Diarrhea of the keyboard . . .

I just can't seem to stop posting today . . . sorry, my fingers have the runs today, and I gotta write some of this down before I lose it . . . in the midst of all the shit, the rotten, rotten shit that's been flung in our direction for the past seven months and counting, if you want to get technical, but particularly of late, if you want to get specific, I just have to share yet another tidbit (yeah, yeah, yeah . . . I can hear the collective "you all's" out there going, Tidbit, Jen? Really?!? NONE of your blogs have been so-called "tidbits . . .") . . . there is something, just something in Bob's voice tonight that, even in it's weakened and still tinged-with-confusion state, is emitting a sense of strength, of determination, of clarity, that I haven't heard from him in a very long time . . . so hard to explain, especially given the events of the past week and a half, and how he was even just last night, which seems light years away from how I found him today, especially given the care conference and the proverbial ton of bricks that was dumped upon us with that, which will take some time to sort through, to process, to come to terms with . . .

Penny and Jim arrived this morning to be here at the care conference with us, stayed the afternoon and then went to pick up dinner for us from Applebee's before they took off for our house, to let the dogs out, feed 'em, hopefully get to bed early. Nearly the entire day, Bob has seemed so coherent, lucid and was having a great time joking with his nurses and lab techs who come in to draw blood. (Especially this evening's nurse, Leigh. Bob wears these adhesive, topical analgesic patches over the main area of pain on the backside of his leg, just below his butt. Any nurse who comes in and, barely after the introduction, says, "Okay, Bob, drop your drawers so I can slap this patch on your bootie!" is a-okay in my book. Hell, what am I saying? A-okay in his book.)

I was just in awe when he slowly got up from his bed and shuffled around the curtain to greet the new patient who had just been wheeled into the room, another cardiac patient who sounds like he's not in the best shape right now, but very graciously accepted Bob's introduction with a big smile). We picked on each other just like old times, we went on a few walks (he's back to walking with just his cane, and right now has nothing attached to the IV lines in his arms, so he walks unencumbered). We actually had conversations in which he was engaged, responsive, interested. Today, despite all the past week's events, was a very good day.

But, don't get me wrong. It's not like I'm sitting here all rosey-eyed and happy, thinking thoughts of puppies and flowers, and how ain't life just grand? 'Cuz that ain't it at all. I'm still holding my breath, still reeling from the last round of events of the past week, still wondering if, when, how this will all end. Still am terrified of the form in which the next crisis will arrive. . . still cried my eyes out at the care conference and again on my way home from the hospital tonight, and know that no matter what path we decide for him, Bob's life will never, ever be the same again. I mean ever. But, in spite, despite it all, I feel Bob is back. I hear it in his voice.