Surviving This Thing Called Life.

Enduring a devastating one-two punch: first, a massive stoke – now, stage four nodular melanoma skin cancer.

These are my incredible parents. If you know my dad, Steve, you know that he has already faced taller mountains than most men encounter in their lifetimes. And if you know my mom, Janet, you know she is the strong, quiet, unsung hero walking every step beside him.

Seven years ago, my then 57-year-old, healthy dad had a massive stroke during a double knee replacement surgery that left him clinging for life. After a painfully delayed Flight For Life helicopter ride, 33 days in the ICU, and several months of frustrating in-patient rehabilitation, my new dad finally came home.

Before the stroke, my dad was a quarterback, a coach, an electrician, a plumber, a businessman, a skier and a golfer. He was outgoing, funny, charming, hardworking and a jack-of-all-trades. We built decks together, finished basements, installed sprinkler systems… you name it, my dad could do it. The stroke took all that away, including most of his communication and comprehension skills, and the use of the right side of his body. But it didn’t take away his heart, his love for family, and even sometimes we still get glimpses of his sense of humor. For most families and marriages, the stroke would be the hardest test anyone could endure. And for my family, it had been. Until recently.

My dad – born a redhead with little skin pigment – struggled with sun-related issues his entire life. He overcame his first bout of malignant melanoma when he was only 21-years-old, having overcome surgery and a skin graft. That was one year before I was born. Since then, he was diligent about applying sunscreen and wearing clothes that helped protect him from damaging UV rays. Nevertheless, the melanoma came back.

Two years ago, we found something that looked like a blister on my dad’s ankle. After the growth was removed, the biopsy came back as stage three nodular melanoma – a nasty, progressive, rare form of skin cancer. Next, he had a wide excision that required another skin graft. At this time, his sentinel node was removed and found to be clear of melanoma, so we thought we were in the clear. But in June of 2017, we discovered a lump in his groin and we soon learned it had advanced stage to four melanoma. A PET scan showed that the melanoma had already traveled beyond his regional lymph nodes and the only treatment option for his specific situation was immunotherapy. For my dad, the prognosis for this treatment offered him less than a 30% chance of survival. My dad declined treatment and the oncologist gave him six months to live.

Here we are, ten months later, and the nodular melanoma has finally reared its ugly head. For the past six months, my dad has had dozens and dozens of small, raised tumors spring up on his legs. They multiply. They bleed. They hurt. His breathing has become more labored. His movements a little slower. His naps more frequent. But recently, the tumor that started it all – the egg-sized lump near his left groin – has raised, protruded and has grown to the size of a softball.

My mom has done her best to care for my dad. And while my mom is a million amazing things, she is not a nurse. My dad’s stroke does not help matters, since his mobility, communication and cognitive deficits have severely compromised his ability to help himself when the bleeding occurs. We involved Hospice several weeks ago, and their nurses have been making regular trips to my parents home to assist my mom in caring for this nasty, and messy disease.

On March 4, my mom returned home after volunteering at my sister’s elementary school to find my dad trying his best to manage a horrifying mess. The tumor had ulcerated, which caused it to bleed profusely. She and my sister spent several hours with him in the PVHS emergency room, seeking expertise on how to manage the bleeding and contain the tumor. None of the staff at PVHS, ER doctors included, had ever seen anything like it.

Since then, my dad loses about 500cc of blood (that’s more than a pint) every 12 hours from this one tumor. It has become incredibly painful and frustrating for my dad to endure, and it is a very difficult situation for my mom to manage. He has been hospitalized twice now in the Hospice wing at McKee Medical Center in Loveland, CO with the hopes of finding a way to manage his pain and the bleeding, and to help my mom find a good solution for caring for him. After a week of trial and error from the nursing staff and the hospital’s wound care specialist, we are hopeful that a new method of wound management – using specially sized ostomy wound pouches — will help contain the blood without causing my tenacious dad too much pain or irritation. His most recent week-long trip ended today, and he is happy to be home once again.

Thank you all for your continued kind words of support, prayers and thoughts. And please, always wear sunscreen.

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