My father-in-law is dying.
To be fair, the man IS 91 years old, so we knew we weren’t going to have him THAT much longer, but still. He was diagnosed with bladder cancer in June, and has opted (at the insistence of his wife) to undergo aggressive treatment. The doctors have told him that it’s highly unlikely that the treatment will net him any positive results, but they’re forging ahead, anyway. In Mum’s mind, some hope – any hope – is worth it.
We’re not entirely sure that Dad agrees, and this afternoon, he started flirting with the idea of getting some extra help. While I don’t think he’s ready to stop treatment (well, no; HE’S ready, but Mum would never consent to it), he recognizes that things are progressing to a point where his wife probably shouldn’t be his primary caregiver.
Mr. Chili called ME (to this point, I’ve been stepping WAY back because I am the only person in this whole family who’s willing to talk about what’s really happening without doing a song and dance, so clearly no one else wants to hear what I have to say) and asked me to make some phone calls. I spoke to someone over at the hospital and got an appointment set up for tomorrow for my in-laws and the support people.
Mum is NOT going to be happy. I’ll report back.