Quick update . . .

Bob has been recovering remarkably; all his vitals are strong, stable. He was kept in cardiac ICU last night, only because no rooms were available in the "regular" hospital, which is where they were going to move him to yesterday. He didn't mind, as he has his own room (no freaky roommates to deal with), it's quiet, and the nurses pop in lickity-split when he calls them (not that they didn't before, but in ICU, they're lightening-speed). We're told that, for now, he'll be back in the primary care of oncology, since his heart is stable, recovering well, and that his cancer treatments take precedence again.

From what I understand, a whole new game plan needs to be devised; he was to have one more stint of the in-patient methotrexate, but his oncologist told me they wouldn't be doing that, that one more treatment, in the grand scheme of things, won't have that big an effect. . . Surgery was supposed to happen on the 19th of April, but that'll be rescheduled, too. Guess it sounds like all kinds of people need to reconvene and re-plan his course of treatment. I have no idea what will happen from here on out . . .

I went to the hospital for a few hours yesterday morning, then to work all day, then back to the hospital to say "good night" to Bob. Nice, quiet evening. He looks good. Handsome, as always, even with wispy hair and tired eyes. Other than an IV tube and the glowing red "ET" light on his finger, no other tubes remain in him. Now that I think about it, I think even the PICC line was removed . . .He has a HUGE bruise on the upper left side of his groin, where they'd inserted the balloon pump, the insertion site that wouldn't quit bleeding . . . when he saw that, he was like, "What the hell is that from?!?" Oh, just another tube that was shoved into you, to keep you alive . . .

I have a lighter work day today; I had taken half the day off, to take Bob to the surgeon consultation, which won't be happening. Nancy, Brian and the girls will stop by the hospital to see Bob again, then head toward Iowa later today, to go to Brian's dad's funeral tomorrow. Rocco will be so sad to see his new bff go . . . Jim and Penny will probably stay until Bob is discharged, not sure when that'll be—tomorrow? Friday?

Not feeling especially creative now, just wanted to give a quick update on my superhero.

FIRST ITEM ON THE AGENDA: BOB IS VERY MUCH ALIVE!!!!

Got a rather disturbing e-mail from a good friend of Bob's this afternoon, which prompted an immediate phone call, to reassure this friend of a number of things, most important being: BOB IS NOT DEAD. Good lord, that sounds like a twisted take on the ol' Paul McCartney hoax . . . For the love of all things good, I have no idea how this poor guy got the message that Bob had died, but hopefully it hasn't spread far, and that Bob's friend has been setting the record straight. Bob is very much alive, thank you very much, so please pass that one thing on to anyone and everyone, if you do nothing else today. He has beat the odds, once again, and if there ever was a doubt in my mind before about how this big, crazy story will all play out, it is gone. Seeing the events of the past 24+ hours has made me a believer. In Bob. He will beat this. He will be well again. Amen.

When I got to the hospital this morning, the nurse told me they were in the process of extubating Bob; e.g., removing the breathing tube. His lungs were working great, his heart rate and blood pressure were very strong, and he was really, really anxious to get that damn vent out so he could talk again. Hell, to just breathe and swallow unencumbered again. I should also mention that at no point was the ventilator doing the breathing for Bob; it had been inserted for precautionary measures, should Bob's lungs become compromised in any way during or after the heart attack.

I arrived in his room just before 9 this morning, as he was in that half-way land between sedation and consciousness. To get the tube out, the technicians needed Bob to be alert enough to be able to follow their direction, but sedated enough to not put up a big fight; when I arrived, they were beginning to prep him for the extubation. He knew who I was, and again tried communicating with me. Bob's dad entered the room shortly after I did, and it was clear that having us there was irritating the hell out of Bob, he was trying to talk to us, communicate in some way, but was just making things worse, so we left the room, reassuring him we'd be back as soon as the vent was out. He appeared to understand. Maybe an hour or so later, I went back and peeked into his room. Bob was lying on his back, sans breathing tube. His nurse beckoned me to enter and I went to his side. His eyes were still very puffy and coated in crusty goo (oxymoron, I know, but that's what it was), but his voice was stronger and clearer than I expected. He asked me what had happened, where was he. He didn't know, or didn't remember, that he'd had a heart attack, that he was in ICU.

For the first several minutes, all I could do was hold his hand, stare at him. Deja vu, all over again. . . I tried to summarize the past 24 hours as best I could, trying not to overload him with details, just feeding him bits and pieces as the minutes and hours went by. Over the course of the day, he became more and more cognizant, stronger and more lucid and was able to start piecing together what had happened, from his own memory, from what the medical team has shared, and from what we were telling him. He remembers feeling chest pain while on 7D, during his chemo—he thought it was Saturday night; I was told it was between 4 and 5 a.m. Sunday—calling his nurse in because he just knew something was not right, then his nurse calling for help and a swarm of people in his room. Then, he woke up. Today. He thought it was Sunday. It's probably a good thing he doesn't remember yesterday. He asked when I was called, what happened when we got to the hospital, whom I've spoken with. I could tell he was in immense pain; he winced and grimaced constantly as we talked. I was told that, because of his precarious condition, they were unable to give him any of his pain medications, so they got far behind in treating his pain. The main goal of the day was to get back on top of the pain and control it from here on out.

Bob's parents and Nancy were all at the hospital throughout the day; Brian and Claire and Grace arrived later in the afternoon. We took turns popping in to see him, to squeeze his hand, wipe the crud from his eyes, give him a kiss. Each time I went in his room, he seemed visibly stronger, more clear-headed, but still very much wiped out and baffled by the events of the past few days. My mom popped in for a visit in the afternoon, and later, after everyone else had left, Jill and Amelia stopped by for a Bob Sighting. Amelia brought Bob a pink Easter egg with a York Peppermint Patty in it. He accepted her treat gratefully.

I spoke with many doctors; Palliative Care team was in to get the pain back under control. The ICU team is also continuing with the flushing of the methotrexate from Bob's body, which, according to the oncologists on staff, is progressing right on schedule. I called his primary oncologist, who was gone for the week—his nurse said she'd try to contact him, as they were unaware of the weekend's event—he eventually called back, and I relayed the past 24 hours of Bob's life to him. I spoke with several cardiologists, with the nurses, anyone who is tending him, anyone who would listen to me, and am repeating my mantra: why, why, why, given Bob's health history, has cardiology not been part of Bob's care team from day one, even though we've stressed the very important details and concerns of his heart history and the effects chemo can have on even a healthy heart. I took the lead of the doctors; I trusted that they knew what they were doing, based on Bob's history, as well as his present condition. Always, I'm met with blank stares and lots of hemming and hawing . . .

