Pops

Dear Dad,


It's been a while since I mentioned you (and the dreaded c-word) on my blog. I guess I've tried not to think about it too much. If I didn't think about it then it wasn't really happening.

You went through chemotherapy at the end of last year. Let's face it, that was a horrific time. You changed into someone I didn't recognise. Gone was my big, strong, dependable Dad. You were frail and weak and you looked different. The steroids bloated you, you lost your hair, your fingernails fell out. You hobbled when you walked because the nerve endings in your feet were damaged. It upset me to look at you, to see how in pain you were.

Radiotherapy wasn't exactly a walk in the park either. Seven weeks of daily hospital visits. I missed the brunt of it because I was at work but Mum went with you every day. She drove the 70 mile round trip most days because your feet were worse than ever. You were tired. So unbelieveably tired. My Dad, who was always up with the birds every morning, started sleeping in. For the first time ever. As I left the house each morning it was strange looking at the empty window where before you'd always been, waving me off to work.

Then the treatment ended. As suddenly as it had begun. And, gradually, life became a little bit more normal every day. But there was a wait of a few weeks before you saw your Consultant. Those few weeks were strange. Limbo. Waiting. Anticlimactic.

You saw her yesterday and she's pleased with how well you've coped. She doesn't need to see you for six months in fact. Your PSA level is down to 0.1, from 29. You're basically as well as you can be.

I'm happier than you could ever know, Dad.

Love,

Helen xx