It's the day the C-bomb dropped.
Albert had worked what turned out to be his final nightshift with Canfor after nearly 40 years. We went together to his 2:15pm CT scan results appointment. My fervent prayer was to receive a diagnosis of a defective gall bladder that needed removed. His symptoms sort of lined up with that. I refused to entertain other possibilities at that point.
I've never had tons of love and confidence for our family doctor. But I truly felt empathic towards him as he delivered the diagnosis. What a difficult position to be in. To deliver this sort of news to someone and their spouse: things are far worse than we imagined, and I, as your doctor, am completely unable to do a thing for you. All while his eyes searched both Albert's and mine for our reactions while simultaneously preparing himself to respond to whatever our reactions might be. (I imagine as a doctor he has experienced all manner of responses from one end of the spectrum to the other.)
And just like that the bomb dropped.
Cancer.
And I could hear it ticking.
And then began the myriad of phone calls. Canfor- I won't be in to work tonight. Or possibly ever.
The kids. Oh the pain of making those calls to the kids.
And JimE. And MomZie. And the others...
Tick
Tick
Tick...
For 42 days that bomb ticked.
42 days.
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