I miss him so much. I spent yesterday working towards getting our Kingdom ready for winter. Admittedly Chris and Alicia did the Lion's share of the physical work. It's difficult to do all the things that we would normally do together without him here. I wanted to get angry that Chris had to move a dozen wheelbarrows of mulch because once again we got a late start on the mulch because every year he orders it too late. I wanted to get angry about that. I wanted to call someone with a back hoe and have them rip up the entire backyard so I wouldn't have to look at the weeds that have overtaken the gardens, died, droop and claim a head start on next spring. I took down the finch feeders and cleaned them, but I don't have the strength or energy to take down the big feeders and clean them.
I can't even begin to deal with the rest of the work--the overgrown paths, weeds, grasses, broken fence and general chaos. I did manage to reset the timers on the outdoor lights. Whoopty-doo.
I went in early to seem him today so I could get back to work at home by noon. He tries so hard to be cheerful when he sees me. Today it seemed like a real effort for him. Yesterday they drained a liter of fluid from his right lung and sent it for biopsy. On a holiday weekend that just gives him longer to worry. Then again, I think he's past worry. Past caring.
I curled into bed beside him and tried to accept the silence of nothing to say. I wanted desperately to hear him talk to me, but I realized he's at a point where he's too weary to make small talk, too pissed to pretend, and in no damn mood to discuss the obvious. I think you reach a point where silence is preferable to platitudes. Still I could feel the tension and finally I opened a door with.... "feel like talking?"
"No."
I waited longer than I thought possible and then all I could come up with was "wow. It SUCKS to be you." He laughed. When he hugged me I sensed he was grateful I had offered nothing other than validation. I no longer tell him "it's going to be okay; you're going to get through this; blah, blah, blah." What I believe no longer matters. He's worn out and frustrated and more than a little scared and he just doesn't need anyone who's not receiving eight injections a day of molten lava to tell him shit about anything.
One of the doctors was in this morning and the new plan is that he will have a large protein snack between 10 and 11 pm and then we'll set the alarm and do another huge snack between 3 and 4 am. I told Rich that if he promises to do the nighttime feeding, I'll do the 4 am feeding.
Even so, we still don't know if this is going to work. He still dropped too low a couple of times in the night. I think the doctors are finally understanding that I can't take him home like this. I'm terrified. They're still waiting for call backs from all the specialists they've called and during a four-day holiday weekend, I'm not holding my breath.
Then Kenny J (20 mos old) came to visit with his Mum, Dad and sister-in-waiting. He was in a mood that perfectly mirrored Rich's--not quite cranky, not full out fussy, just in no mood for anyone's attempt at any level of bullshit in order to move him from the emotional mud puddle he was currently inhabiting. I learned much from my grandson today. Gradually he came around and I wish I had video of him sitting on the bed beside his Grandpa Rich, sharing his lunch tray. Good Stuff.
I'm tired. Keeping an eye on a two day old spider bite on my right arm that's getting a bit ugly. Wishing I had more energy and time for all the things I want and need to get done. Wish I knew something, anything, I could do to make any of this a bit easier for Rich. Best just go to bed so I can start again tomorrow.
"There'll be the evening in the end....till that time arrives,
you can rest your eyes, and begin again"............Cat Stephens
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
So This is Thanksgiving....
I spent the entire Thanksgiving afternoon with Rich. I went down to the hospital cafeteria and got myself a turkey dinner tray and brought it up in hopes of sharing the meal with him, but he was already done because they brought his meal at 11:45. The good news is the food at AGMC has improved VASTLY since his visit this past June. It's good to look on the sunny side of life.
It took a lot of prep to go in there today. When I talked to him last night at 6:30 as I was leaving work, he was NOT happy. He was very clear on the fact that he's no longer interested in “going on”. He's getting EIGHT injections a day of a medication that is like molten lava. Rich is not a complainer, he has a HIGH threshold for pain and needles don't bother him. He's done. He was crystal clear on the fact that he “will not continue like this. That's 56 shots per week.”
Within the hour before the next injections are due he becomes physically ill with the anticipation of having red hot metal injected into the tops of his thighs. He spent several minutes ranting about the nurses – and this is how I knew we had reached a dangerous depth. His voice is spewing anger as he tells me....
“They come in with these injections and nothing makes it better and every gawd damned time they say “I know, I know, I'm sorry”..... Well, guess what... you DON'T fucking know! YOU don't know! You don't KNOW!”
