Assessing The Trouble In Albuquerque

At 12:30 a.m. on Saturday, I arrived at my sister's place. Interestingly, she was already outside in the driveway, relaxing after a tough day by watching the thunderstorm roll in. Driving up, I waved and said, "Good to see you! I'm heading back to California!" She laughed and welcomed me in.

She explained the events of the week:

• On Tuesday, they had taken my dad to the hospital after stomach bleeding was noted;
• On Wednesday, masses located near the stomach had been detected;
• By Thursday, stomach cancer (adenocarcinoma) was strongly suspected; and
• On Friday, results of the biopsy were in. The diagnosis: Stage 4 metastatic adenocarcinoma, in the stomach and several other locations.

All of this on top of the long-existing, life-threatening COPD and emphysema.

Mr. Valdez, may I introduce to you the Grim Reaper; Mr. Reaper, Mr. Valdez.

There had also been a real interesting confrontation between the VA medical doctors and the staff of a hospice that had been recommended to us for final care.

The doctors felt the cancer was beyond surgery's power to help, but radiation might help as a palliative - not as a cure, but able to slow the cancer's advance. The hospice staff viewed radiation as part of a continuing effort to cure the cancer and not as a palliative effort. They did not want to enroll my father under those circumstances: all hope must be surrendered to enter hospice.

The VA doctors reacted with white-hot indignation and fury to the aspersions about radiation's purpose. Their job was to make certain that all veterans, including my father, get the best care possible, and they would not tolerate any hospice questioning their judgment about what constituted palliative care. Ultimately, hospice staff backed down.

It was heartening to see what doctors do when challenged. They fight like mad dogs! They gouge! They rip!