Sitting by the window, watching my father lying in the hospital bed awaiting chemotherapy, my mood mirrored the gloomy, rainy weather outside—heavy and oppressive.As a typical IT guy, consumed by work, I failed to notice my father's gradual wasting away. Now, deep self-reproach brings no remedy. "Lung cancer"—from the moment of his diagnosis, my "busy IT life" came to an abrupt halt. Caring for him became my sole purpose; I refused to be absent during his final days.
Watching the raindrops gradually form a curtain, my occasional glances toward the hospital bed grew blurry. My thoughts drifted back twenty years, to when I was a teenager. My father was a teacher, my mother an office clerk. We weren't wealthy, but we got by in our small town. My grandmother passed away early, so my grandfather would pick me up from school every day. Back then, I was one of the few kids in my class who had someone waiting for me.My bond with Grandpa was profound; he was my rock, playing with me and helping with homework.
Then one day after school, I didn't see Grandpa waiting. Ten minutes later, Dad rushed over, telling me Grandpa was sick and needed hospitalization—he couldn't pick me up anymore.During that time, I begged to accompany my father to the hospital to care for Grandpa, but he insisted I couldn't neglect my studies and wouldn't let me go. Grandpa had late-stage lung cancer, and the doctor recommended chemotherapy.
Back then, I didn't understand what Grandpa's illness was, but every weekend, I'd rush to the hospital.I watched my grandfather's hair steadily thin away, witnessed his struggle to endure the cancer's pain and the torment of ascites. I was desperate, begging my father to save him. Yet all I could do was cry.
My grandfather silently endured cancer pain beyond what most could bear, never considering giving up treatment. But one thing finally made this strong man utter, "This is killing me."After each chemotherapy session, Grandpa would vomit violently. Sometimes he'd vomit until there was nothing left to expel—just dry heaving. He'd be completely drained of strength, yet the gagging wouldn't stop.
The doctor explained it was a side effect of the chemo drugs and prescribed anti-nausea medication, but it didn't help much. Grandpa continued to endure the torment of vomiting.I remember feeling so heartbroken for him back then, yet helpless to help. All I could do was sit beside him and pat his back. After chemo, Grandpa feared vomiting again and dared not eat. As he ate less and less, he developed malnutrition.
On the day Grandpa passed, Dad picked me up from school to take me to the hospital to say goodbye. Heaven hadn't been kind to him. Lying in that hospital bed, he was emaciated, skin stretched taut over bones.I grabbed his hand, sobbing uncontrollably as I shook it. "Grandpa, Grandpa, it's me! I'm here! Won't you pick me up from school anymore? Won't you be with me anymore? Grandpa, I miss you..."
After the stretcher took him away, I stared at the empty bed for a long time, reluctant to leave. Later, I often recalled the joyful times we shared together.
Time flew by unexpectedly, and after all these years, my father was diagnosed with lung cancer too. My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by my father's retching sounds.
I jumped up and rushed over. "Dad, do you need to vomit? Let me help you up."
"Just a little queasy. It's fine," my father replied weakly.
A wave of dread washed over me as I recalled how Grandpa had suffered from vomiting during his illness. After giving my father some warm water, his nausea eased slightly. I rushed to the doctor's office to ask if chemotherapy would cause vomiting. I described Grandpa's treatment experience and my father's condition to the doctor, expressing my anxiety that my father might also be tormented by vomiting and waste away.
The doctor patiently explained that modern medicine had advanced significantly. Anti-emetics were now routinely prescribed before chemotherapy to prevent severe vomiting. He reassured me that my father had already been prescribed dolasetron, emphasizing its effectiveness and telling me not to worry. Hearing this, my mind was put at ease.
Time flew by, and before we knew it, my father had successfully completed his first chemotherapy cycle. Thanks to the pre-infusion of dolasetron, he didn't suffer from vomiting during treatment. Eating the nutritious meals my mother prepared daily, his complexion remained reasonably rosy. I was deeply relieved to see his condition improving.At the same time, I couldn't help but feel a pang of regret. If medical technology had been as advanced twenty years ago as it is today, might Grandfather have lived a few more years? Even if not, at the very least, his treatment wouldn't have been so agonizing!
Though afflicted with the same disease as Grandfather, my father wasn't bedridden like Grandfather had been twenty years prior. During chemotherapy, he walked laps around the ward every day, sometimes even humming a soft tune from a Huangmei opera. This made me deeply grateful for the progress of modern medicine.
During his recovery at home, Father maintained a hearty appetite. Whatever Mother cooked, he could devour more than half—hardly resembling someone fresh out of chemotherapy. I bid farewell to endless overtime shifts, spending each day playing chess with him, listening to crosstalk, taking strolls... With my companionship, Father forgot his illness's burdens, sometimes laughing like a child—a joy that filled me deeply.
Throughout his treatment, aside from significant hair loss, Father remained in good spirits. He ate well, drank freely, experienced no other physical discomfort, and maintained a positive outlook. I truly hope he can overcome cancer.
Today, chemotherapy no longer subjects patients to the torment of nausea and vomiting. For cancer patients, living with dignity is no longer an impossible dream!