Those of you who know Rich personally can fathom the horror of hearing him speak like this. I have never heard him speak like this. All I could do was encourage him to vent. He's had enough, there are no answers, there is no plan, there is only this limbo punctuated by eight horrific injections a day. When he seemed done with his spew, I asked him as softly as I could if he wants to stop the fight. I tried to phrase it in such a way that it sounded natural, acceptable, easy and totally okay. There was a long silence, and I've got to point out that it is damn hard to drive on unlit country roads in the dark with a misty rain and your eyes filled with tears and cataracts.
Finally he said, “I can't do this anymore.”
Thanks Be for the Voices in the van, because I heard one of them tell him quite calmly, “Okay, sweetie. I'll be there tomorrow and I'll hold you, and we'll figure out what you want to do next.” Then we spoke of the superficial things that couples speak of at the end of a day that has them parted.
Mostly he was quiet today. I let him be quiet. I did not speak unless spoken to, my goal being that I wanted HIM to feel in control, not being TOLD. After our thanksgiving feast, I crawled into the bed beside him and joined my breathing to his. We were still like that for more than an hour and then he had another wonderful visit from little people—Tessa (14 mos)and Michael (2 mos). I could go on and on about that short visit and what it did for him, but suffice it to say that I know Tessa and I've watched her interact with Rich before, and this time like always she could not take her eyes off him, but she was unusually subdued. It seemed that she plugged right in to the energy and flowed with it.
It so lifted Rich's spirits.
At one point in our visit the endo doctor who is covering for OUR endo doctor came in and spent quite some time with us. She was LOVELY. She continued to reassure us that our doctors have been in contact with all their connections, including Johns Hopkins; Mayo Clinic; Ohio State; some place in Texas and another place in PA that all specialize in pancreatic cancer. The problem is..... wait for it..... Nothing about Rich's current status makes any sense. None of his symptoms (or the lack there of) are providing any information that can lead them towards possible solutions. (welcome to my world of explaining shit that doesn't make sense to people who don't believe you) It was clear that this doctor knew Rich's case inside out and more than once she shook her head and said, “there's not a doctor here that doesn't know about you, Richard. Nothing about you has ever been seen before. But we're working on it.”
We had a couple more hours of curled up in bed together and then his dinner came and he wanted me to start my 40 minute drive before it got really dark.
That's a difficult drive home. Depending on traffic it's 30-40 minutes through inner city Akron out into the boonies thinking about how much time is wasted in traveling.
Just me and the voices in the van.
It was dusk when I left the hospital to go to my van. I had my ticket, pass and cash ready only to discover that it's cheaper to provide free parking than pay for an attendant. Whoo-hoo. Free parking. I wanted to be cheery and grateful about that, but “you know who” pointed out that in the almost three years of hospitalizations I could have fed a third world nation for a week on what I've spent in fuel and parking fees to visit Rich in the hospital. In my humble opinion, a patient's partner should get Free Parking, because we can't pass Go, and we can't collect $200.
It was full on dark by the time I was half way home and it seemed that I passed way too many homes that were fully adorned with Christmas lights. “It's freakin Thanksgiving!!”, one of the voices shouted through the closed side window in the back seat. I couldn't tell if my eyes were watering from stress, emotion, or the glare on my cataracts.
I tried to focus on the concept of “it's freakin Thanksgiving!!” The oncology floor was nearly empty today. I remembered Rich telling me how they were scrambling all day yesterday and this morning to discharge patients home for the holidays. When we strolled the floor together before I left we counted no more than 10 patients roomed, and it seemed that they were patients too old to be aware or care.
I kept driving past joyous-lit houses, some with triangular trees sparkling from front windows. After awhile I felt nothing but confused. It seemed I was driving though a Black Hole of pitiful attempts to rush intention in order to prolong time. Let me know how that works for you.
Starting earlier in order to make It last longer does not make It better. It doesn't work for Weddings, or vacations or Christmas. Starting earlier to make It last longer, just dilutes It. Magick occurs in moments and flashes, not weeks of frenzied effort to squeeze, stretch and strangle every ounce of joy that your clenched hands can grab.
This is the conversation that “we” had in the van on the way home from our thanksgiving dinner, driving past the premature Christmas lights, on our way to a place where we can figure out what to do next, wishing desperately that we could slow time down in order to hold onto the precious memories that are slipping through our fingers.
