Initially, my parents tried to downplay the severity of the situation, as the treatment options seemed relatively promising. Before undergoing surgery, my father had hormone therapy to reduce the size of his prostate, facilitate the surgery, and optimize its chances of success. The surgery was successful, and for years, I believed the ordeal was over and the cancer was under control. I didn’t really try to find out if there were other risks…

A few years ago, it was discovered that my father’s PSA level was no longer zero. I didn’t yet realize the significance of this news. I knew it indicated the presence of active cancer cells, but the number of these cells was low. To me, it was good news. However, the cancer cells continued to grow and multiply.

Early last year, the situation took a dramatic turn: a mass appeared in his sternum and seemed to keep growing. My father was not in pain, but we felt a constant anxiety. His doctors increased his medication dosage, but it was unsuccessful. During the summer, my father underwent radiotherapy. The treatment seemed to halt the growth of the cells in the area of the cancerous mass, but he also had to undergo chemotherapy, which was administered only in the fall of 2002. Those were the worst months for all of us.

After the first treatment, my father was hospitalized because his fever had risen above the acceptable level. He was placed in the emergency room, in a sort of “alcove” or “closet,” with the lack of comfort and privacy you can imagine. In comparison, the second treatment went fairly well, but the third, less so. After the fourth treatment, my father was hospitalized again, and eventually, the fifth treatment had to be interrupted despite the partial dose he had received. In principle, patients receive a total of six treatments.

My parents began to wonder if all these treatments were worthwhile. They were exhausted. Even though I knew this ordeal was particularly difficult for my father (and also for my mother), I couldn’t believe he was considering giving up chemotherapy. To me, it meant there was nothing more to be done. My father was not in pain: that was the only positive aspect of this period. However, he was tired and often depressed, but he spent days and even weeks in fairly good physical shape.

Recently, the situation changed. This fall, his doctors tried to administer much lower doses of chemotherapy than those used the first time. After just one treatment, my father gave up. Not that the treatment affected him as much as the previous year, but the effect on the cancer cells seemed insignificant. More recently, a small tumor was discovered in his brain. Result: he sees double and his eye movements are limited. Emergency radiotherapy slightly improved his condition, but the damage could be irreversible. He is currently waiting to see if other treatments are available. So far, we don’t have more precise information.

All of this leads me to talk about a topic that has concerned me from the beginning: the attitude of the doctors. Since the diagnosis was announced ten years ago, the doctors seem to believe that my father (a patient who is intelligent and rational) is incapable of understanding his situation. They delivered the news abruptly; they give vague answers to his questions; at times, they seem indifferent and sometimes take a long time to react. I’m not referring to all doctors, but unfortunately, I can’t say this is an isolated case. My father found this situation very frustrating, as did the entire family. Psychologically, he often felt that treating him was not worth it, that there was nothing more to be done, or that the doctors had more urgent matters to address. Overall, I believe my father has learned more from nurses and from the internet than from his doctors. Is my judgment too harsh? In any case, it’s really how we feel.

The impact of this experience on our family is hard to describe. Over the past ten years, my father seemed, at times, not to want to burden us (my two brothers and me) with all the details of his illness and didn’t talk about it much. My youngest brother lives far away and has three sons. When he visits my father, they talk at length and often late into the night. As for my eldest brother, he has great difficulty discussing the subject with my father. It is my partner and I who ask the most direct questions. We are the only ones without children, so we can more easily visit my parents and talk to them without interruptions. We live close to the family home, which allows us to see them regularly. I want to know what is happening, if only to encourage my parents to get more information and to urge my father to continue his treatments.

My mother is directly involved in the fight against cancer, as my father’s illness affects her daily life. There seem to be an endless number of hospital or doctor appointments and interminable waits for test results. From time to time, we discuss what will happen “after,” but no one is yet willing to talk about the details. I witness her frustration at not being able to act or plan, but I also see her patience and resignation, which surpass my understanding.

As for me, it is very difficult to describe what I feel. I try to be rational about his treatments, test results, and the passage of time, but ultimately, I cannot imagine life without my father. I sometimes have outbursts of anger when people say platitudes like, “He lived life to the fullest.” I know they mean well, but these phrases are so empty. There are days when I go to work as if I’m in a fog, unable to think about what I will have to do in the near future. Is it possible to do more? To be with him more often? Am I too passive? What can be done to prevent events?

Strangely, life is not so dark or depressing. It goes on, day after day. I do what I have to do. I’ve never written anything so difficult, but I may be expressing what many others feel. If I had a piece of advice to give, it would be: write about your feelings, fears, and anxieties. It can be a real revelation and bring you some form of relief. I conclude with this thought: health professionals have much to offer and we need their expertise, but it would be so desirable if they did not lose sight of the human aspect of their mission, rather than focusing solely on symptoms and patient files.