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thehefnerHuh. This "being numb" thing is a strange new experience. It feels like my temples have been stuffed with cotton balls coated in novocaine.
The first news is back on the Dad front. It's a malignant tumor. It's so big he can't even swallow. The doctors give him another year or two at most, but that's only if he undergoes radiation, and gets a feeding tube in his stomach, and... well, what's all I can really say right now until I see him tomorrow morning. Nita and I will visit him, and no matter what she thinks (I get the distinct impression she isn't comfortable with Mom, to say the least), I'm bringing my mother with me. Doctors have a way of just assuming you understood what the hell it was that they just told you, and Mom's job is to go from hospital to hospital, playing interpreter to patients, and being knowledgeable of the options.
Hint: we don't have many.
I just hope, I hope to God, that Dad's awake enough, clear enough from sedation, that he can tell us what he wants to do. Nita and I are fairly certain, but Mom wants to make certain we (and he too) completely understands the possibilities ahead. It's not like my grandfather, who was so loopy on sedation and Alzheimer's that we couldn't know what he would have wanted when they found the cancer. Neither Nita nor I want to make any sort of decision here, not even when we're fairly certain we know what he'd want.
In the coming days (and perhaps weeks and months), I don't want e-hugs or mere standard words of sympathy. Those are appreciated, don't get me wrong. But send me cat macros. Comic stuff, movie stuff stuff. Really, just get my geek going. Offer to pimp or help out with the Hefner Monologues, even. It's what is going to make me happiest doing in the next few months, and hopefully onward.
Meantime. I still have my final class for Studio Theatre tonight, and final scenes on Friday. And then Saturday, I'm gonna perform the "Drunk in Bath" Hefner Monologue before FAUSTUS, and a week later, I'll be playing the good doctor myself. In my last class at Studio Theatre, my scene partner's fiancee died a week before final scenes, and she STILL went up there and did it anyway.
The show must go on. Or like Johnny Go says: You can't stop the rhythm, pally. You can't stop the rhythm.
At least that grilled cheese sammitch I just made helped. Maybe I shouldn't be listening to my Sad Bastard mix, but really, what else can I do until class tonight? Gym and shower, maybe. Hm, yeah, that might be good.
The first news is back on the Dad front. It's a malignant tumor. It's so big he can't even swallow. The doctors give him another year or two at most, but that's only if he undergoes radiation, and gets a feeding tube in his stomach, and... well, what's all I can really say right now until I see him tomorrow morning. Nita and I will visit him, and no matter what she thinks (I get the distinct impression she isn't comfortable with Mom, to say the least), I'm bringing my mother with me. Doctors have a way of just assuming you understood what the hell it was that they just told you, and Mom's job is to go from hospital to hospital, playing interpreter to patients, and being knowledgeable of the options.
Hint: we don't have many.
I just hope, I hope to God, that Dad's awake enough, clear enough from sedation, that he can tell us what he wants to do. Nita and I are fairly certain, but Mom wants to make certain we (and he too) completely understands the possibilities ahead. It's not like my grandfather, who was so loopy on sedation and Alzheimer's that we couldn't know what he would have wanted when they found the cancer. Neither Nita nor I want to make any sort of decision here, not even when we're fairly certain we know what he'd want.
In the coming days (and perhaps weeks and months), I don't want e-hugs or mere standard words of sympathy. Those are appreciated, don't get me wrong. But send me cat macros. Comic stuff, movie stuff stuff. Really, just get my geek going. Offer to pimp or help out with the Hefner Monologues, even. It's what is going to make me happiest doing in the next few months, and hopefully onward.
Meantime. I still have my final class for Studio Theatre tonight, and final scenes on Friday. And then Saturday, I'm gonna perform the "Drunk in Bath" Hefner Monologue before FAUSTUS, and a week later, I'll be playing the good doctor myself. In my last class at Studio Theatre, my scene partner's fiancee died a week before final scenes, and she STILL went up there and did it anyway.
The show must go on. Or like Johnny Go says: You can't stop the rhythm, pally. You can't stop the rhythm.
At least that grilled cheese sammitch I just made helped. Maybe I shouldn't be listening to my Sad Bastard mix, but really, what else can I do until class tonight? Gym and shower, maybe. Hm, yeah, that might be good.
