Woody Cavenaugh

Installing the port and the feeding tube was supposed to be a one hour simple procedure. Why is nothing ever easy? The cancer has grown quite a bit since dad first mentioned having a sore throat. Their intention was the put the feeding tube down his throat, it wouldn't fit. Not even the small ones would go down. They were forced to give up and install it through his navel.

Now keeping in mind that four days ago when I saw dad last he drove two hours to the family reunion and walked in under his own power the same way he always had, it seems odd that they would put the feeding tube through his mouth. He wouldn't be able to talk with it in there and it sort of lends itself to stuck in bed all the time. They oped not to do surgery on the cancer because of the chances of damaging his lyrnax. Yet these other guys were going to stuck something down his throat making talking more or less impossible. Don't believe me, stick a tube down your throat. Now talk. You can't talk with your mouth full.

At any rate, the surgery went from one hour routine to three hours of improv, and there weren't many laughs.

Mom calls me to give me the news. It took several attempts. She was under enough stress that it was difficult for her to keep on her poker face and still operate modern cellphone technology.

She told me as much as she could before she couldn't hold back the emotion anymore and had to end the call. My orders, call as usual on Sunday, maybe dad will be able to speak to me, maybe he'll only be able to listen. Maybe he'll be up and around, maybe he'll be too sore to get around. Who knows?

And here I am feeling a little like a mushroom, kept in the dark and fed bull. I'm going down for his birthday next week. I will go, I will see, I will make my own decisions.

Meanwhile, I will dream of better times surrounded by friends on the holidays.