Every day, little improvements . . .

I'm sitting at Bob's bedside as he tries to settle down for an afternoon nap. He just had lunch—cheeseburger, fries, chocolate shake . . . he ate maybe half of his lunch, if that, before pushing it aside to lie down. So much has happened this past week, the last blog entry, epic as it was, didn't even begin to cover everything that has transpired . . . I was re-reading it this morning and though of a million other things that I could have, should have written about, and some things that maybe I shouldn't have . . . then, I think, this is the place for the good, the bad and the ugly, as this is our life, right now . . .

I made the decision months ago, to share this journey, to put it out there for all the world to see, an effort to keep friends and family connected to Bob and what he's going through, as he's been so disconnected, severed, really, from the life he used to be a part of . . . so many times, I've regretted this along the way, have wanted to stop . . . it's gone on far too long, with no end in sight. Little updates are impossible, for with Bob's situation, there aren't ever just "little" things to update; it's been major crisis after crisis . . . there's just no way to sanitize this story, clean it up, downplay . . . sometimes I try, to keep from sounding overly dramatic or to spare everyone the ugly details, but to do that falsifies, minimizes the very serious nature of Bob's situation and also minimizes the amazing, miraculous rebounds he continues to make in the face of the intense battle he's fighting. Yet these words are so inadequate, fall so short . . . as a family friend put it, Bob's been through war, man, he's been through a war . . . reminds me of a quote I'd included in a blog entry an eternity ago: "If you're going through hell, keep going . . ." There's no such thing as a quick update with Bob's situation. Had I known that seven months ago, I would never have started this online journal. . .

Saturdays aren't quite as busy as weekdays here on 6B, but still lots of activity in Bob's room today. He's had a round of cardiac rehab this morning; everyone is so surprised that, even in his weakened and still somewhat muddled mental state, he's so spry and practically leaps to his feet from a seemingly catatonic state, to go on a walk around the unit. Several teams of doctors, mostly oncologists at this point, since his care has been transferred to their care, have stopped in to see how he's doing, give us updates on what they're learning about his recovery, tidbits on what developments are brewing for future treatment plans. We ran into a team of oncologists on his walk this a.m., they were so encouraged with how he looks and how well he was moving about the unit.

Amazingly, Bob is almost 100% back with us mentally—very little hallucinations or extreme agitation are evident today (just a little delirium now and then, when he wakes from a nap, but he catches himself in the middle of a hallucination, with a weak laugh, saying, "Oh nothing . . . never mind . . ."). This is remarkable, considering how mentally whacked-out he's been over the past few days. I was told yesterday that though the liver is quite resilient, it may take up to two weeks to recover from the damage done by the heart attack, and can take at least that long for Bob to regain full mental capacity. Today, we're told his liver is recovering astoundingly well, which possibly means the medications that weren't being metabolized are now being processed, getting out of his system. He's still restless, anxious and very tired, but fights sleeping, despite everyone's coaxing, encouraging, cajoling.

The trade-off to a clearer mind means that his pain has returned, dammit. . . just one more instance out of a million that shows how very precarious and tenuous his condition is. Such a delicate balancing act, that can be tipped into chaos with the flutter of a butterfly wing . . . Right now, he's afraid to take too many pills, as in his mind, that's what caused the brain fog and he doesn't want that to return. His nurses have been able to convince him to take small amounts of Dilauded here and there, which is helping to bring the pain down to a tolerable level, but not back to that blissful level 1 to 2 that he briefly enjoyed over the past few days. Actually, in his mental fog, he couldn't even really enjoy that reprieve from his pain . . .

So, today, we're told that the bacterial infection in his blood is clearing, though he'll be on a

round of antibiotics for at least another week or so. His liver function is rebounding, his heart is, once again, recovering very well. He had some major swelling in his left arm, from the elbow down—looked like Popey's arm—so he had an ultrasound done to see if a blood clot was causing the swelling. That came back clear, so he's probably just retaining fluids in an odd way (he did that back during his last heart attack, but it was in his right foot then). His right foot is fat and puffy, too, but both look better than they did yesterday, so hopefully it'll continue to dissipate over time.

Sounds like Bob'll be in the hospital at least till Tuesday; there's been talk about moving him up to 7D at some point, to the oncology unit he knows all too well, but we haven't had any specifics about that yet. His nurse removed the annoying Foley catheter (the one inserted in the bladder to drain urine), so he can once again urinate unencumbered, though he did say it was kind of nice to simply pee whenever the mood struck, without ever having to leave the bed . . .

Tuesday is another big day. We have a patient care conference scheduled with all the players in Bob's care: the surgeons, the cardiologists, oncologists, and we, meaning me, Bob's parents and Bob, if he's up for it, to meet and discuss the game plan moving forward. My homework for the weekend is to come up with all the questions I possibly can . . .