Well, I've had a bit too much excitement this week. Dad went for his 1st chemo treatment Tuesday, but they had done a CT scan on his brain Monday, and the results showed a tumor in the right side of his brain. So, they sent him home with another appointment with a radiologist for Friday. On the way home, he started having seizures. He went back to the hospital by ambulance, and the family was called in.
When we arrived he was still seizing. The ER physician saw indications that the cancer had spread to his liver and possibly his stomach. After a few rounds of really good drugs, they stopped the seizing and ordered a CT scan of the stomach & liver. We were told to expect comfort measures only.
They did the scan late Tuesday night, and we didn't learn the results until early Wednesday morning--there's an abscess on the outside of his liver, probably from an emergency gall bladder surgery he had 4 years ago. We also learned that a brain tumor and a brain abscess look almost identical on a CT scan of the brain, and that the tumor could actually be an abscess. They scheduled an MRI for today, which hopefully will give us a definitive answer.
I was praying for a miracle, I'm not going to argue with the results. I'll take a brain abscess over a tumor any day of the week.
Now, for the title of this post: There's an old Ray Stevens' song entitled, The Haircut Song. Here are some of the lyrics:
Well, Butte, Montana just a'passin' through, one thing I just had to do,
Had to get a haircut and I was worried for my hair.
I had a feeling of impending doom the minute I stepped into that room and laid my eyes upon that barber chair.
It was a macho barber shop. Hair dryers were mounted on a rifle rack. Wasn't no mirrors. The barber chair was a Peterbilt... Barber walked in; he was huge, seven feet tall, three hundred pounds of spring steel and rawhide. Wearin' a hard hat, chewin' a cigar, had a t-shirt on -- said, "I hate musicians."
Threw me in the chair, sneered and said, "What'll it be pal?"
Now a lot of people would be intimidated in a situation like this...I was not. I am what I am, play my little piano, and sing my little songs. I looked him right in the eye and I said, "I'm a logger - just up from Coos Bay, Oregon. Been toppin' trees - quite possibly the toughest man in the entire world."
Dad & I quote the part about playing the piano and singing songs every time we're together. It always pops up in one of our conversations, usually along the line of,
"Well, what can you do?"
"I don't know. I just play my little piano, sing my little songs."
Well, Tuesday night when they finally got him to a room around 11:30 p.m. or so, the nurse came in and asked Dad his name. At this point, he was riding high on the ativan, and he sounded like he'd been on a three day drunk because his tongue was swollen from his biting it during the seizures. He looked her straight in the eye and answered, "My name's Roger. I'm a logger from Coos Bay, Oregon. Quite possibly the toughest man in the world. Just playin' my little piano and singin' my little songs."
The look on her face was priceless, and we were all laughing so hard none of us could explain why he'd answered that way. His name's not even Roger. We have no idea where that came from. And he's still telling the new nurses who come in at shift change that he's a logger from Oregon, even though he's completely cognizant. He had a long conversation with one of the nurses about Oregon and Seattle (where she is from) this morning. (He has been there.)
He kicked us out shortly thereafter, and I haven't heard anything from anyone regarding the MRI. I think I may go home after work and collapse now that the immediate danger is over. The chair I slept in last night at the hospital didn't provide a good night's rest.
Jessie
