I Can't Protect Her From This

  I can first and foremost only say Thank you for all the words of encouragement, the prayers, the thoughts, the calls and texts, and most recently changing your profile pics to #purpleforSweetP.  For all that I could never repay all of you, but I can promise you I'll be there for you, whatever the reason.
 
   Most of the texts and calls include something like "I have no words" or "I can't imagine".  Truthfully, I don't want you to ever imagine a hell like this or even fathom words in your head about this situation.  I'm living it and the words run through my head 24 hours a day; you don't want any part of this.  You don't want this in your life.  I'm sure seeing our situation from your seat right there is bad enough.  Hopefully the research that comes from Penelope's cancer will keep some other Dad from sitting in this chair feeling this pain.
   I can't put into exact words the feeling I had Friday afternoon.  We sat there in that room with Dr. Dave and Dr. Armstrong and listened to their diagnosis, but I might as well been on freaking Mars.  I was there but all I could do is look at Penelope in a way that I never have.  This sickness isn't going away. As I watched the words "I can't cure this" roll out of his mouth, it took a part of my soul as it went in one ear and out the other.  I heard him say it, but my brain was like Dikembe Mutombo in those commercials, "No, No, No....Not Today." I had to keep my composure to talk to him about our side and our thoughts, but inside I was done.  I felt a bead of sweat roll down the side of my face as he talked about the MRI.  I felt every single skin cell it touched hoping this wasn't some sort of hot flash that I was going to be drenched in. I felt my stomach turn and churn like that taffy machine in Gatlinburg that just pulls and turns, pulls and turns.  My eyes were focused on the computer screen, but I was looking hours, days, and weeks ahead.  I saw the tumors, but I saw our future too.  I started breathing heavier and slower, or was it faster and lighter? Hell it was probably both.  All these feelings I just described hit me in about 45 seconds.  I had to get my shit together though and the Man inside of me said "Quit being a bitch and get this done."  It was my turn to talk and I felt like nothing wanted to come out.  Again something inside of me kicked in and I said my spill.  We made a decision and we felt good about it.  It all seemed so fast.  He is an amazing man and I don't think I could have handled it as well if it weren't for him, but that room in the back hall of E clinic has a part of me in it and always will.  
   A father is supposed to protect his daughter and I can't do that.  I have not failed at it, I just can't.  Feeling helpless is what hurts the most.  I can give her pain meds.  I can keep her comfortable. I can whisper I love you in her ear all day.  (Believe me, I do all those around the clock.)  But I can't keep this cancer from growing and spreading until one day it takes over.  I can't protect my little girl and that breaks my heart every time I look at her.  I am used to being in control, and not having that control puts me in a mild panic attack about 47 times a day.  Every time she cries I know it is a pain that I can't do anything about.  Every time we move P she cries. Every time I go to pick her up, it hurts her.  You can't imagine the pain I have knowing just giving my little girl a hug makes her cry.
   I can now process all this, and through writing I can at least get it out of my head so I can fill it up again with more questions and concerns.  I'm starting to do better though.  Even in 24 hours my mind has started to be less sad and fill those voids with memories and the happy times.  If I'm sad all the time, we will miss something.  I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I missed something, so screw being sad 24/7.  My little girl needs me during those times.  She can't have a sad Dad.  She needs a Daddy that will take care of her and protect her as much as he can.  That I'll do.