Happy Valentine's Day
It took a lot of prep to go in there today. When I talked to him last night at 6:30 as I was leaving work, he was NOT happy. He was very clear on the fact that he's no longer interested in “going on”. He's getting EIGHT injections a day of a medication that is like molten lava. Rich is not a complainer, he has a HIGH threshold for pain and needles don't bother him. He's done. He was crystal clear on the fact that he “will not continue like this. That's 56 shots per week.”
Within the hour before the next injections are due he becomes physically ill with the anticipation of having red hot metal injected into the tops of his thighs. He spent several minutes ranting about the nurses – and this is how I knew we had reached a dangerous depth. His voice is spewing anger as he tells me....
“They come in with these injections and nothing makes it better and every gawd damned time they say “I know, I know, I'm sorry”..... Well, guess what... you DON'T fucking know! YOU don't know! You don't KNOW!”
Those of you who know Rich personally can fathom the horror of hearing him speak like this. I have never heard him speak like this. All I could do was encourage him to vent. He's had enough, there are no answers, there is no plan, there is only this limbo punctuated by eight horrific injections a day. When he seemed done with his spew, I asked him as softly as I could if he wants to stop the fight. I tried to phrase it in such a way that it sounded natural, acceptable, easy and totally okay. There was a long silence, and I've got to point out that it is damn hard to drive on unlit country roads in the dark with a misty rain and your eyes filled with tears and cataracts.
Finally he said, “I can't do this anymore.”
Thanks Be for the Voices in the van, because I heard one of them tell him quite calmly, “Okay, sweetie. I'll be there tomorrow and I'll hold you, and we'll figure out what you want to do next.” Then we spoke of the superficial things that couples speak of at the end of a day that has them parted.
Mostly he was quiet today. I let him be quiet. I did not speak unless spoken to, my goal being that I wanted HIM to feel in control, not being TOLD. After our thanksgiving feast, I crawled into the bed beside him and joined my breathing to his. We were still like that for more than an hour and then he had another wonderful visit from little people—Tessa (14 mos)and Michael (2 mos). I could go on and on about that short visit and what it did for him, but suffice it to say that I know Tessa and I've watched her interact with Rich before, and this time like always she could not take her eyes off him, but she was unusually subdued. It seemed that she plugged right in to the energy and flowed with it.
It so lifted Rich's spirits.
At one point in our visit the endo doctor who is covering for OUR endo doctor came in and spent quite some time with us. She was LOVELY. She continued to reassure us that our doctors have been in contact with all their connections, including Johns Hopkins; Mayo Clinic; Ohio State; some place in Texas and another place in PA that all specialize in pancreatic cancer. The problem is..... wait for it..... Nothing about Rich's current status makes any sense. None of his symptoms (or the lack there of) are providing any information that can lead them towards possible solutions. (welcome to my world of explaining shit that doesn't make sense to people who don't believe you) It was clear that this doctor knew Rich's case inside out and more than once she shook her head and said, “there's not a doctor here that doesn't know about you, Richard. Nothing about you has ever been seen before. But we're working on it.”
We had a couple more hours of curled up in bed together and then his dinner came and he wanted me to start my 40 minute drive before it got really dark.
That's a difficult drive home. Depending on traffic it's 30-40 minutes through inner city Akron out into the boonies thinking about how much time is wasted in traveling.
Just me and the voices in the van.
It was dusk when I left the hospital to go to my van. I had my ticket, pass and cash ready only to discover that it's cheaper to provide free parking than pay for an attendant. Whoo-hoo. Free parking. I wanted to be cheery and grateful about that, but “you know who” pointed out that in the almost three years of hospitalizations I could have fed a third world nation for a week on what I've spent in fuel and parking fees to visit Rich in the hospital. In my humble opinion, a patient's partner should get Free Parking, because we can't pass Go, and we can't collect $200.
It was full on dark by the time I was half way home and it seemed that I passed way too many homes that were fully adorned with Christmas lights. “It's freakin Thanksgiving!!”, one of the voices shouted through the closed side window in the back seat. I couldn't tell if my eyes were watering from stress, emotion, or the glare on my cataracts.
I tried to focus on the concept of “it's freakin Thanksgiving!!” The oncology floor was nearly empty today. I remembered Rich telling me how they were scrambling all day yesterday and this morning to discharge patients home for the holidays. When we strolled the floor together before I left we counted no more than 10 patients roomed, and it seemed that they were patients too old to be aware or care.