No one can give me a clear reason as to why the heart attack happened. Maybe there is none. Maybe I'm asking for the impossible. Asking a question to which there is no answer. But I have demanded that, from here on out, cardiology be side-by-side with oncology, as far as Bob's treatment is concerned. Every step of the way. Why that wasn't the case from the beginning is unclear to me; we asked often, given Bob's history, but so far, no one has offered even an inkling of a reason; maybe it's not standard protocol? Maybe it's just so rare a reaction that there isn't enough occurrences to warrant a "protocol?" What else should we have done, could we have done, to do to make his doctors aware of his heart issues, to stand up and take notice? Maybe this was unpreventable, that nothing, no one, could have predicted this, that no medication could have thwarted it, no test could have picked up on a clue . . . Maybe what I'm asking is the result of that crystal clear 20/20 hindsight, but right now, all I see is such a damned reactive system, that if only someone had truly listed to us, and put a few precautionary measures into place . . . and am left wondering why do I feel like we have to be the ones calling the shots? Like I simply cannot trust that the doctors will do what's best for Bob? That we cannot rest, cannot lay down our guard in this battle, for even a moment . . . Wallowing in shoulda, woulda, coulda land again . . . all the while, being ever grateful that Bob is the fighter he is . . .and there I go, thinking again. I just need to stop that. Maybe when I'm at the U tomorrow, I'll ask if they can give me something, some medication for that ailment . . .

So much more happened over the course of the day, I'm having trouble separating and lining up much of it, into a neat, coherent story. All the details blend and swirl together, I'm having trouble extracting them from each other. But I know for certain I did sit with Bob today and watch him eat lunch—a PB&J sandwich and raspberry sherbet, then dinner—chicken nuggets, tapioca pudding and a Coke. Together, we sat, piecing the events of the day, like a crazy quilt. I've told him about all the people praying for him, rooting for him, pulling for him. It's astounding, the messages we're getting, from near and far. Keep it coming, peeps. We're feeling the love, we're feeling the love.

Oh, and before I forget (though I know I've forgotten many details already): new course in treatment. Sounds like no more chemo before surgery. Right now, Bob's heart takes priority. The goal is to get him over this rather large bump in the road, then address surgery when the docs deem him strong enough to handle the stress and demands of it, which will probably be pushed back a few weeks.

Oh, and in case I didn't mention it yet, BOB IS VERY MUCH ALIVE. VERY much alive.

Peace, love and raspberry sherbet.

Update . . .

God, I don't even know where to start here, my mind is mud, I'm trying to process the events of the day, to keep you all up to date, but even more so, to try to process everything that happened today, for my own sake . . . my heart hurts so bad, but not as bad as Bob's, so I'll give it the ol' college try here. . .

I was jolted out of bed this morning by a phone call around 6:30 a.m. from the U. When I saw the U of MN on caller ID, for a nanosecond I thought (hoped?) it was Bob calling from his room phone, but in the next nanosecond, even before I answered the call, I knew in my heart that wasn't true. It was a doctor, asking my permission to resuscitate Bob because he's full code and is having a heart attack and I'm the next of kin and he is unable to make the decision himself and to take a deep breath and it's okay to cry but they really need my permission before they can do anything and that's about when my mind turned to mud and I said, "I don't know what any of that means, but yes, you have my permission, to do whatever you just asked me, to help him" followed by lots of crying and trying to keep everything they're telling me straight and wondering how the hell this could possibly be happening and in that same instant suddenly hating all the people who have told me that God doesn't give you anything you can't handle and that everything happens for a reason and that God always answers our prayers but not always the way we want him to . . . because my husband has had more shit handed to him in his life than anyone will ever come close to dealing with and enough is fucking enough already and there is absofuckinglutely no reason for any of this, but maybe that last one is true, that maybe this is how God is answering my prayers because this is certainly not, not not at ALL what I have been praying for . . . then, I'm crying, and the darkened upstairs is suddenly filled with shadows of bodies and wailing, light snap on—someone is hugging me, I'm hugging Penny as tight as I can, I see little Claire and Gracie standing among the crying and wailing grownups and I feel so bad for them, with all the sadness they've seen in such a short time, their Grandpa, and now Uncle Bob . . . I think I'm telling everyone what I was just told, trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to do next, feed dogs, brush teeth, get dressed, tell the others I'm heading into the U, hop in the Jeep and head down 94.

I find myself at the U maybe 45 minutes, hour at the most, after the phone call, takes a half hour to get to the U, whether I speed or not. . . Bob's parents and Nancy meet me, not long after I arrive, in the Gold room where Bob was just the day before, waiting for his PICC line. We're met by a nurse named Betsy, who gave us the lowdown: around 4:30 a.m. or so, Bob called his nurse, complaining about chest pains, and a flurry of activity ensued: low heart rate and high blood pressure (did I get that right?) indicated something was not right, an EKG and other tests confirmed he was having a heart attack, and was whisked down to the cardiac cath lab. The same artery that was blocked 3 years ago, his right coronary artery, was blocked again, this time clogged by a humongous blood clot. Two stents were put in to re-open the artery, but later, the surgeon told us that another blockage was found in his left coronary artery, but they won't be treating that right now, that they have to stabilize him and treat the right side first. Somewhere, in there, my mom and sister, Gretchen, arrived, for added support. . .

Bob is now in the Cardiac ICU, intubated, with more tubes and lines coming from his body that I've seen in a long time, but at the same time, two too many times. The vent, as the pacemaker, are precautionary measures. They were inserted while Bob was still conscious, in the event things should get even worse. We're told it's really hard to insert a breathing tube when the patient has lost consciousness, so they erred on the side of caution and did it while he was still alert. He also had a balloon pump inserted; the nurse described it as like one of those long balloons that people twist into animal shapes, inserted into his body via a catheter. Its job is to increase blood flow to the heart and body, while decreasing the workload of the heart, controlling the heart rate and blood pressure, thus allowing the heart to recover from the heart attack.

So, we spent all day at the U, waiting, waiting, waiting. Bob was kept under heavy sedation all day, for of a number of reasons. First, was to stabilize his heart, his blood pressure, etc., to let things recover after the heart attack and the subsequent stents placed in the artery. The cardiologist said, "You know, he's not a big guy, but boy, even in his state, he put up a fight—we really had to knock him out good to get the vent in. When you go in to see him, you'll see that his hands are strapped to the bed. That's for his own good, so he doesn't pull anything out. Even heavily sedated, he's pretty ticked off about all of this . . ." That's my Bobby . . . always a fighter. My hero.

We took turns peeking in on him in the ICU. Heavily sedated, he could not talk to us, but at times, responded, eyes closed but with head nods or shakes, sometimes it seemed like his mouth was moving, trying to form words around the tube inserted in it, in an effort to speak. Other times, he seemed to be trying to tell me things with his hands, his fingers slowly tracing figures on the bed sheet, then dropping down, as though in exasperation when I couldn't decipher his message. He did that same thing back at United, three years ago, when he had his first heart attack, and was intubated and in an induced coma. I have to take that as a good sign, that even heavy sedation can't keep Bob from trying to take charge. . .

Then the catheter site (where the balloon pump was inserted) wouldn't stop bleeding (we were told this is very common, because of the massive amount of blood thinners give while treating the heart attack). For over five hours straight, constant physical pressure was being applied to his femoral artery, in his groin, and I could tell, even though he was unconscious, that pissed him off, too; his hand kept trying to move toward the catheter site, and the tending nurse had to keep redirecting his hand, while at the same time keep pressure on the bleeding site. Finally, the cardiologist came back and made the executive decision to remove the balloon pump; they turned it off for a while and decided that Bob's blood pressure and other vitals were actually very strong without the pump, so the hassle of trying to stop the bleeding wasn't worth the effort of keeping the pump in place.

While we're playing the Waiting Game during the afternoon, we get a call from Brian. His dad, in Iowa, has passed away. Brian had stayed back at the house, with the girls and the dogs. . . my heart cries for him and his family, too. Even though his dad has been in ill health a long time, it's still hard. So hard. . .

