I’m long overdue in writing, and I’ve even started and restarted this blog several times! Here’s why…

On Monday morning, August 17th, my Dad (Don) got up from bed, saw his arm start to shake, then fell to the ground with a Grand Mal seizure. Living quite off the beaten path in the forest of Woodland Park, CO, the paramedics were painfully slow to arrive. But, once they did, they rushed my Dad to the emergency room down in Colorado Springs. 

Thankfully, when we got the call, I was already on my way to the Springs for the day. So, I met my Dad at the ER, where they had been running all kinds of tests to determine if he’d had a stroke, a heart attack, or something else. My Dad was as chipper as ever and had a big ol’ smile on his face when I arrived.

He said, “Well, it’s a good thing thing this didn’t happen yesterday. I was out flying with a buddy, and he wouldn’t have known how to land the plane!”

Yikes! Indeed, timing is everything!

We sat in the ER for hours and shot the breeze, laughed a lot, and told stories. My Dad - a lover of life and people, a retired lieutenant colonel, and a former Navy carrier pilot - has lots of stories. And he tells them with such finesse and enthusiasm that you’re either laughing hysterically or on the edge of your seat feeling like you were there too!

He not only loves to tell stories, but he loves to hear other people’s stories - where they’re from, what makes them tick, who and what they love. Usually, by the time my Dad has chatted with you for five minutes, you’ve already broken out your phone to show him pictures of your kids, your grandkids, and your latest camping trip or accomplishment. Always a learner, a researcher, a fixer, and an adventurer, he sees through eyes of wonder and curiosity. 

All of the initial ER tests came back negative, so they decided it would be wise to do a CT scan of my Dad’s head. Once they did, they let us know they had found a lesion on the right frontal lobe of my Dad’s brain. Upon reviewing his medical history a bit more, they mentioned the possibility of it being a rare occurrence of prostate cancer having metastasized to the brain. My Dad has battled prostate cancer off and on since 2004, so it wouldn’t have been unreasonable to consider this possibility, though extremely rare. 

“We’d like to do an MRI to get a better look,” they said. So, later that night, they wheeled him down for an MRI.

Several hours later or first thing the next morning, the Dr. came in to let us know they had found not just one but four lesions on my Dad’s right frontal lobe, and that because of their “ring-like” presentation, it looked like it could be prostate cancer. 

Still, they felt it would be wise to investigate further, given the fact that this would be such an unusual diagnosis. They suggested a biopsy, and we said “yes.” 

On Monday afternoon, August 24th, my Dad was wheeled into the OR for his biopsy, while I waited in the surgical waiting room. (this, after having a botched first attempt several days earlier, which I won’t go into here!) My brother Chris and my Dad’s brother Herm were waiting for a phone call from me, as soon as we knew more, while my Dad was having a hole drilled into his skull and tissue retrieved for examination. 

Finally, Dr. Boone (the neurosurgeon who performed the biopsy) appeared in the waiting room. He told me they had several pathologists examine the samples in the OR, and it wasn’t prostate cancer at all. It was actually a primary brain cancer and quite possibly Glioblastoma - a very aggressive brain cancer. I sat stunned.

Still, before they finalized that diagnosis, he said they wanted to wait to get confirmation from the lab in Michigan where they would send the samples for further examination. The results would take about ten days. I exhaled and knew it would be the longest ten days.

Meanwhile, once my Dad awakened from his biopsy, his left side gradually began to weaken. This isn’t unusual post brain biopsy, given the potential for swelling and irritation. But the problem was that it didn’t get better the next day, or the day after that, even after steroids were administered. 

They performed another CT Scan and MRI and didn’t find anything out of the ordinary, post-surgically. So, they decided it would be best for him to be transferred to an inpatient rehabilitation hospital (St. Francis, for my COS friends), where the therapists could work with him to begin retraining his brain to re-connect with his left side again. This was a neurological thing, and time was of the essence.

“You don’t use it, you lose it,” they said. And so we moved across town to St. Francis. 

After a couple weeks of inpatient rehabilitation and subsequent outpatient therapy, my Dad is getting much stronger. But he still has to use a walker and needs assistance for some everyday tasks at this point.

On Monday, September 7th, my Dad was discharged from the rehab hospital and came to stay with my sweet husband Joe and me. We had prepped a room on the main level of our house for Joe’s Dad to stay overnight with us from time to time, so we made a few tweaks to that, and it works perfectly for my Dad now.

Meanwhile, a few weeks ago we also received confirmation of the Glioblastoma diagnosis from the Michigan lab.  

We transferred my Dad’s care up to UCHealth-Anschutz, well-known for their success in treating brain cancer, where we began meeting with neuro-oncologists and radiation oncologists.

At this point in time, there is really only one “gold standard” of treatment for treating this type of cancer, and it’s six weeks of photon radiation (5 days per week for 6 weeks) along with simultaneous chemo, which we administer at home by pill in the evening. Of course, healthy eating, lots of laughter, friendship, support, prayer, and rest are all a part of our everyday treatment plan as well.

I have to say it was really hard to see the nurses put the radiation mask over my Dad’s head and neck, when they let me come back to see the set-up the first day. I don’t like the idea of anyone messing with his brain. I don’t like it at all. And yet, this is the path we are walking.

We keep giving it to the Lord, over and over and over and over. “Please, God, help this work. Bring healing. Protect him from harm. Arrest and kill these cancer cells. Help my Dad to be the shining exception to this challenging diagnosis.”

I would say he already is.

The nurses at the cancer center said my Dad is one of the happiest, most chipper patients they’ve ever seen. He’s often found whistling up and down the halls, getting to know everyone assisting him, smiling and chatting on the way out, with his plaid golf cap atop his head.

And so, here we are - at the beginning of a tough journey that so many have been on before us. We are taking one day at a time. My dear husband Joe is a tender and fun care-giver beside me, helping with whatever is needed. And together, with my brother and everyone who loves my Dad, we are gathering around him like a fierce army - arm in arm, fighting this disease, and finding joy in the journey together.

We pray over the chemo. I pray while he does radiation. We are filled with hope, not just because of good medical care, but because of Jesus.

Even now, as I sit at my desk writing, I hear my Dad rattling around the kitchen, the clickety-clack of his walker, and the lyrical whistling performance of “Edelweiss” as only Don Fogal can execute.