I kept driving past joyous-lit houses, some with triangular trees sparkling from front windows. After awhile I felt nothing but confused. It seemed I was driving though a Black Hole of pitiful attempts to rush intention in order to prolong time. Let me know how that works for you.
Starting earlier in order to make It last longer does not make It better. It doesn't work for Weddings, or vacations or Christmas. Starting earlier to make It last longer, just dilutes It. Magick occurs in moments and flashes, not weeks of frenzied effort to squeeze, stretch and strangle every ounce of joy that your clenched hands can grab.
This is the conversation that “we” had in the van on the way home from our thanksgiving dinner, driving past the premature Christmas lights, on our way to a place where we can figure out what to do next, wishing desperately that we could slow time down in order to hold onto the precious memories that are slipping through our fingers.
Happy Valentine's Day
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Rich isn't coming home
Rich is not coming home. That's what he's told each of his doctors. Not unless or until they can correct this situation to a tolerable level. He explained that his wife can not stay up all night checking his sugar and then go to work all day to make sure we're able to pay the bills. He kindly stated, “I'm not going to put her through this anymore. I'm not leaving here until you get this figured out.”
His doctors agreed and are all over it. Finally my frustration is no longer strangling me. I'm not crazy because they finally get how crazy this is. None of this makes sense. His surgeon, his oncologist and his endocrinologist have all told him that none of the pieces fit into any mosaic that frames an answer. They're all searching from their respective specialties.
Dr A is struggling with the best approach. There are eighteen tumors on the latest CAT scan that could possibly be spewing insulin. Each one would have to be biopsied and sent to the lab while they keep Rich open on the operating table, and waiting for results so they know which one to take out. Dr A says Rich probably would not survive such an endeavor.
His Endo dr is researching at light speed to find anything pharmaceutical that will correct this. There aren't that many options. Dr McGee is working with both of them. All three of them are contacting Mayo Clinic, and other names that Rich could not remember but are experts in their field. All three are in his room daily with little more than encouragement and assurances that they're fighting this as hard as he is. Luckily, right now, that's enough. When all you've got is the best someone can offer, it's enough.
They put a PICC line in. Rich wasn't happy about that, as you can imagine from previous posts. He was surprised at how painful it is, and I had to explain that the last time he had one inserted, he was so “out of it” that he didn't realize it was there for the first two weeks. Yeah, it's painful. They sliced his arm open and stitched a tube into it.
I talked to him Monday around noon. He sounded so down it was all I could do not to burst into tears at my desk. It wasn't anything he said, but I could hear it in his voice all while he was trying to reassure me. Then last night he called me and he sounded like a different man. He'd had a visit from Kenny J.
It's amazing what a 20 month old grandson can do. Rich spent a good twenty minutes laughing as he detailed the visit for me—Kenny saying “bye!” as he crawled into the hospital room closet and closed the door. Waiting for everyone to ask “Where's Kenny?” Then he burst out of the closet, covering his mouth as he laughed. The highlight was when his daddy asked him, “Where's grandpa Rich?” and Kenny pointed to Rich and laughed. That's the medicine I'm talking about.
I canceled our family Thanksgiving. As much as I LOVE preparing that meal and sharing it with our family, I can't do it with Rich in the hospital and unable to be a part of it. Which is not to say that we don't have much to be thankful for. If anyone can fix this, it's his team of doctors and all the wonderful people who are praying for him, and the family and friends who are holding us up.
I'm grateful he's on the oncology floor. Claire Wilson is the best nursing director EVER. I know this because 1) she is one of the best bosses I've ever had, and 2) she has a staff that could teach angels.
I'm grateful that I now have a boss that is everything one hopes for in a boss; and co-workers that make me look forward to going to work.
I'm grateful for the many people who have helped us—emotionally, spiritually and physically. (I just couldn't crawl up on that roof and clean out the gutters!!)
I must admit that I'm not grateful for where Rich is now, twenty-four months past his expiration date not withstanding. I'm in awe of it, but I'm not grateful. He deserves better, and every time he takes another hit like this, I can't help but feel a bit guilty that he's only suffering and fighting because he knows how desperately I don't want him to leave me. You can't watch someone suffer and struggle this hard and long and feel any level of gratitude for it. “Don't piss on my shoes and tell me it's raining.”
