26 and a letter is the first step to being diagnosed

Dear Daddy,

I.

Love.

You.

Effortlessly.

Selflessly.

Unconditionally.

A kind of love you showed me for as long as I can remember. I remember the day of your stroke, and the days that followed, the hours long moments where I did nothing but hold your hand and whisper softly to you. The nurses told me to go home and get some sleep. All of my siblings reassured me that you would understand if I left your side for a moment. What they didn't understand was that if I was the one lying in that bed, it would have been you the nurses and your children couldn't convince to leave. How lucky I am as a daughter to have a father who loves me as much as you do. You always let me know that I had nothing to fear, that there was nothing in this world or lifetime that I could say or do that could make you love me less. I never feared telling you anything, until now.

This is the part where I stop every time, where my chest tightens up, my hands become slick with perspiration, and the right words fail to be written, but Daddy, after countless attempts I have realized something: there are no right or wrong words for what I need to tell you. Every morning when I join you for our morning coffee and bagels I look around at the serenity and familiarity of the home I spent my childhood in, and appreciate all the more how much your have done and given for your children. Every time I try to tell you I remember that once you know our daily routines will become the process of everyone trying to make final memories with me. You have come so far since your stroke, almost as if it had never happened. I know that telling you will hurt you. I never in my life never wanted to keep something from you more. I almost wish I was telling you I had committed a heinous crime, something you could forgive me for and move on from. How will you move on from losing me?

Daddy, October 5th, 2016 is a day that will live with me forever. I will never forget the carefree wait I had that morning as the doctor was running 30 minutes behind. It was the last 30 carefree minutes that I will ever have again. I wish I had paid more attention how freeing it is to have no real issues or concerns pushing at you, even for just a few moments. Walking into the exam room was walking into the ticking time bomb that I had no idea was even in me, or even ready to go off.

The doctor had me sit down across from her, with my records pulled up onto the computer screen that sat in the exam room. What she had to say hit me like a ton of bricks, a hard punch to the stomach couldn't have had me gasping for air more. I was an unusual case. She apologized for not ordering the tests sooner. She didn't think it was more than something innocuous and benign. Why wouldn't she when I was 26, healthy, and had absolutely no risk indicators for breast cancer? I trusted her, but I cannot be angry or blame her. Any other doctor would have most likely done the same.

The scariest word someone can say is cancer. It is even scarier to read it on the piece of paper your doctor hands you. I skim the paper and search for what stage I am at: Stage IIIC. My heart breaks and it is only sheer luck that a chair is underneath me to save me from falling to the floor. I reach up to grab your hand, and then it hits me even harder, why would you be sitting there for news like that? News that seemed impossible 45 minutes before. Never in my life had I wished you were sitting right there beside me more than at that moment.

This isn't to tell you that I am not going forward with the treatment. This is simply to tell you how much I love you, and how devastating I know that this news will be when it hits you. I hate the world right now, Daddy. I wish I knew how to tell you in a way that wouldn't scare you. I do not want you to shift your focus from your own recovery to mine. I don't want to take any time away from you. You are 60 years old, and your birthday is in just a few weeks. I wanted to wait to tell you, but I no longer can wait. Treatment has to start now.

Will I be sick? Yes. But will I be fragile? No. You raised me better than that. I don't want you to be fragile either. I want this to be our next challenge together. I want you to hold my hand at each milestone I make in treatment, and be there with me on the day the doctor tells me cancer will not be taking my life.

But if cancer does decide that it is time for me to go, I want my time with you and my siblings to be a time where it is like I am not sick at all. But I will fight this with every part of me. I will give my all. I will not let go without a hell of a fight. You raised me to be a fighter. You raised me to be a winner. You raised me to be your daughter.

Please help me to help you to remain my father. I know it will take a lot more than we have ever had to give before, but I know that we can do it. I'm not ready to leave this world. There is a lot of living I have left to do, just as you do.

Daddy. I. Love. You. Effortlessly. Unconditionally. Selflessly.

Jamie