The Other C.

This one is about me. Cognitive Behavioural Therapy.

Commencing, with what I feel can only be some sort of practical joke God is playing, days before we found out that my Dad is terminally ill (see previous post).

I’ve been a lot better since the big meltdown, and seeing a counsellor more regularly is definitely a part of that. My community mental health team have finally pulled themselves together and figured out that they think I have an anxiety disorder, so we’ve started CBT.

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The Big C.

Cancer. In case that wasn’t immediately obvious.

My Dad. It has spread. From his kidney to his lungs, and now his bones. This evil, insidious, sneaking little disease has got a hold on his body that he’s not going to be able to shake off.

There are drugs they can give him that will extend his life some. How long, the doctors don’t know, because they are best at treating tumours in the soft tissues – great, should hit the lungs pretty hard – but in all the information I can find on them, they don’t talk about any effects on the growths in his bones.

So he’s going to die, most likely in less than 3 years.

He’s 62.

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