Now the elephant in the room is this.... if they can't get this under control, Rich will have to go into a nursing home. If I quit working to take care of him, I'll lose his secondary insurance and we will lose everything so I won't have anywhere to care for him anyway. I can't afford 24 hour home nursing care for him and if he needs me up all night to monitor him, then I sure can't leave him alone while I go to work. The thought of this makes me physically ill. I can't imagine someone of his mental and emotional status surviving in that environment. I have worked in more than one nursing home and my daily prayer to my Creator is “please allow me to go out on the ice before someone can put me in a nursing home.” --it's a First Nation (aka Native American) thing.
Yippy skippy, this is where I'm at. Luckily, I have the distraction of putting in 11 hour days at work to catch up on the time I missed because insurance companies and patients wait for no man. Which leads me to our Tip of The Day......
I drive to work in the dark, I drive home in the dark.....must you wait until you are 50 yards from me to dim your brights?????? Of all the automatic, no-brainer shit gimmicks they can put on a vehicle, can they not program an automatic freakin' DIMMER!?!?!?!?!
His doctors agreed and are all over it. Finally my frustration is no longer strangling me. I'm not crazy because they finally get how crazy this is. None of this makes sense. His surgeon, his oncologist and his endocrinologist have all told him that none of the pieces fit into any mosaic that frames an answer. They're all searching from their respective specialties.
Dr A is struggling with the best approach. There are eighteen tumors on the latest CAT scan that could possibly be spewing insulin. Each one would have to be biopsied and sent to the lab while they keep Rich open on the operating table, and waiting for results so they know which one to take out. Dr A says Rich probably would not survive such an endeavor.
His Endo dr is researching at light speed to find anything pharmaceutical that will correct this. There aren't that many options. Dr McGee is working with both of them. All three of them are contacting Mayo Clinic, and other names that Rich could not remember but are experts in their field. All three are in his room daily with little more than encouragement and assurances that they're fighting this as hard as he is. Luckily, right now, that's enough. When all you've got is the best someone can offer, it's enough.
They put a PICC line in. Rich wasn't happy about that, as you can imagine from previous posts. He was surprised at how painful it is, and I had to explain that the last time he had one inserted, he was so “out of it” that he didn't realize it was there for the first two weeks. Yeah, it's painful. They sliced his arm open and stitched a tube into it.
I talked to him Monday around noon. He sounded so down it was all I could do not to burst into tears at my desk. It wasn't anything he said, but I could hear it in his voice all while he was trying to reassure me. Then last night he called me and he sounded like a different man. He'd had a visit from Kenny J.
It's amazing what a 20 month old grandson can do. Rich spent a good twenty minutes laughing as he detailed the visit for me—Kenny saying “bye!” as he crawled into the hospital room closet and closed the door. Waiting for everyone to ask “Where's Kenny?” Then he burst out of the closet, covering his mouth as he laughed. The highlight was when his daddy asked him, “Where's grandpa Rich?” and Kenny pointed to Rich and laughed. That's the medicine I'm talking about.
I canceled our family Thanksgiving. As much as I LOVE preparing that meal and sharing it with our family, I can't do it with Rich in the hospital and unable to be a part of it. Which is not to say that we don't have much to be thankful for. If anyone can fix this, it's his team of doctors and all the wonderful people who are praying for him, and the family and friends who are holding us up.
I'm grateful he's on the oncology floor. Claire Wilson is the best nursing director EVER. I know this because 1) she is one of the best bosses I've ever had, and 2) she has a staff that could teach angels.
I'm grateful that I now have a boss that is everything one hopes for in a boss; and co-workers that make me look forward to going to work.
I'm grateful for the many people who have helped us—emotionally, spiritually and physically. (I just couldn't crawl up on that roof and clean out the gutters!!)
I must admit that I'm not grateful for where Rich is now, twenty-four months past his expiration date not withstanding. I'm in awe of it, but I'm not grateful. He deserves better, and every time he takes another hit like this, I can't help but feel a bit guilty that he's only suffering and fighting because he knows how desperately I don't want him to leave me. You can't watch someone suffer and struggle this hard and long and feel any level of gratitude for it. “Don't piss on my shoes and tell me it's raining.”
