Here we go

My father-in-law, from here on known as "FIL," had part of his colon removed four years ago because of colon cancer. It was inconvenient and unpleasant, but there was no chemo or other treatment that made his experience cancer. Not to trivialize, but it wouldn't be unlike having your appendix removed. Not that cancer is ever good, but to say FIL got lucky would be an understatement.

With a family history fraught with various types of cancer, unhealthy diet and exercise habits and weight issues, FIL should have been standing in line for his first colonoscopy when he turned 50, the age at which the average person should start getting colon screenings. Actually with the mitigating factors in his health history, he should have been getting them earlier to be on the safe side.

FIL was 61 years old when he got his first colonoscopy -- 11 years past the recommended age. As you should assume from the first sentence here, the tests didn't come up empty. Since then, FIL has been checked regularly for any recurrence of the cancer, and we found out last week his most recent tests didn't come up empty either. This time, we're looking at a much different situation: Stage 4 colon cancer that has metastasized to his liver.

This time, we're really going to see what cancer is really about. As a friend who is a cancer survivor said to me upon the news, we've woken up to our "worst nightmare." Tomorrow, FIL gets a port put in for his chemo. Monday, we're meeting him in North Carolina for an appointment with an oncologist at Duke for a second opinion. I'm not sure any of us have really digested this news, really come to understand the depth to which we and our lives are about to change. Coping mechanisms seem to be fully engaged.

Right now, we're all still in the driveway, packing for the road ahead, doing what we think will make this a more comfortable ride. We're stressed and worried and emotionally drained, and we're not even in the car yet. My feeling is that Monday will change things, push us into a new phase of our journey, shed new light on the reality we face. In the meantime, we hope; we pray; we believe in the power of medicine to heal and the human spirit to overcome. We do the things that come Tuesday morning might be more difficult, but will be all the more important.

On a related note, my husband had his first colonoscopy two weeks before we got the news about his dad. The doc removed a benign polyp and will watch him carefully, but he is healthy and plans to do whatever is necessary to stay that way. I didn't even have to prompt him, and he's only 31.

Lesson learned.