Well, Dad, my sister and I went to visit the surgeon yesterday, and it did not go at all well, from any point of view. For the new readers among you, Dad’s got lung cancer. The surgeon came within a hair of flatly refusing to do the operation. It was a repeat of the previous meeting with the pulmonologist. Dad is just a very, very poor candidate for the surgery. He simply does not have enough lung function to afford to lose a lobe of his lung, no matter how cancerous it is.
There was a new wrinkle, and I’m suspicious of it. The surgeon pointed out that there’s another scar on the bottom of the same lung, with a suspicious spot on it. No one has mentioned this before. If that has cancer, too, he’d have to take a wedge out of that lobe of lung as well, or maybe even the entire lung. And that will mean that he may never get off of the ventilator.
My suspicion is that this scar on the lower lobe is a convenient excuse to not schedule the surgery, and, if the needle biopsy comes back positive, an excuse not to do the surgery.
It’s very frustrating to say the least. Dad spent a lot of emotional energy working himself up to this decision, and to have yet anotherdoctor start foot-dragging and one-more-testing is enough to make you cry. I’mvery sick of the conversation where the doctor-of-the-week explains that my father has mulch for lungs, and that surgery is a very bad option. We get that. He wants the freaking surgery!
What he does not want is to slowly rot from the inside out. Apparently, in thier infinite wisdom, it’s what he needs.
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