The official definition of "Between a Rock and a Hard Place"

My "baby" sister, Gretchen, got married to her beloved, Brian, this past weekend and what a lovely day it was, despite the heat and humidity. The bride and groom were stunning, the ceremony a tear-jerker, the flowers and all the decos breathtaking, and the day went without a hitch, despite tornado sirens closing down the dance a little earlier than expected. Thankfully, all made it home safely. . .

(pic is of Gretchen, Brian and his daughter, Sophi)

Even though I knew in my head that Bob likely wouldn't feel well enough to attend, a little piece of me still held out hope that maybe Saturday would be a "good" day for him and he would feel up for coming to at least the ceremony, accompanied by his parents. No such luck. Not only was he not feeling well enough physically, I think the idea of facing so many people in a public setting at once (when his microscopic world, for the past eight months, has consisted of me, his parents and medical professionals), sent him into a mini panic attack until I convinced him that it's okay that he didn't come, Gretchen understands, I understand, no one was expecting it.

I was grateful Penny and Jim were able to come up Friday, so I could partake in the events of the weekend, but what a tug-o-war of emotions it was, to feel elated for Gretchen and Brian and their special day and so wanting to be a part of this monumental chapter in my sister's life, but so sad that Bob couldn't be there and share in it, too. Had some guilt mixed in there, too, I'll admit . . . no, not some. An immense amount . . .that I am able to just up and go to the groom's dinner, the wedding festivities, the dance, whatever I want, whenever I want to . . . but Bob simply cannot. Even if he felt well enough to attend the wedding, he'd have to rely on someone to get him to and from . . .

I kept thinking about our own wedding, almost 15 years ago, same kind of soupy day, tornado warnings that night, too. Gretchen wasn't even 21 then. I remember catching a glimpse of Bob standing next to his parents, before the ceremony, crying (now that I think about it, maybe they weren't the tears of joy I'd assumed they were). . . we danced all night, my entire face ached from all the smiling, laughter, talking . . .so many friends and family with us to celebrate . . . we had the "honeymoon" suite at our hotel, but the only action in the jacuzzi that night was me soaking my throbbing feet . . .

I stayed at Gretchen's reception and dance, for as long as I could, till about 9 pm, until I could hardly breathe under the weight of my heart in my chest, and I couldn't stop the tears pooling in my eyes. . . I gave a quick "good night" and kiss on the cheek to Gretch before dashing out to the Jeep and heading home, jags of lightning tearing up the blackness around me. . . when I got home, I changed into my jammies and laid down on the floor in the living room, next to the couch where Bob slept and cried all night. . .

Penny and Jim left late Sunday afternoon, but not before taking the entire day to completely power-wash our deck for us, prepping it for a new coat of stain. It was so freaking hot, I thought for sure at least one, if not both, of them would pass out on us as they busted their butts out there, but by the grace of God or something, they survived. The deck looks awesome, even without stain . . . after they cleaned up, they had dinner with us out on the fresh, clean deck before heading back to St. James.

Despite having a pretty low-key, uneventful week since Bob was discharged from the hospital, it's still been a tough week. Because Bob is more coherent and lucid than he has been in a very long time, he's had this time to finally process all that has happened over the course of the past several months and I think it's all come crashing in on him, in wave after wave . . . he hasn't really been able to do so before, because he was either so overcome with pain or so absolutely fucked up on pain medications—sorry, but there's no other way to describe it—before the most recent heart attack, he was a zombie, plain and simple, thanks to the shitload of narcotics slogging through his blood, slurring his voice, severing his memory, glazing his eyes, turning his limbs to lead, mangling his ability to think . . . He has scant recollection of the weeks leading up to the May 31st heart attack, or the few weeks after, thank God . . . but now he is of very sound mind, I think he's overwhelmed with the layer upon layer upon layer he's trying to wade through.

As we sat on the deck with Penny and Jim, Bob kind of bared his soul to us . . . said he can't go on living the way he is now, that some very serious decisions need to be made and need to be made soon . . . for all intents and purposes, he is an invalid and his life has been on hold for far too long. He would not be able to live on his own, in the condition he's in, he tells us. He has to rely on me and his parents to get through the day, he's afraid for his own safety if left alone for any length of time. There is very little he can do that he used to do—can't walk very far, can't drive, can't work, can't prepare but a simple meal, the things he can do take an enormous effort and utterly exhaust him . . . I know this first hand, hence taking the leave of absence from work. . . . A year ago, he said to us, he was on top of the world, had everything he could ever want, was in the best of health, had a great job, was doing everything he loved to do. Now, all of that has been stripped from him and no one can tell him if he's ever going to get even a little piece of it back.

And no one has any words of encouragement because words of encouragement seem so absurd, so fucking ridiculous, so pathetically out of place right now. We say stupid things like, "You can't give up," or "You're so strong!" and "I wish there was something I could do to ease your pain," and he's looking at us like, "Seriously. Shut the hell up right now. All of you. How 'bout you try this? Just for just a few hours, take my place here, because I'd really like to play a round of golf before summer's over?" How do you encourage someone whose been through all he's been through, without a break, not even for even a day, for the past eight months and counting. How do you inspire someone whose choices are A. Have a surgery that runs a high risk of killing you either by heart attack or bleeding to death, but should you survive it, no one can even tell you how successful the outcome will be, how much of your life you'll get back or what the quality of that life will be? Or B. Don't have the surgery and start planning hospice . . . isn't there a C????

Looking back to March, despite the scary "C" diagnosis and the chemo side effects, things seemed so relatively easy, so cut and dried; the decision was basically made for Bob, to have surgery to remove the tumor, done deal. Since the first heart attack in March, however, our world has been in a blender, stuck on puree. Since March, everything has changed, and continues to change daily. No one can keep up or make any sense of any of this, not us, not even his doctors, despite the sheer number of them working on his case. . .

This coming week is going to be a tough one . . . Bob had a CT scan and MRI done tonight and has three doctor's appointments on Wednesday, back-to-back-to-back . . . orthopedic oncologist (the surgeon who will remove the tumor, if we get to that point), the colorectal doctor, who is also has a big role in the pending surgery, and cardiology. We've basically gone back to square one, in redesigning Bob's treatment plan. This week, our mission is fact gathering, amassing as much information as we can about all the options, outcomes, what if's. We need to talk to all the key players in Bob's treatment and get some solid answers, insights into the two choices he has: surgery or no surgery. The scans were done to see what's going on with the tumor, to see if it's grown any, and if there's any signs of spreading, being chemo has been long out of the picture.

And that's about all I can write about any more. I don't even know how to begin to sort through it all, and I'm not even the one with cancer. But once again, even in the midst of all this, can I still say that somehow, somewhere deep, deep inside of me, I know things will turn out okay for Bob? Maybe because that's all I can do. Or maybe it's just one of those stupid fucking things that I can't seem to stop saying.