Back home . . . again . . .

Bob was discharged today and I'm at once ecstatic and terrified, as he is (maybe not quite terrified, but then again, he doesn't remember much of the traumatic stuff, which is a good thing) . . . trying not to let previous discharge experiences take over . . . Bob's been anxious to get home, but he definitely called the shots on this one—wanted to wait till today, until he felt comfortable that all things were going in the right direction, that he was showing strong signs of improving. Once again, I am simply astounded at his resiliency, his ability to rebound after such a horrific past two weeks. I'm beginning to lose track of which week was worse than the others, which is why I work hard at pushing those kinds of thoughts out of my mind. Takes a lot out of a girl . . .

I know he's glad to be home, but still in "getting settled" mode. Hasn't had much of an appetite, and I've already apologized in advance for the nagging I'll do on that subject. He's back down to 115 lbs (much of the weight loss was water weight, from the Lasix he's now on), so we have to do everything we can to keep the pounds on him. Made one of my "famous" Ensure malts for him; he ate maybe 1/3 of it (it was a big malt) . . . saved the rest for another day, maybe tomorrow.

A flurry of follow-up appointments are in the process of being scheduled over the course of the next two weeks: oncology, cardiology, orthopedic surgeon, palliative care, neuropsych evaluation, though I'm thinking that last one might be ix-nayed, as both Bob and I feel strongly that his mental capacities have been returning every day. The confusion, the hallucinations, the personality snafus are but a memory—albeit, a vivid one—and his EEG came back with no signs of anything funky going on up there. We'll see . . .

Just wanted to give a quick update about the B-man ("What?!? JEN giving a QUICK update?! What's this world coming to????" Not to worry, dear followers. Maybe more tomorrow. Or maybe not.) and will now head to bed, because thanks to WebMD's Symptom Checker, I've turned into a hypochondriac and now diagnosed myself with strep throat and may be trotting into Urgent care in the a.m. No sense suffering (and putting Bob's health in jeopardy) needlessly like I did last time . . . and seriously, can we just say, WTF? First bronchitis, now possibly strep? I NEVER get sick . . . honestly, it had to be nearly 20 years since I last had a round of antibiotics . . . clorox wipes abound in the house right now, as I'm so scared of getting Bob sick. . . I should have grabbed a box of those face masks found on every corner of the hospital, too. Dammit.

I've been seriously contemplating quitting my job and finding something that's more flexible (wait, that should be the other way around: find the job first before quitting the one I already have), perhaps a little more mindless, a kind of job I can just go to, do my work and leave. Kind of hard to do that with my current position . . . we live this crisis all day, every day and to go to work and have to relive it over and over, with each client, is more than I can bear. I love my clients, have known most for so many years—more like family and friends than "just" clients—so of course they're going to be concerned and ask about Bob . . . but, first of all, how do I even begin to give a quick little synopsis of what he's been going through? Ain't possible, but at the same time, it's nearly impossible to not talk about him . . . and quite honestly, I'm so preoccupied with all that's gone on and continues to go on with Bob . . . I'm reaching that point where my attitude is dangerously careering toward, "What? You don't like the haircut? Deal with it. It's hair, for god's sake. Not cancer . . . " Not a good place to be, my friends, if you're the one beneath my shears . . .

Second, no, actually, this should be firstly, as it's the most important: I need to be available for Bob easily, to take him to appointments, talk to his doctors, to be with him, there for him at a moment's notice, which is so hard with my appointment-based business . . . if this journey hasn't already driven that point home, these past few weeks have solidified it. I haven't worked in two weeks (just can't figure out a way to telecommute as a hairdresser . . .), and am sick at the very thought of going in on Tuesday . . . we have some very serious decisions to be made over the course of the next few weeks, many very important appointments that I have to be with Bob . . . it's not like he's having his appendix taken out. It's a serious predicament, with a serious surgery pending, with serious implications . . . no matter what Bob ultimately decides to do, surgery or no surgery, his life will never be what it once was, it will be altered dramatically, incomprehensibly, at this point . . . these things are not to be decided lightly.

I can't just up and quit, sooooooooo . . . .if anyone just happens to know of a job that I could do on my laptop/phone, at any time, anywhere, in the comfort of my own home, or the family room at the U of M oncology unit, or in the ER, or waiting room of the Masonic cancer clinic, please let me know and I'll fire off a cover letter and resume . . . even in the midst of a crisis, I'm a conscientious, hard worker, have a strong MN work ethic, am pretty quick on the uptake, am flexible . . . and can do fabulous hair on the side, at a steep discount, if you don't mind kneeling over my bathroom tub . . . ridiculous, I know, but hey, doesn't hurt to ask . . . and in case anyone hasn't noticed, I kinda got over caring about looking sane a long time ago . . .

Anyhow, g'night to all. LOVE! J & B