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My Uncle Was More Than A Coronavirus Statistic
A little more than six and a half years ago my father was dying at the hospital. His cancer ridden body was perforated in half a dozen spots by tubes. One of those tubes was attached to a machine that had been depositing a clear liquid into his blood through a rapidly withering arm. My dad’s oncologist at the time gave the liquid a nickname: the nuclear bomb. The doctor hoped that the chemotherapy would kill the cancer cells, but warned of possible unintended consequences.
The lymphoma proved too pervasive and powerful for the nuclear bomb to kill off. And there were new side effects that my father would have to contend with. Fluid would leak into his lungs, causing his breaths to shorten and wane. His legs and his feet became bulbous and inflamed, leaving him unable to place his feet on the floor without feeling pain shoot through all parts of his legs like bolts of lightning. The nuclear bomb solution had done so much more harm than good.
It took a couple of days for the doctors to drain my father’s tissues of the excess fluid. He returned to being himself in some of the ways that counted — he could talk and breathe without wheezing. My mom and I exulted in this small victory. Although recumbent and weak from nearly a year of fighting against a body that had betrayed him, dad was still alive.