Finally, we get to a point, where the cardiologist tells us they won't be doing anything more to Bob the rest of the day, into the night. Bob's making a turn in the right direction, he tells us. Vitals are stable, heart rate and blood pressure look great . . .they plan to take the breathing tube out in the morning, and go from there. So, in essence, there's nothing more for us to do by waiting around the hospital.

So, we all head home. I take Gaia on a walk in the back yard, then feed the dogs. We have dinner in near silence, till the girls start telling us about the stories they're writing, and Claire announces she needs a name for the centaur in her fantasy tale, so we all start tossing out names, and I open a bottle of Woop Woop shiraz, and Nancy says "Woop Woop" would be a great name for a centaur, because "woop woop" means somewhere in the middle of nowhere, an Australian colloquialism, as in, "Just been to Woop Woop and back," and Penny says, "That sounds like what I feel like tonight . . ." and we all agree with her.

I don't know why Bob had a heart attack this morning. No one could really give me any concrete answers. I will just have to wait for the next hours and days to unfold. And, just for the record, I am not mad at God. The more this goes on, the more I think God really has nothing to do with any of this. Cause and effect, I mean. He didn't cause this, he won't fix it. That's not his job. It's just life happening, as anyone experiences. It doesn't matter how much I pray, how much I beg, barter, cry, threaten, scream, holler, whimper. Nothing really works. Nothing. Things will happen the way they're going to happen, regardless. I'm kind of giving up, kind of losing steam, as far as that direction goes, I mean. Need to find a new focus, new purpose . . .

I guess instead of praying to God, I'm going to send my prayers directly out to friends, family, whomever, because the way I'm seeing it, you all are stepping up to the plate and going to bat for us. Maybe that's how God is working for me. Through you. I don't know. I'm trying to find that freakin' reason this is happening, and I'm coming up empty. I wish I could take everyone up on the offers of "whatever you need . . ." I know you all mean it. With your hearts. I just don't know if you can give me what I really need right now, and that's to have my Bob home with me. Healthy, whole. And done with all of this shit. now. Uncle already. But I've said it before, a few years ago, I don't decide these things. No one does. I certainly love all the prayers, kind thoughts, messages on the blog, e-mails . . . I love that my mom and sister came to the U. I'm grateful that Brian and Nancy and the girls (and Casper) are here with us, I'm forever grateful for Penny and Jim and all they do for us, I'm in awe of the care Bob is getting at the U . . . I am humbled, again and again, brought to my knees, breathless, with the outpouring of love and support. . . breathless, I tell you.

Time for bed. Long day. I'll probably re-read this all tomorrow and go, "WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING!! Why did I write THAT??!! THAT'S not what happened!!!"

Anyhow, g'nite. . . to Woop woop. And back. . .

No Visitors, Please

Quick note to everyone: Bob had a heart attack this morning around 5:30 a.m.; he's stabilized right now but we haven't been able to see him yet. He'll be in cardiac ICU as soon as they get stents in. More later. Please send in the prayer and pixie brigade...


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

I can clearly see your nuts . . .

Friday, March 26, 2010
What is it with Bob's roommates at the U, who have this insuppressible need to let it all hang out, if you know what I mean? Good lord . . . when I went up to see Bob after work tonight, I was subjected to yet another traumatic image I won't forget for a long time, if ever . . . but, more on that later. Or not. . .

So, we got to the U in record time this morning. Bob had packed the night before, so he was ready to go at 7:30, but thanks to me and my onemorething-itis (a condition for which there is no cure . . .), we didn't get on the road till 7:45. With an 8:45 appointment, we thought for sure we'd be in the thick of morning rush hour, but as it turned out, we ended up 1/2 hour early! Looking back, I'm pretty sure it was due to my highly skilled, strategic driving method that I've perfected after weeks, no—months—of doing this drive. Thanks to my careful scrutiny and intense observations of traffic patterns, I've finally got I94 figured out. I know exactly which bottlenecks appear where, and know just what lane to be in at which time, for how long, till I need to dart over to another, faster lane, to keep the pace. I really should be an Indy 500 driver, I'm that amazing.

Bob needed a new PICC line inserted before being admitted, so first stop was the Gold Room clinic on first floor. I pointed out where admitting was (he was to head over there after the PICC, to admit himself before heading up to 7D) and stayed at the clinic with Bob long enough to get him checked in, waiting till his name was called (over half hour later, so much for being early), and then had to hustle off to work. I called later to see that he got over to the U hospital and admitted with no problems, and he was already in his bed, and had taken a few short catnaps. He hadn't slept well the night before (or the night before that, or before that . . . ), so hopefully, he'll be able to catch up on some sleep in the next few days.

At Bob's request, I stopped by Kowalksi's after work and picked up a couple trays of sushi for dinner. When I walked into the room (Bob got moved to a bed by a window, at his request), I noticed, out of the corner of my eye, the latest roommate sitting on a chair, evidently watching TV. No big deal. It was when I went back out of the room, to grab some napkins and eating utensils that I, to be polite, looked his way and was about to say, "Hi," when I caught sight of the Full Monty. I about tripped over my own bugged out eyeballs and quickly scurried past—I did not see that, I did not see that, I did not see that—retrieved the napkins and forks, and bolted past the roomie again, to the safety of Bob's curtained side of the room. I pantomimed to Bob what I'd just seen and he just shook his head. . .

Bob told me they had hooked him up to the IV right away when he got into his room, and has been just sitting around, waiting for his pH levels to get to where they need to be before the methotrexate is given. Usually takes several hours, and by the time we ate our sushi, filled each other in on our days, he still hadn't reached the level needed to get the drug. Bob got really tired after dinner, and laid back on the bed. As we talked, his words became slurred, heavy with sleep. I saw that he was talking with his eyes closed. I leaned over to kiss him goodnight. "I'm sorry, I just get tired very quickly . . . probably because I haven't slept well lately . . ."

It's okay, I said. You need your sleep, I'll see you again tomorrow. I kissed him again, gathered up our empty sushi trays and practically sprinted out the door, eyes to the ceiling as I passed Mr. Monty . . . I'm just warnin' ya, folks, in case you come up for a visit, that Bob is, once again, in an Underwear Optional room.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

I got a call from Bob this morning. He said he had a pretty good night's sleep, had a good breakfast and is planning to take a little walk around the floor, and then a nap. Penny and Jim will be up later this a.m., and will be staying the weekend. We got a call from Bob's sister, Nancy, earlier this week and are going to be blessed with the presence of her and her family this weekend, too! A wonderful surprise, but, it comes under bittersweet circumstances—they were making a trip down to Iowa, where Nancy's husband, Brian is from, because his father is in ill health and is in the hospital. I'm not clear of the circumstances or his condition, but it sounded urgent that the family come immediately. As such, they decided to make a detour up to MN, to see Bob. I

We'll have a full house this weekend, but it will be wonderful to see them! It's been so hard on Nancy and her family, being so far away (they live in Billings, MT), and not being able to be here as all of this has gone on with Bob. Bob and Nancy communicate regularly, probably several times a day, at least, either via phone calls, text messages, e-mails, but we didn't get together this year for Christmas (first time in all the years Bob and I have been together) so it's been way too long since we've seen the Wilkins clan—Nancy, Brian, Claire, Grace and their new pup, Casper, an adorable Springer Spaniel! Rocco will be soooooo excited!!! Not sure of their arrival, but will be sometime today (Saturday).

