I've written a hundred journal entries in my head over the last week or two. Most of the time, there's something in my head that I can't bring myself to write down. I'm too afraid that it will hurt someone. But I guess that defeats the whole purpose of this thing.

Last week, we went to our first chemo. Daddy had a hard night the night before. Only those who have been on this roller coaster ride can truly understand what that's like. How it drains your soul. The lows of the ride usually last so much longer than the highs. So while we waited for the doctor, we talked about how badly Daddy just wanted one day to feel normal. He didn't even talk about the cancer going away, just wanting a day to have some energy and no headache, stomach ache, heartache.

The doctor told us that the Gemzar/Cisplatin regimen that Daddy's on will take 5 hours each time- 2 weeks on, 1 week off. I don't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't 5 hours. Then they took us in the other room and gave him six different prescriptions and told him that all of his hair would fall out. The original protocol would have left his hair. I could tell it hit him like a bullet to the heart. I did what I've become pretty good at- I think I separated from my own brain. God has given me the ability to pull away from my own emotions, my own fears, when I need to. I always wondered how people could stand at funerals without crying or go on Oprah a few weeks after their child had died. This is how. It's amazing really, but I wish I could have just gone on wondering how they did it.

When we walked into the "infusion room," I think we both almost threw up. I'm not sure exactly what we expected, really. But I can tell you that it wasn't rows of bald half-dead old people laying in recliners. We did it, though. The worst moment was the very moment that they pierced his port and let the chemo go. I had these visions of this poison coarsing through his blood. It physically hurt to think about it. I so badly want him to tell me exactly how it feels and exactly what he's thinking, but I know there are some thoughts that he just has to take to God. Five hours later, we went home.

The strangest part was the next day. I had mentally prepared myself for a sick, tired, balding Daddy. When I called him, though, he felt wonderful. He sounded- normal. He told me that he felt like he didn't have cancer. Over the next few days, each time we spoke he sounded even better. I couldn't put my finger on why that wasn't making ME feel any better. For some reason, every day as I'm getting ready to get out of the shower and get ready I have a breakdown. It must be something about the symbolism of starting a new day or something. So I would call and talk to him, hear his old familiar voice and then get ready to face the day with the peace of knowing how good he felt, and yet I felt worse. It's because my mind is forcing me to remember that he's NOT better. How selfish, I know. I'm so, so thankful that he's feeling good, I'm so amazed that God answered his prayer for some sort of "normalcy," and yet it brings me very little peace. That's the cold hard truth, I guess. I just don't feel any better.

Yesterday we went to chemo again. In the waiting room, we were forced to sit next to this woman and her granddaughter who insisted on telling us every detail of the woman's diagnosis, treatment, her breasts, her lungs, her remission, woes about the long wait, the weather. . they were relentless. We were 5 seconds from looking at them and saying, "we have our own problems, so would you just SHUT UP?!?" Normally we would have been able to tolerate them, but something about having cancer just pisses you off.

We were prepared this time, but we weren't prepared for his port not working. They couldn't push the chemo through it and had to give him one medicine through an IV. The other one can't be given through IV because it will destroy your veins. They scheduled an x-ray of the port for Tuesday, and we're just hoping that it's a simple placement issue and that it won't have to be removed and replaced.

For me, it's not dealing with the cancer that I'm struggling with this week, it's dealing with all of the other little crappy things. Yesterday, I heard myself telling God that I really didn't appreciate the fact that he would give us shitty roads on a chemo day. I was irritated that He wouldn't cut me a break. Then the port issue came up and I was angry again. Come ON, God! SERIOUSLY?! It's not enough that he has to come here, but you can't even make the damn thing work right?! Now, in the light of day, I have a renewed realization that, even though I can't see it, God knew these things were going to happen and I'm certain that there's some reason for it. I'm trying to turn my anger into strength, but some days are better than others. I still haven't opened my bible since the diagnosis. It should be the first place I turn, but I just haven't. I don't know what I'm avoiding.

So, over the last few weeks, I've been thinking about how amazing some people are and how stupid some other people are. I call them stupid with love because now I realize that I have been one of them in the past. I've been mentally compiling a list of Do's and Dont's for being around sick people or their families. Here's what I've come up with so far:

DON'T ask, "How are you?" Or, if you
DO, expect an answer of, "pretty shitty," and then
DON'T act all awkward when they say it.
DON'T say, "let me know how I can help," unless you are actually prepared to help.
DO feel free to ask questions about what it is like to deal with the illness and
DO feel free to simply tell them how much that sucks, but
DON'T tell them that you feel sorry for them. It makes them feel like a homeless leper.
DO ask if they would like you to forward them the research or stories you find on-line,
DON'T do it without asking.
DON'T be offended or hurt if they tell you that something does not help them. I have learned that every person is comforted by different things. Some people like to commiserate with others, but some people have their strength destroyed by this.
DO tell them that you don't know how they feel, but that you'll pray for them.
DON'T use your cousins sister-in-law who survived cancer as an example of why they'll beat it too. Your war stories aren't going to make them feel any better about their own battle.
DON'T say, "You're going to beat this." You don't know that. If nobody has ever beaten "this" before, it sounds trite. It would be better to say, "I'm going to pray that you beat this."
DO pray- if you say you're going to. Don't wait- do it right now while you're thinking about it.
DON'T take food over without asking. And if you would like to take food,
DO take food that can be frozen in case the person doesn't feel like eating it that night.
DO ask the person what they would really enjoy doing. Dad would rather go out to dinner with you than have you bring him soup like he's a senior citizen shut-in.
DO search your heart for what THEY need you to do or say. Most of people's actions or responses are done or said because they are thinking about their own emotions.
DON'T act as if they're already dead. Speak to them as you did before the diagnosis. Hug them, take them out, be patient, be THERE.

Dear Daddy,

I'm so glad that you're responding well to your chemo. I don't want you to think I'm not happy. It's just playing tricks on my brain. You've done so well that I can almost forget you're sick. Then it's so much harder when I remember that you are. Has that happened to you at all? I'm so glad you and Mom are letting me come to chemo with you. I love being there with you. I know that's weird. Too bad it took such a shitty thing for us to have 5 hours a week of uninterrupted time together, huh? I know you had a rough ride on the roller coaster this week. I hate that you had to stay on, but I was sitting right next to you the whole time. I can tell you for sure, though, that being on this ride has already made me so much stronger. It's an amazing feeling. I feel like, if I can get through this with you, I can get through anything. I know there's pressure for you to be strong, Daddy. I know you know we're watching you and hanging on to your emotions. I want you to know that I'm okay with anything you're feeling. If you're sad, we can be sad together and I'll still be okay.  If you're pissed off, we can be pissed off together and it will pass. If you're happy, I'll be happy for you. We can also take turns being strong for each other. That's what families do, right? I'm so proud of you.

Thank you for always letting me be who I am. You never told me I was too much or too little of anything- you just loved me the way I was. That helped me become who I am now- and I'm finally okay with that person. Love you.