuries myself, it's hard to imagine what he must be going through. The first diagnosis was surely disheartening, to say the least. But after a series of successful surgeries, albeit extremely complicated and day-to-day-life altering, a second, much smaller occurrence leaves much more room for hope. Then along comes #3, and reality forgoes the formal slap and instead commands attention with a clenched fist to the jawline.
     What's worse is that the treatment from the first two happenings, coupled with his age, leave few options for treatment this time around. And the options available are littered with debilitating possible side affects (i.e. the inability to speak or swallow, permenant feeding tube in the stomach, etc).
     Currently, he is enduring both radiation treatments and chemotherapy. He described the latter to me as 'the worst thing anyone has ever done to me medically.' Considering the sheer intensity of the initial surgery and the fact that he lives every day in some sort of pain or discomfort, that's a pretty bold statement. I remember sitting with him after the surgery and running through a gauntlet of words, helping him relearn how to speak. I remember watching him choke and aspirate in a restaurant - which, on top of being embarassing, landed him a stay in the hospital for a few days - while he was relearning how to eat. I remember seeing about 75 pounds drop from his frame in a matter of months, sending his body into shock and rendering him helpless. So, to say that some little ol' medicines and chemicals have such terrible side affects that it outweighs all he endured on the road to recovery... I can only imagine.
     As people have said many times they see my father in me, I see myself in my son. At nearly 9 months old, every day is a new adventure and experience, but every time I look at him I'm reminded of the 2500 miles of land mass that separates me and my father, who, by the way, has yet to personally meet my wife and child.

     I have much hope. My father, Nebraska born and raised, is pretty much single-handedly responsibe for the definition of 'stubborn.' I can only hope that fate is on his side.