Oh, I should share the joke that goes along with the title of this entry: a man walks into a psychiatrist's office with nothing on but Saran Wrap, wrapped around his body. The psychiatrist takes one look at the man and says, "I can clearly see your nuts." An oldie, but a goodie!

Rocco is squeaking to go outside, so will close for now. Peace, love and walnuts to all!

Club Chemo Itinerary - Worry-free Vacations!

A quick head's up: We made it to Bob's appointment today (right day, right time), met with his oncologist and got a list of upcoming appointments so long and so confusing, we needed to draw a graph to get 'em all straight: chemo, surgery consult, oncologist, more chemo, CT . . .

Bob wanted to get the word out that he will definitely be up for visitors during this next inpatient round—Club Chemo, as fun as it sounds in the brochures, ain't all it's cracked up to be. Now that we know what to expect, Bob's all for making the time go faster . . .just thinking—maybe this time, for change of pace, Bob should be the jerk of a roommate . . .

Anyhow, here's the itinerary of the first leg of this gig:

Friday, March 26—Bob will be admitted to the U of MN hospital, wing/floor 7-D (no room# yet) early Friday morning. He'll be there at least till Monday, possibly Tuesday, if things follow the same course they did last time.

If anyone would like to stop by to say "hi," the weekend might be the best time. Friday will be hit or miss, as doctors come and go, and there's a lot of activity going on in the room, getting him hooked up and such. If you have Bob's #, you might want to try texting or calling, to see what's happening before you drop in.

Bob's really excited to have visitors and contact with the world beyond me and medical professionals while he's in for this next chemo stint, but please realize that he does tire quickly and visits should be kept relatively short. Watch for these sign: slowing speech, heavy lids, drooling . . . and should they appear, please tuck him in, give him a good night kiss and close the door gently behind you . . .

It probably goes without saying but in case anyone doesn't know: if you have any signs of illness—cold, flu, cough, sniffles—anything, please stay away (and I mean that with all the love in the world)! This round of chemo really compromises Bob's immune system; he and other patients in his wing are very susceptible to catching anything going around. He's been lucky, thus far, but I don't want to push our luck.

And our last, but most exciting order of business: we have been given a tentative date for Bob's surgery: Monday, April 19. Finally, a beacon in the dark. More to come on that as the days unfold . . .

Peace, love and happy roommates to all!

Oooops . . .

We thought Bob had an appointment with Doc S today, so we saddled up the Forester and moseyed into town, only to find that his appointment is actually tomorrow. So, for those of you who were wondering how today's appointment went, stay tuned till tomorrow, 'cause we got it wrong. Actually, just for the record (and because I rarely get to utter the following words): Bob had it wrong—he wrote the wrong date on our "main" calendar at home. I actually had the right date written down in my appointment calendar, but haven't bothered to look at it since I wrote it there three weeks ago . . . till today, as we're standing in front of the receptionist, looking like dorks . . . Really? You're sure it's tomorrow?!? . . . awkward. Doc S was too booked up to squeeze us in, so we had no choice but to turn around and head back home.

Not a huge deal to me, but Bob isn't used to making errors in details like that, and was pretty upset with himself for writing down the incorrect day. An easy mistake to make with all the appointments we were trying to make that day, having to work around my work schedule, Doc's schedule, and all. It's amazing we haven't screwed more than just this one up, with all the trips to and from the U we've made already. "Welcome to my world," I told him as we were driving back home. "That kind of thing is a daily occurrence for me, hon—do it enough times, and it won't bother you so much, trust me." He didn't seem consoled by my words. Wonder why . . .

So, we have to wait a day to find out for sure when Bob goes back in for his (hopefully) final round of chemo. I think perhaps the main reason Bob was so upset with himself for the error is that he's getting anxious with the whole thing. Ready for something to happen, something solid to grab onto . . . trade the waiting game for something tangible—like getting closer to having his life back . . .we're crossing our fingers that he'll be admitted right away this week, get this final round of chemo rolling, then on to surgery.

Oh, and by the way, Bob wanted me to let y'all know that, since he now knows what to expect during his stay at Club Chemo (a whole lotta peeing and obnoxious roommates . . . ), he's really feeling he'll be up for visitors this time. We'll let you know on the blog when he'll be going in, so you can "save the date." Stay tuned! And, if we haven't said it enough already (and I know there can never be enough times), we love you all, appreciate everything everyone has done for us, continues to do for us, and that you all are in our thoughts and prayers as you keep us in yours . . . LOVE!

Jen & Bob

Joy and pain . . . like sunshine and rain (sing it, now God's children . . .)!

Okay, not that I'm really into R&B, or religion (even less . . . and please don't get me started . . . I said religion, not God. Big difference, in my book. And sometimes I question the existence the latter . . .), but who can't help but be overcome with both by this ol' skool tune by Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock?! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKbY-62Pg3c . . . I know y'all will be heading over to itunes to download this totally 80's, yet timeless, dance tune. I'll wait till you get back . . . bust a move, peeps. . . (I'm chair dancing at the kitchen counter yet again to the video . . . I can feel Bob's eye's rolling as he lounges in the living room, because he's into R&B and religion even less than I . . .)

But, this li'l tune kind of sums up the past few weeks, literally and figuratively, in our world, and has been playing over and over in my head for several days, if not weeks now. Maybe not continually, but certainly makes a guest appearance quite frequently, like Steve Martin on SNL. Hasn't been a lot of physical pain for Bob these past few weeks (other than the usual leg/foot stuff), but lots of mental stuff going on, more so than we've faced as of yet. Sometimes that's harder than the physical stuff. The physical stuff, he can take a pill for, or lie down till it subsides, or when it gets truly intolerable, take a trip to the U for an injection, maybe an admission, till they get it under control. "Better living through pharmaceuticals," as Bob says. But the mental stuff. That's a tough one . . .

I have not been working weekends; main reason is to use them as a "back up" in case I need to reschedule a day of appointments at work to take Bob to an unscheduled doctor's (or other) appointment. It's nice to have these days of just being at home, quality time, if you will, where we have nothing—no work no appointments, no obligations—no nothing to interfere with "our" time, and we cherish it. It's always hit and miss, as far as Bob is feeling. Yesterday was not a good day, and so we stayed close to home. Bob didn't want me to stray too far, in case he needed me to take him in to the U (I think that unexpected hospital visit a few months ago, when this all began, still weighs heavily on his mind; any little symptom that is remotely similar . . .almost like flashbacks . . . ) when his anxiety became intolerable, he took an Ativan (an anti-anxiety med he was prescribed at his last ER visit, to be taken as needed) and eventually calmed down enough to go to bed and get some sleep.

Today, Bob felt good enough to take a walk through the neighborhood with Gaia and me, then hop in the car with me and head to Target for our weekly provisions. He even "sat" in the back seat today, with the help of a pillow under his left butt cheek (what's left of it, that is . . . if he gets to the point where he needs a butt implant, I will be the willing donor . . .) and some creative contorting. That's a first. We probably won't be trying that one for any long road trips, but he was able to tolerate it long enough to get to Target and back home again. A nice, leisurely stroll through Tar-jhay, and then back home.

