My dad has decided to try the chemo "one more time." If it knocks him down again, he'll quit. But not yet. Not yet.
They'll likely be removing one of the more hardcore drugs that was likely responsible for his bad reaction -- though that hardcore drug is absolutely necessary to fight a cancer as advanced as his, so at some point it has to go back into the treatment, so...
*rubs temples, sighs wearily*
(For the record, because it's been linked/emailed so many times, I have indeed read this article by Atul Gawande on hospice vs. aggressive treatment for terminal illness, and I forwarded it to my mom and quoted it to my dad and encourage everybody who hasn't read it to go do so right now, this second, even if you aren't currently dealing with end-of-life decisions. Which is kind of the problem. We don't want to think or talk about this stuff until we're in thick of it, when it's already past the point when we should have said "enough, stop.")
(Also, when I look at that picture I wonder if my 7-year-old self inadvertently invented the Snuggie, and whether I would have a valid claim to a few spare million blanket-with-sleeves dollars. Hmmm. INTERESTING.)
Here's to a happier post on Monday. Fingers crossed, but I really feel like we're due, you know?