The Power That Predetermines Events by Paige Opelt December of 2016 was a time I would never forget. The crisp winter air filled with holiday spirit. We often found ourselves sitting around the fireplace, sipping on creamy hot chocolate, and reflecting on our day. The room filled with warmth and laughter. Soon all of this was crushed by three heart-wrenching words, “Dad has cancer.” Was it fate who decided he gets to be terminally ill with cancer? Who decided this fate? I sure as heck did not. The holiday in us quickly vanished as our focus became, “How do we beat the odds?” Dad had been suffering from occasional abdominal pain for a while now, but we never suspected cancer to be the culprit. From emergency room visits for the unbearable pain, doctor appointments for routine exams, tests, and labs, to an MRI machine that identified a mass the size of an egg on his pancreas. Next, was the operating room for a biopsy to determine if the mass was benign or cancerous. The wait felt like forever. That doomed feeling lingered over our heads with no hope to cling to as our world had already been crushed into a thousand pieces. The sound of every clock in the waiting room aligned and overwhelmed our heads with their loud obnoxious tik-tok, tik-tok. I never heard a tedious sound so deafening until that day in the waiting room. As we stared at the blank pale-colored walls of the waiting room we were interrupted by the surgeon with a short, “Delmon is out of surgery and recovering fine.” His light blue scrubs and the sterile alcohol-like aroma he filled the air with were enough to make a person sick. I found myself hating him for the situation we were in. I knew it was not his fault and he had only expressed his true concern and sympathy to us. But why did I hate him? Was it because this would soon be one of the last memories I got to share with my father? Surely, whoever invented the hospital attire and chemical aromas could have taken into consideration all circumstances. We were led back to the recovery room. The room was not much bigger than the size of an office cubicle. It felt dull only, enough room for the bed, monitor, and IV pole. Groggy and unable to speak, Dad laid there as he recovered from the sedation. My father, the one who could fight off any boy that broke my heart, be there to hold my hand in a time of tragedy, was never a weak individual. His blue eyes shed vulnerability as he had known the news he was about to receive. The hope that left his soul ripped mine to pieces. Home. Home resting as we waited for a call from oncology. Stage IV metastatic pancreatic cancer. We were given two options. Fight it with chemotherapy, or let cancer win and you live six months happily, spending every waking moment with family. The oncologist expressed his concern over fighting this. Stage IV pancreatic cancer patients have a one percent chance of survival. When there was a will, there was a way. My father found a fraction of hope. A hope that his wife would not become a widow, and that his children would not become fatherless. A hope where he was able to see his grandchildren someday. This hope led to an extra sixteen months of life. It was not easy. Most days were filled with pain, hunger, and sleep. Despite that glimmer of hope, there was still the dreaded feeling of when his body would say no more. His body made it all too visible. Was it cancer or the chemotherapy killing him now? His skin became leather-like, body mass reduced enough to resemble someone who had been malnourished for months. Hair, every strand of it gone. My father’s hair was something that
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