My sister, Jill, called to see if she and her li'l peanut, Amelia, could pop in for a quick visit this afternoon. She asked if we needed anything, she always does. I feel bad—they live 45 minutes away, not an easy jaunt for a "quick" visit. I know she (as do so many people) feels so helpless and want to contribute however, whenever they can . . . but really, truly, we do not need much . . . we's simple folks. . . I hollered to Bob, who was watching golf (again!) in the living room, if he needed or wanted Jill to bring him anything. A moment's pause, then, "A Milky Way . . . and Sprees," shouted back from his place on the sofa. What the hell?!? My husband's chance to milk the sympathy card, and all he comes up with is a freaking candy bar and Sprees?!? Do they even make Sprees any more?! "You can get them at Holiday gas stations," Bob shouted, as though reading my mind. Really. Jill said, "I can deliver! There's a Holiday station on the way to your house, right? We'll be there shortly!"

Given the distance, it gave me time to clean the house a bit—vacuum, dust, change the bedding . . . as if our guests cared one way or another. I knew Jill and Amelia arrived when, about an hour later, Rocco started barking like a maniac . . . nearly a year with that li'l mutt, and I still cannot get used to a dog that barks, startles the bejeepers out of me, every time . . .

Jill and Amelia entered the house with a bag of candy and a bunch of lavender tulips in tow, beautiful purple tulips. "Your favorite color," Jill said as she handed me the bunch. I snipped the ends and put the flowers in a vase of water before turning my attention back to them. We had a great visit, chatting with Bob, playing with the dogs, taking a snack break, just hanging out. I was "Bad Auntie," (or would that be "Good Auntie!"), giving Amelia probably more that her share of Girl Scout Cookies and other treats, but hey—she's going home with Jill, not me! She's a funny kid (Amelia, not Jill)—Bob had fun teasing and tormenting her, as he does all his nieces and nephews. Jill eventually called an end to the day, with work deadlines looming. we bid the 45 minute "Hildebrandt adieu" (again, a Bob-ism), and Jill and Amelia were heading back home, to Golden Valley.

Bob went to lay down, I continued with my laundry and not long after Jill and Amelia left, Rocco was sounding the alarm again, running from patio door to front window, barking like a mad dog on crack. I guessed it was either wild turkeys in the yard or a neighbor walking their dog, and went to the window to see what had worked the R-man into such a frenzy. When I looked outside, I saw a gaggle of neighbors, kids and dogs in tow, heading to the cul-de-sac just beyond our home.

I told Bob that a group of neighbors was walking by and if he was feeling up to it, maybe he might want to head outside and say "hi," a surprise guest appearance, if you will. Might do a body good, to get outside again, have another connection with the "real world." Even though we live in the boonies, we have incredible neighbors. People who watch over us, say prayers for us, deliver monster cookies (made with fresh, not frozen, monsters, no less) and other goodies, and check in whenever and however they can. Even in the boonies, we are not alone. I expected Bob to decline the invite, which I would not have blamed him, as it had already been an action-packed day.

Surprisingly, Bob rose from the couch, donned a baseball cap and Polartec and slowly made his way out the door and up the driveway, to meet the neighbors as they made their way back past our house. I joined him, with Rocco on leash and Gaia behind bars on the deck (she loves, loves, loves people, but basically hates other dogs, so it's best to keep her separated). We spent at least 15-20 minutes chatting, laughing and shooting the breeze with our neighbors—two families, with children and dogs—out for a late afternoon walk. Such a great time. The only thing missing were beers!

When Bob commented that his head was getting cold (he had only a baseball cap to cover those 12 hairs left on his scalp), the group called their children back, we untangled the dogs, we said our goodbye's, and all were on their merry way. We returned to the house, Bob to the couch, me to my laundry. A few minutes passed and Bob shuffled into the kitchen. He said to me, "I really liked having Jill and Amelia out here today. And I'm really glad you told me the neighbors were walking by, so I could go outside and say 'hi.' Today, was a really good day for me. Instead of popping an Ativan, all I needed was to talk to some people . . . I feel really good today . . ." Hugs, not drugs, is our new motto!

So, a few more days at home, then hopefully, we'll be packing Bob up for one more stint at Club Chemo. He has said that this time, he wants visitors. Lots of 'em. Stay tuned!

LOVE!

Jen, Bob, Gaia and Rocco

Let your tears come. Let them water your soul . . . Ellen Mayhew

This week has brought more relief for Bob as far as physical side effects are concerned—fewer and less intense—no additional hair loss, no mouth sores, the skin on his hands is healing, even his appetite continues to improve. I finally convinced him to let me give him a haircut the other day, so he now looks less like Beetlejuice and more like just a dude with thin hair (seriously, he hadn't had a haircut since October—the long, stringy, wispy wisps that he hid under baseball caps in public but subjected me to behind closed doors were really starting to scare me . . .) We're going to try pizza tonight for dinner, which is also a big deal; every day, his meals and food cravings/choices have become more broad and varied, just like the old Bob, who used to eat anything and everything . . . lots of positives, thinks to be grateful for.

But, I see that the waiting game is wearing on him. . . guess we're trading physical side effects for mental ones at this point in the game. I'm amazed it's taken this long to take its toll. . .no matter what Bob has faced in life, he's never played the victim card, never been one to be comfortable with pity . . . he's been so strong during these long days, and if he has tough times, he definitely keeps them to himself. But yesterday, I think, it all finally caught up to him. I got a text at work from him, "I've been crying all day, don't know why . . ." Call me crazy, but I think I might have an idea . . .

This whole ordeal has been going on for months—since the end of October—and it's definitely been an exercise in patience, perseverance, faith, will, whatever you care to call it. Bob has not worked since the end of October. He has had little contact with friends and family, outside of me and visits from his parents; part of that is due to his condition and not being able to get out and about much, or just not feeling well enough to be up for visitors. Another piece in the isolation factor is that we live in the boonies—if someone did wish to stop in for a visit, it's not an easy trek out here to our little house in the wilderness . . .

He spends hours alone, at home. Exactly what he does while I'm at work is unknown, though I could probably guess and be close. With limited mobility, he has few choices. Lot's of TV, I'm sure. Sleeps when he can, same with eating. Reading is difficult, because he still can't sit, and reading is usually most comfortably done sitting in an easy chair . . . writing e-mails or blog entries takes much effort, as he has to do so standing up, which fatigues his leg. Now, with the mild weather, he takes little walks outside, to get the mail, maybe out to the garage to putter a bit. Before all this happened, he would be out in the back yard this time of year, burning piles of buckthorn that he'd cleared in the fall.

Concerning Bob's condition itself. . . the sheer enormity of it weighs heavily, oppressively, I'm sure most intensely when he's here alone, while I'm at work. Lots of time, too much time, to think about what has happened, what is happening to him, what lies ahead. I think back to when this all began, and all he has been through since then. The astounding pain he's endured—physical, mental, emotional . . . is beyond anything I could ever comprehend. I try to imagine the worst pain I've ever experienced and come up with nothing. Nothing, in comparison to what I've seen Bob endure. . . mental as well as physical. Nothing holds up to what he's faced.

