July

Oh July, we meet again. I'm not a fan of July after July 4, and not because I'm exhausted after running the Peachtree Road Race. 

July 11, 2013 was when my Dad was diagnosed with lung cancer. He fought a very brave, and all too brief battle against that horrible disease before passing away 15 days later. 

July 12, 2019 I went in for a biopsy of my thyroid after a doctor felt a lump in my neck. My surgeon said he would be shocked if it was cancer. Let's just say he was shocked. Anytime a doctor calls you after 5 pm on a Friday, it's usually not good news. July 19, 2019 was when I received my own cancer diagnosis.

Then for a few years, July was better. Randy and I would go camping in North Dakota during the summer, and usually went every weekend in July. And by camping I mean in a motorhome with full electric and water hookups (your girl has her standards). He showed me places I had never been before - the North Dakota Badlands, Medora, Fort Stevenson and Lake Sakakawea. North Dakota is a beautiful place in summer. In the Badlands you almost feel like you're on another planet, and he knew of a private campground where we were usually the only people. We rode the ATV, took walks, cooked outside, and sat around the campfire. At Fort Stevenson we rented bikes, ate ice cream and walked the dogs down to the lake. The first time we camped at Fort Stevenson we were right next to people and when we explored the park, we discovered how the other half lived - huge campsites where you had privacy and room to spread out. Randy called in a favor and got us a spot there for the next camping trip. It pays to know people (and Randy knew a lot of people in ND).

In July 2023, Randy scheduled an endoscopy and colonoscopy. He needed the endoscopy because he'd had some trouble swallowing and the doctor thought he needed the bottom of his esophagus stretched, as it can sometimes narrow with age. He told Randy that as long as he was under, may as well kill 2 birds with 1 stone. When he was done, I went back to see him - we even joked about his great insurance since he was in his own room. It took a while for the doctor to come in, and he dropped the bomb. There was a tumor at the bottom of Randy's esophagus and he'd taken a biopsy. He was 90% sure it was cancer. I drove us home and we were both shocked. A week later, on July 13, 2023, the doctor called and said it was esophageal cancer. Talk about a gut punch, and another July diagnosis. 

Last July, I brought Randy home from Vanderbilt Medical Center, where he had spent a few days after the local hospital found fluid in his lungs. They were unable to properly treat him, so sent him to Vanderbilt. We read the reports in his portal and saw the words carcinoma and we knew cancer was back with a vengeance. 

I recently read that when a person receives a terminal cancer diagnosis, it becomes about everyone else, and not about the person who has the diagnosis. At times it's a struggle to have one's voice heard above everyone else who thinks they have a better plan, or think they know what you need or want. To this day I can say that I heard you Randy, I made you a promise, and I followed through, and no one can take that away from me.