Now the elephant in the room is this.... if they can't get this under control, Rich will have to go into a nursing home. If I quit working to take care of him, I'll lose his secondary insurance and we will lose everything so I won't have anywhere to care for him anyway. I can't afford 24 hour home nursing care for him and if he needs me up all night to monitor him, then I sure can't leave him alone while I go to work. The thought of this makes me physically ill. I can't imagine someone of his mental and emotional status surviving in that environment. I have worked in more than one nursing home and my daily prayer to my Creator is “please allow me to go out on the ice before someone can put me in a nursing home.” --it's a First Nation (aka Native American) thing.
Yippy skippy, this is where I'm at. Luckily, I have the distraction of putting in 11 hour days at work to catch up on the time I missed because insurance companies and patients wait for no man. Which leads me to our Tip of The Day......
I drive to work in the dark, I drive home in the dark.....must you wait until you are 50 yards from me to dim your brights?????? Of all the automatic, no-brainer shit gimmicks they can put on a vehicle, can they not program an automatic freakin' DIMMER!?!?!?!?!
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Today in "This Room in Hell"
I slept yesterday, far longer than a non pregnant and/or new mother should. And I am neither. I slept. The first few hours were a physical replenishing of the sleep I've lost. The last 15 hours was the sleep of someone who has crawled into a dark hole and tried to pull the sod over her head.
I woke this morning and spent the day in a frenzy of cleaning. And I am here to tell you that a hand held Shark steam cleaner, a Kirby, and the Shark floor cleaner is such a fabulous triumvirate that you can accomplish a level of satisfaction that makes you forget the absence of sex. Seriously. Okay, maybe it's the meds.
I get to sleep again tonight. If I take a decent dose of benadryl, the crying into my pillow will not plug me up so bad that I can't wear my C-Pap.
I'm trying to figure out how to go forward, and my options are sorely limited. If the doctors can't fix what's wrong with Rich, then all I know is that he can't come home. I can't take care of him all night long and then work all day long--even if I can arrange for people to take care of him during the day. Geez, I hate this whole being human thing. The alternative is a nightmare that haunts my every breath.
Fortunately I'm floating. I float in faith, and the amazing friendship and family that I have. I float in the absolute knowledge that this is our path and it will lead to where we're meant to be. As sappy as that may sound, that's all I've got. And I'm learning to be incredibly content with that.
I went in to see him this afternoon. He was sleeping. His nephew Eddie was there, I motioned him to follow me out of the room, and we had a such a warm conversation. We came back to the room and the three of us had a nice visit, and then when it was just Rich and me, I curled up in the bed beside him and we snuggled. There wasn't a whole lot to say. After awhile you can no longer comment on the decor of your Room in Hell. We locked on to the NOW of snuggling and holding on to each other....breathing. Breathing into each other. Then the mantra we share ... "we will beat this." We renew our vows daily.
It will be interesting to see what the doctors want to do next. I'm just hoping we get some more time that is not submerged in the sludge of cancer. Maybe that's too much to ask for.
I woke this morning and spent the day in a frenzy of cleaning. And I am here to tell you that a hand held Shark steam cleaner, a Kirby, and the Shark floor cleaner is such a fabulous triumvirate that you can accomplish a level of satisfaction that makes you forget the absence of sex. Seriously. Okay, maybe it's the meds.
I get to sleep again tonight. If I take a decent dose of benadryl, the crying into my pillow will not plug me up so bad that I can't wear my C-Pap.
I'm trying to figure out how to go forward, and my options are sorely limited. If the doctors can't fix what's wrong with Rich, then all I know is that he can't come home. I can't take care of him all night long and then work all day long--even if I can arrange for people to take care of him during the day. Geez, I hate this whole being human thing. The alternative is a nightmare that haunts my every breath.
Fortunately I'm floating. I float in faith, and the amazing friendship and family that I have. I float in the absolute knowledge that this is our path and it will lead to where we're meant to be. As sappy as that may sound, that's all I've got. And I'm learning to be incredibly content with that.
I went in to see him this afternoon. He was sleeping. His nephew Eddie was there, I motioned him to follow me out of the room, and we had a such a warm conversation. We came back to the room and the three of us had a nice visit, and then when it was just Rich and me, I curled up in the bed beside him and we snuggled. There wasn't a whole lot to say. After awhile you can no longer comment on the decor of your Room in Hell. We locked on to the NOW of snuggling and holding on to each other....breathing. Breathing into each other. Then the mantra we share ... "we will beat this." We renew our vows daily.
It will be interesting to see what the doctors want to do next. I'm just hoping we get some more time that is not submerged in the sludge of cancer. Maybe that's too much to ask for.
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