The fact that he's on heavy-duty opiates to control the pain, yet he's never without pain, it never, truly goes away . . . at best, it's "controlled" at about a 3 on the 1-10 reference scale doctors, nurses all use (though I always translate that in my head as a 5; I believe that Bob and others who suffer chronic pain, have a very high pain tolerance. A 3 in their world is at least a few notches higher for the rest of us wimps . . .) The pain is a constant reminder of what he's living with right now. The pills are constant reminders. The blankets draped on the couches, his side of the bed that's never slept on, the bottles of Ensure, the golf clubs that sit in the corner of the basement . . . no matter which direction he turns, the reminders hat his life has been hijacked, kidnaped, and no ransom note left behind. No signs, no clues no hints as to if or when or how much of his old life, our old life together, will be returned.

I get my strength from Bob; if he seems okay, is in good spirits, I'm okay and in good spirits.

When he has bad days, I have bad days . . .when he told me he broke down yesterday afternoon, when talking to the Palliative care nurse, and couldn't stop crying all day, I told him that on my way to work, I cried and cried, till my eyes were hot and blurred and I could barely see the road. When I got home last night, I sat on the floor next to him lying on the couch. We entwined arms and cried some more. This morning, we both feel better. At least a little. Crying releases some of the pressure, the emotions that have no where else to go but out. Like fissures in the Earth's crust, letting all that boiling, churning, hissing stuff out . . .Bob doesn't like to cry, doesn't like to feel weak, like this is beating him down. . . I try to tell him that's not what crying does, that it cleanses, releases, and it's okay . . . then again, I'm a big crybaby, and can cry at the drop of a hat. . . maybe trying to justify my own helplessness . . .

Bob goes into to see Doc S. next week; we're hoping nothing delays the next round of chemo, the in-patient gig. Bob said he's looking forward to Club Chemo; at least there, despite the never-ending flurry of activity (and interesting roommates), at least someone is always around, someone is always there to look after him, to make sure he's okay, to address pain, fatigue, appetite, nausea with the press of a button. Hopefully, we'll have a better idea, too, of when surgery will be performed. Even that is a big fat question mark. . . .the photo above is one of my favorites of Bob. Maybe I've posted it on a previous blog, I don't remember. Even so, it bears repeating. Reminds me that this is what I need to keep my sights on. That Bob will be strong and healthy again.

My guess is that all of this is why he finally gave in to the tears, the heaviness of it all. But then again, I've said it once, I'll say it many more times, what the hell do I know . . .

60 degrees and feelin' the breeze . . .

Sunday, March 14, 2010

After a long, dreary, nearly-two-weeks of very dark and tough days, we've had a most unexpected day of sunny, 60 degree bliss and I can't even begin to tell you how miraculous this has been, on our spirits, our energy, our life. Well, I'm sure I don't have to, as we've all been through the same long, bleak, dreary (read: normal MN) winter together, right?!? Or, maybe it's just that my PMS is finally passing . . .

The first week and a half or so after Bob's latest chemo infusions were tough. Side effects weren't intense; in fact, most didn't make an appearance this time—no mouth sores, no more hair loss, no hospital admission; likely due to lower doses of both Doxil and Cisplatin this time around. But this time, it was more like a long bout with general flu-like symptoms. Waves of nausea (no vomiting, though), no appetite, no energy, mental and physical fatigue, lots of sleeping . . . Last time, Bob was hospitalized because of severe side effects and had nurses at his beck and call. Pain? Shot of this. Nausea? Shot of that. Dehydrated? IV of fluids. Discomfort? Something else. Any little change in condition, and a nurse appeared to erase his symptoms. This time 'round, Bob just has me, sorely unequipped with skills and magic potions to ease his discomfort; several times I asked if he wanted to go in to the U, or needed me to call the oncology on-call person. He said no, isn't that bad, just needs to ride it out.

As though on cue with the weather and the time change, Bob began to feel better over this past weekend. Started off kind of slow and tired, but ended with a, well, maybe not a bang!, but certainly with a happy sigh, a tummy full of burgers and the warm feeling that perhaps that really, truly is spring, just around the corner. The timing is serendipitous, I think. The seasons waxing, waning . . .Bob's side effects waxing, waning . . . the timing is too coincidental, a lovely little blessing, to be just "accident," don't you think? Then again, in this big ol' world, what the hell do I know . . .

I spend the better part of Saturday morning picking up dog shit. (Sorry for the crude language, but shit is the only word in the English language that accurately describes what my dogs, Gaia in particular, leave in the yard. Poop, doo-doo, droppings—sorely inadequate . . .) Add that to my growing list of newfound "skills and attributes," along with the snow-blowing, champagne-cork-popping . . . oh! and lighting-the-grill-with-a-really-long-match-because-the-igniter-thingy-doesn't-work. Still working on that one, because I have a serious aversion to propane tanks blowing up in my face.

Before this winter, I was blissfully unaware of just how much our dogs eliminated. Yes, that too, had been Bob's job. Hey! He likes the outdoors, so don't go and start feeling sorry for him! I walk our doggies dang near every day—an even trade, in my book. To be fair, Bob did offer to do doo-doo detail, but the melting snow exposed many, many organic-matter land mines in the front and back yard, in some cases, literally (and I don't mean that figuratively) piles. Way too much for a less-than-able-bodied person to handle. Add to that Bob's queasy stomach has been rather queasy for several days—not a good combo.

In my world, that poop would have been left in the backyard, to ferment, then eventually disintegrate with the melting snow, into the ground, fertilizing the earth with organic matter. By May, we'd have a lush, emerald lawn, all thanks to Mother Nature and the dogs! But, no. Bob says, "We really need to get out there and pick up some of that dog shit that's exposed, thanks to the melting snow. Looks terrible." There's the royal we again. . .

So, there I am, scoopin' poop in the back yard on Saturday, in my fire-engine red rubber boots and and rain jacket in the intermittent mist. With every step, I envision slipping in the mess and tumbling down our backyard, arse over teakettle in fecal matter. (I'm sorry, were some of you eating?) Praise the lord that didn't happen. Filled a trash can FULL of dog excrement, when all was said and done. Funny thing is, there are people who actually chose to do this for a living. . .

We headed out to Barnes & Nobel's Saturday afternoon (after a shower and change of shoes, of course); Bob was feeling pretty good and wanted to get out for a while, maybe find a few new magazines. We made it to the big box store, went our separate ways—Bob to magazines, I, to clearance racks. We were in there for maybe a half hour when Bob found me and handed me his small stack of magazines. "Check these out for me, please? I need to get outside . . ." A quick exchange of questions and he was gone. I stood in line, wondering if Bob was retching at the curbside, if he was passed out on the sidewalk. While I waited my turn, I heard a car alarm blaring outside. I thought, "I wonder if that's Bob. . . wonder if he knows how to turn that off . . ." See, my car has a little "issue" with the remote entry, and because Bob isn't driving these days, he may have forgotten . . .I quickly paid for my items and ran outside, where I found Bob lying in the backseat of the car, head resting on his arms.

He said he started to feel nauseous in the store, then very hot, then very nauseous again, and wasn't sure if he was going to throw up or just needed some fresh air. Didn't throw up, but felt good to get outside. "Was that our car alarm going off?" I asked. Yes, it was, he said, surprised I could hear it from inside the building. Just pressed some buttons and it eventually turned off, he said. Our outing was cut short, as Bob just wanted to go home at that point. As we're driving, I spied a Dairy Queen and asked if he was up for ice cream, thinking it was probably a dumb question as soon as I asked. To my surprise, I heard a muffled yes from the back seat, so I pulled into the lot, ran inside and picked up two small Heath Blizzards (and a small order of fries for me. Can't have sweet without the salt. Try it some time—scoop up ice cream with fries. Eat. Blissful decadence.)

