The Diary of a Desperate Dad Confronting a Life-Altering Diagnosis

Wednesday 30th August

I arrived home from work today to an empty house.

“Where are you?” I texted my wife.

“I’m at the doctor,” came the curt reply.

“What for?” I asked.

“I told you already. I’m in pain. Have been for the past few weeks.” She replied.

I don’t remember her saying that specifically. Life is busy and constant. I make no excuses for not hearing her, but it wasn’t a deliberate ignoring, I swear. But I am guilty of always looking ahead and never stopping to notice right now.

My wife’s lower abdominal pain caused the doctor to suspect appendicitis.

Now we know better.

He ordered her to get a CT scan, and she dutifully complied. On the way home from the CT scan, the doctor phoned her again.

“I have seen the results of your scans. You need to go down to the emergency department right now,” and then added for good measure, “There is nothing more I can do for you.”

I drove my wife to the hospital.

We were admitted.

The doctor came in to see her and drew the curtains closed. She looked grave and serious. “There is a 14 x 13 x 12cm growth growing from your left ovary.”

Wait… what? A growth? What do you mean by “A growth?” My mind was racing a million miles an hour, but I said nothing out loud.

“Something for your pain? Come back tomorrow. You’ll need to have an ultrasound and see a gynecologist.”

I googled “gynecologist” on the way out.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

Thursday 31st August

I texted my boss to tell him that I wouldn’t be in. He was sympathetic and offered, “I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”

But it was.

The ultrasound was invasive.

My wife winced and let out an involuntary cry as the probe did its work.

Before she could even get dressed, the pictures were whisked away to some kind of processing or sorting or analyzing place. I don’t know. But it occurred to me that all this was happening at some speed.

I mean, 24 hours ago, there was no problem.

Now, we were going from scan to scan, from appointment to appointment, which is how we ended up in the gynecologist’s office.

Thanks to Google, I know what a gynecologist is now.

She was about as matter-of-fact as it comes. “We got your blood tests back, and your tumor markers are off the charts. The mass inside your abdomen looks nasty. It has some thick, solid walls. We believe it may be cancer, so we need to get it out as soon as possible.”

If it hit me like a swift kick to the stomach (which it did), I can’t imagine how it impacted my wife.

Though she didn’t show it. She seemed stoic and calm. As for me, my mind was racing a million miles an hour. I wanted to ask a thousand questions, but there was no time. An appointment was booked with a surgeon, and we were ushered out. The gynecologist had to attend to her next patient.

“Hold on a sec…” I wanted to say. “I’ve got some questions.”

But we landed outside on the street. The leaves dusted around our ankles on the breeze, and we walked to the car in silence.

Later that night, I would listen to my wife say, “I think I am going to die…. And what sort of life have I lived?”

I pretended to be strong for her sake. “Now, don’t you talk that way,” I said, “We are gonna get through this.” But secretly I am terrified, and I have cried my tears in private, away from the people who need me to appear as though I have it all together.

But I am panicking.

The way everything happened so quickly, every referral with an “Urgent” stamp on it, the way the gynecologist didn’t look me in the eye and was so short with her words. Something is very wrong, and I know it.

Foreboding.

That’s all I feel.

Friday 1st September

We had a family meeting today, and we told the kids… kinda.

They are 14, 12, and 10.

In front of the whole tribe, we gave a G-rate explanation. “Mummy has a cyst inside her tummy. So, she needs surgery to take it out so that she feels better.”

No mention of the ‘C’ word.

But alone with my 14-year-old son, I was much more frank and honest.

He said to me, “Mum said it could be cancer.”

I said, “The doctor said it probably is cancer. We are just going to have to pull together because we have a bit of a journey in front of us.”

Then I asked him if he was okay and offered him a hug. This is something that is almost always declined from him, but not today.

We held each other for a while.

Saturday 2nd September

Today, I started cleaning.

My wife knows that when things feel out of control, that’s what I do. That’s my way of coping. I clean up. I get things in order. I make it so things have the appearance of being under control.

I know it’s an illusion, but science tells us that placebos work even when we know that they are placebos.

I mowed the grass, so the yard is under control.

I vacuumed the house, so the house is under control.

I bought groceries, so the fridge is under control.

Everything is under control, except for whatever the hell is going on inside my wife’s body.

And I can’t fix it.

I can’t fix it.

Lord, help her.

Author’s Note: This piece is not fiction. This is real. This is the path we are currently walking. It’s a terrifying path. But I don’t want to walk this path alone, and if someone you love has cancer, I don’t want you to walk alone, either.

If you find yourself on a similar journey, please know that there are people who care and want to stand with you. Reach out, share your burdens, and let others in. Together, we can find courage, hope, and a way forward.

And to my incredible wife, you are the bravest person I know. We’re in this together every step of the way. We will face whatever comes with love, resilience, and the unwavering belief that better days lie ahead.

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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