In June 2016, right before my parents’ anniversary and my
birthday, we got another twist in Dad’s health with the diagnosis of chronic
pancreatitis along with two stones and two cysts in the pancreas. One cyst had
precancerous cells. Back in August I wrote about changes the diagnosis brought
(http://rememberingfordad.blogspot.com/2016_08_01_archive.html).
I wondered at the time if this was the answer to “Please don’t
let him die from dementia.” This is going to sound weird to those who don’t
know how dementia progresses. I didn’t want him to have cancer, but I knew that
it might mean that Captain James Scott Cummings wouldn’t fade away totally.
Maybe death would come while we still had some of him. I can’t necessarily say
it would be merciful, because having lost loved ones to cancer, I know how
awful it is. However, there’s something about seeing the person and having
him/her recognize me and whisper a special prayer or “I love you, Terry” once
more. When the last stages of dementia take someone, you’re strangers. That
tears at my heart like few other thoughts do.
So for the past few months, we’ve been adhering devotedly to
Dad’s low-fat, low-spice, smaller portions diet despite his efforts to eat the
way he always has and still wants to. We are now adept at setting food on the
table to try to keep him from noticing it—for example, veggies near him,
pasta/bread at the other end and/or behind something else. That way his “Can I
have more of that” as he looks around has a better chance of being something
that’s safe for him. We try to portion what he should have, such as putting a
handful of baked potato chips on his plate and leaving the bag in the pantry.
One of us will serve him at the table, partly for portion control and partly because
he has trouble doing it himself with many dishes. Mom and I (and my sister or
daughter if they are there) will often ask another to serve some food to us too.
Not sure if he notices or not, but it’s a safe gesture so he doesn’t feel
inferior somehow. We avoid some restaurants, including mentioning their names,
as much as possible, and Mom now simply tells Dad, “You can’t have X,” at
others. He even semi-willingly ate a salad with fajita meat at a Mexican
restaurant instead of his enchiladas and controlled how many chips he had.
Follow-up appointment
The original plan following the procedure to destroy the
cysts had been for another endoscopy to check the pancreas. That’s bad because
anesthetics are hard on people with dementia. Thankfully, his
gastroenterologist changed that to some specialized MRI that they were able to
do at a nearby hospital instead of at the Texas Medical Center, as much as an
hour away. It still meant no breakfast (often difficult, but really not good
when you don’t understand why) or coffee (which I don’t even want to think
about), but it was much easier on him and Mom.
They went back to the doctor to get the results last week. I
was grateful for our friends who went with them so Mom didn’t have to deal with
driving to or in the Med Center and so someone would be there when she got the
news. I tried to stay focused on my editing.
When my cell showed “Mom Cell” around lunch time—while they
were still gone—I felt a moment of panic. Her voice was off when she said, “I
couldn’t wait to call you.” I couldn’t identify the tone. Not helping the
panic. She almost couldn’t get the words out.
“The cysts are gone. … The stones didn’t show either.”
Dr. T has multiple residents, students and fellows, working
with him. A couple came in for preliminary questions and were authorized to
share the results before Dr. T came to discuss them fully. They were amazed at
the MRI. So was Dr. T., who is one of the best and most experienced gastroenterologists
around. He’s seen a lot and did comment that the stones could have been hiding
or shifted depending on Dad’s position, but he was still astonished at the
results.
Mom told them all that people had been praying.
Where we go next
I thought the stones blocking the exit from the pancreas
were causing the pancreatitis and that no stones meant we could relax some, and
Dad wouldn’t need the expensive medicine to be able to eat. That’s not the
case. He can have a little more food, but we still have to watch fat and spice.
It would have been nice to stop that, but it’s become the norm, so it’s not
that big a deal. Other than my missing my fried chicken and Jimmy’s chili dogs partner.
The precancerous cells were in the cysts, so no cysts means those are gone, but
I know if his body had them once, they could come back.
None of that means anything in relation to the dementia.
But it was good news—a fantastic answer to prayer. We needed
it, and we are grateful.