When we got home, Bob ate most of his ice cream, picking out the Heath pieces (too sharp and hard; mouth is a little tender now and then), and then rested most of the afternoon and into the evening. Little waves of nausea now and then, but nothing more. I went to a friend's for dinner (our monthly girlfriend night). Good company, good food, good friends. As usual, I couldn't completely enjoy myself, checking my phone constantly, in case Bob should call.

Sunday was our surprise day. Woke up to overcast skies but no rain. Bob wanted to go on a walk, so we saddled Gaia up and took a nice leisurely walk down our road, at least a quarter mile, then turned around, made our way back. As we walked, the clouds gave way to sunny skies, the temps warmed up and before we knew it, we were enveloped in real, live warmth! When we got back, I shed my polartec for long sleeve t-shirt and vest, got Rocco on his walk-run, and then left Bob to rest while I ran errands, the usual Cub, Target . . . when I finally got back home, Bob was puttering around in the garage. Car thermometer read 63 degrees, I had the windows down. For a brief moment, our lives felt just like old times, like a good ol' run-of-the-mill weekend.

I unloaded groceries and Target junk and then declared it the First Day to Have a Beer on the Deck in 2010 Day. Popped open a bottle of Bell's HopSlam and went out to the picnic table on the deck, overlooking our back yard. Bob and the dogs joined me. Bob said burgers sounded great for dinner, so he fired up the grill and did the honors (I asked him to once again, show me how to light our igniter-challenged grill . . . don't know if I'll ever get that down pat. Scares the beejeepers out of me, peering into the innards of the grill, propane tank hissing, flame of the match inching toward explosive gas . . . ). Beautiful, beautiful day.

The next few days have brought continual improvements for Bob. In fact, yesterday, he said that except for the pain in his leg, he feels fantastic. Penny and Jim arrived yesterday, to stay for a few days. As usual, they came bearing loads of grub and lots of energy. Had homemade ham and bean soup for lunch yesterday, chicken and rice with asparagus for dinner last night. Good eatin'!

One more week of waiting, then into Doc S. next Tuesday, the 23rd. Hopefully, Bob will start the inpatient gig right away next week (last time, Doc pushed it back a week, because Bob was still dealing with mouth sores and other issues). We'll hopefully find out on Tuesday when surgery is planned, too. Wish I had more exciting news to share but these past few weeks have been pretty low-key. I know it's all part of the process, part of the journey, and I know lots and lots of people are keeping Bob in their thoughts and prayers. . . wish we had something more to give you than my ramblings . . .

I should keep these entries shorter and sweeter (less dog poop, more flowers . . .), maybe write more frequently, but less wordy . . . sometimes the heaviness of this bears down, makes it hard to write anything at all. Not much may have happened externally, but much goes on internally, emotionally, mentally . . . I write what I think, what I see, sometime more just to get some of this out, release the pressure, lighten the load, and sometimes I write about the ridiculous, the inane, the downright stupid, because it's easier than the alternative. . . Unfortunately for you all, you have to bear the weight of this, too, wallow through the muck and mire, and the sunshine and good days, right along with us. I can't speak for Bob, and I know it's hard for him to add blog entries, as it takes a big effort on his part, to be standing for any length of time, to get something down to share. As such, your stuck with me, and my ramblings, rants and raves. . .

We cherish the prayers, good juju, thoughts, luck o' the Irish sent our way. We are constantly surrounded with it, enveloped in it, lifted by it. Even on the hard days. Powerful stuff, peeps . . .

LOVE! to all. Happy St. Patty's too, btw! Toss a pint back in Bob's honor, if you're out 'n' about . . .

The seasons and all their changes are in me . . . Henry David Thoreau

I have a love-hate relationship with this interim season, this sloppy, dirty, gritty time of year. By March, my house feels so stale and grungy, the dogs track in mud and sand constantly (little Rocco tracks dot the basement floor, gotta remember to go wipe those up later . . .). So many heavy grey days layered upon us . . . old, crusty snow, covered in dirt, a far cry from the sparkly white fluff of December, ground is sloppy, muddy. Despite all that, I welcome it—well, maybe not with open arms, and maybe welcome is the wrong word—knowing that all of this is necessary, that beneath the grunge, the drab landscape and the wet, heavy grey that envelops us, amazing things are happening. The earth is reverberating with unseen energy, making preparations for the grass to green, flowers to surface, buds to pop, birds to return. . . funny, how I find so many correlations, so many things in life around us that seem to be in sync with what Bob is going through. The chemo is ugly, too, does ugly things to my husband's body and spirit, but it is necessary, for him to become well again . . . like the seasons, we have no choice but to tolerate it, maybe try to find the good, the reason for it all. Or maybe just try not to think too hard about any of it, but to simply try to get through it, the best we can. . .

The other day, Bob noticed our home decor has morphed into "Contemporary Chemotherapy." Sofas are now beds, their pillows strewn about the living room, dining room table has become a pharmacy, bottles of hand sanitizer and Clorox wipes at every sink . . . bottles of Ensure and Powerade fill the cupboards. Oh, and can't forget the crop of get well and thinking-of-you cards growing at a healthy rate atop the china cabinet (which warm my heart whenever I look at them). Look for these decorating tips and more in the latest issue of Martha Stewart's Living. . .

I think of all this, I dislike this waiting period, this interim season, the most. The three weeks between treatments are an exercise in torture. Seems like nothing is happening, nothing to report, no visible changes in Bob's condition. I have to go to work, leave Bob home alone. I think about him all day, how he's doing, what he's doing, if he's getting rest, if his pain is being held at bay. . . has he eaten anything, are the dogs behaving, has he talked to anyone (on the phone, e-mail, texting), to stay connected, keeping in touch. I talk about him all day at work; can't help it, clients and coworkers are concerned and ask, but it's tiring, I try to make it quick and change the subject. Underscores the fact that this is a part of our life—no—this is our life. For now. No escaping it, hiding it, ignoring it.

This past week has been tough for Bob. Nothing earth-shattering, as far as side effects are concerned; in fact, other than low-grade nausea now and then, and the little side-trip to the ER on Sunday, Bob's side effects have been unremarkable. No mouth sores, no more hair loss. But he said it's one of the toughest periods yet; his energy level has been off, and his appetite isn't as good as I thought it'd be, considering the mouth sores aren't interfering. Nausea comes and goes, nothing tastes good. He's been quite tired, more wiped out, even more so than he's been in a long time, doesn't feel like talking to anyone. . . Maybe, in addition to side effects of chemo, he's feeling the effects of the weather as the rest of us are. Clients left and right talk about feeling lethargic, unmotivated, about going home after work, to pj's and TV. I feel the same, like I could just stay in bed for days on end, till the sun returns. I can only hope that this is another hump that he just needs to ride over, then things will begin to progress again.

I worry about Bob being so isolated, so alone while I'm at work. He's more of a home-body,

always has been. He loves it out here, the peaceful little retreat that is our home, with the woods behind the house, the wildlife, the quiet solitude. He, single-handedly, has cleared our buckthorn-choked backyard into a park-like setting (even though he knows it's a futile effort—one bird pooping or the wind blowing even a single seed back into the yard . . . ). Derived hours of pleasure, hacking, chopping, burning . . . "doin' chores," he called it. But that was back when he had a choice in the matter. Now, being essentially in solitary confinement for four months and counting; it's got to take a toll. . . I almost stopped at Best Buy and picked up a wii last night. But then my common sense took over: you shouldn't waste $300 on a freakin' video game, Jen . . . that, and the last time Bob and I played a wii, I kicked his ass good, in tennis. I was sooo awesome! On FIRE! Then I thought, I just couldn't subject Bob to that humiliation again. With that, I drove past the exit to Best Buy, to the one that leads me home.

I allow myself one bad day every few weeks, a day where I am just unmotivated, driven to tears, despondent, helpless, angry, sad, wistful, envious of people talking about vacations to sunny locations. . . then I shake it off and move on . . . I remind myself that even though things may not be going according to my plans, things are happening beneath the surface, at microscopic levels, that will bring my husband closer to health again. I'm grateful to have a schedule that allows me flexibility to be with Bob as he's going through this. I remind myself of all the people who are praying for Bob, thinking of him, sending him thoughts, prayers, Irish blessings, pixie dust (persistent li'l buggers), blog comments, e-mails, text messages, phone calls, kind words at work, bags of cookies in the mailbox, bags of treats from clients at work, tasty dinners from my sister. The kindness, the thoughtfulness, the generosity, the support. I'm grateful for the gray, heavy days that slowly rinse away the snow, making way for green of spring. And think that maybe this wasn't the best year to take a winter vacation, with all the crazy weather across the globe. There will be other times for trips.

A friend sent me a link to a Jimmy Buffet song, Breathe In, Breathe Out, Move On, written the wake of Hurricane Katrina, but as my friend, said, is a fitting song no matter what your facing in life. Hopefully, the link works and you find a few minutes to listen to this beautiful song. Reminds me that Jimmy Buffet can be quite the philosopher, as well as party dude. Reminds me that the very, very least, when days are dark, and my heart is heavy, the very least I can do, that anyone can do, is breathe in, breathe out and move on.

Day trippin' to the ER . . .

Brought Bob into the ER this morning, as he has been incredibly restless for the past few days, irritable—well, anxious, really . . .hasn't slept well at all, and his appetite hasn't been great, along with nausea that ebbs and flows in intensity (but no vomiting, thankfully . . . ) Didn't feel he could wait till the Masonic clinic's regular business hours to go in to see his doctor, and I'm glad he made the call.

Last night, he mentioned that we maybe we should be on standby to go in to the ER, because his symptoms were reminiscent of what happened six weeks ago. He thought he'd try to lay low, give it the night and see if the morning was any better. He woke me once at 2 a.m., to tell me he was having a hard time sleeping, that he felt restless, couldn't get comfortable, couldn't sit still, kind of like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. I asked if he wanted to go in right then, he said, no, he thought he would be able to wait till the morning; maybe he'd eventually become so exhausted that he'd just crash and eventually feel better in the a.m.

He wasn't better this morning, in fact, he felt worse. He woke me around 6 or so, saying it definitely felt like the symptoms he had six weeks ago were starting to return. I suggested he call the oncology on-call fellow (and I'm not just saying, "fellow," as opposed to "gal;" no, that would be fellow, as in "part of an elite group of learned people who work together as peers in the pursuit of knowledge or practice." And that would be lear-ned, as in two syllables, not one, a la Homer Simpson . . .those U peeps are quite lofty, being an educational hospital, y'know . . .), to tell him what's been going on, what our plan was, if there's anything else we could/should do . . .the on-call fellow said to definitely head in to the U, and that he'd alert the ER that we were on our way.

The events of six weeks ago are still quite raw in my mind, and even more so with Bob, so it was a relief to hear the on-call doc affirm our plan. Bob slowly climbed into the car, along with an overnight bag, just in case, and we buzzed down 94 for the eleventeen-thousandth time since all this began. A little more than 20 minutes later, I pulled into the ER lot, parked the car, whipped out the handicap permit and hung it on the rearview before retrieving Bob from the backseat. Not a whole lot going on around the ER on an early Sunday morning, I noted, as we walked into an eerie silent ER lobby. Other than a security guard and the triage nurse, no one else was visible in the joint. Again, I guess we planned our emergency at just the right time. . .

After getting checked in, Bob was escorted to a curtained room, told to change into a gown, and that the doctor would be with him shortly. Few minutes later, Doc showed up, ran down the requisite list of admitting questions, then got a condensed version of why we brought Bob in: that he was starting to exhibit some of the same signs and symptoms he had six weeks ago when Bob first started chemo, and we were trying to ward off another episode of that. Doc ordered IV fluids, pain meds and anti-nausea meds, along with blood work and a urine analysis. The whole process took nearly three hours, with taking blood and urine samples, waiting for test results, interpreting the results and acting accordingly. Bob's sodium levels looked great (thankfully), but his magnesium levels were low, not dangerously, but enough to possibly be causing some of the side effects he was experiencing—anxiety, restlessness and sleeplessness, confusion, trembling (not nearly the level of horrifying tremors he had back when he had his very first round of chemo), many very similar to the low sodium . . .

He was given an IV of magnesium, as well as an anti-nausea med via IV, which took about an hour to drip into Bob. I asked the doctor if anxiety in and of itself could be causing at least some of these problems, and if so, could Bob be given something to help him relax, possibly get some sleep . . . Doc concurred and said he'd prescribe Bob an anti-anxiety med, to take as needed while getting through this rough patch. He then said for us to follow up with Bob's primary doc at the U tomorrow, to see how the night went.

And with that, Bob was discharged and we were heading back on 94 toward home. This whole episode has me thinking hard about the psychological side effects of cancer, of chemotherapy. It's an issue that is not directly addressed—I mean, it's mentioned in all the literature—depression, anger, sadness, as the most obvious psychological reactions. But the anxiety, the restlessness, the listlessness that Bob is experiencing is nothing that I can comprehend, and is even hard for Bob to articulate. Pain, he can describe. Feelings are tough. Are they from the medications? Originating from the circumstance itself? From Bob's own thoughts and wonderings? Yes, yes, and yes, I'm sure is the answer, but they're also easy to disguise, camouflage, obliterate. Maybe not intentionally, but . . .

Tonight has been another "lay low" kind of night. Bob's slept on and off pretty much all day since we got back from the hospital. He did eat almost all of a grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch, along with grapes; for dinner, he had pasta with butter (I'd made pasta with mushrooms, hot sausage, spinach and sundried tomatoes for dinner with my sister, Gretch, last night), peaches and a small handful of cashews (a good natural source of magnesium, I told him, after my lengthy internet search on "low magnesium levels." I'm also once again reminded how deep this thing runs, that this cancer not only has my husband's physical well-being in its grips, but his mind at times, as well. No matter how I try, no matter that I live with him and spend so many hours in the same room with him, day to day, week by week, month by month, there is no way I will ever begin to comprehend even one iota what Bob is going through . . . people constantly ask me, "Jen, how are you doing in the midst of all this?" Witnessing what I have to this point, nothing, absolutely nothing I experience in any way, shape or form even begins to compare to what Bob is dealing, with, on so many levels, facets . . . my job is a cakewalk in light of his . . .