A shift in perspective. . .

A strange thing, to shift my perspective of this hospital stay to one of progress instead of one of setbacks . . . that's what our lives have been for over ten months, revolving door hospital stays resulting from crises, setbacks, over and over . . . many steps backward, none forward, never getting beyond a certain point, always running into that invisible wall that cut short any progress. Until now.

It's something I have to physically, consciously engage in, every minute of every day that passes, not something that just "happened!". That when I come into Bob's room and hear his voice stronger, it's momentum forward. To see the movements of his hands and arms become more fluid, more independent, another degree forward. To see him try (unsuccessfully, but still trying) to grab the bedside rails and push himself up in bed—inching beyond zero . . . that when PT and OT come in to work with him, it's because now, their work makes sense, there is no tumor impeding the efforts. The stretching, the strengthening, the relearning, is finally relevant and will, in time, produce amazing results. The tiniest of things contributing to forward movement are big deals. Ever-so-slightly, barely perceptibly, but finally, finally moving beyond pre-surgery status quo. . . holding pattern finally broken. Everything else, prior to surgery, had been repeated, endless attempts to bring Bob back to zero. Now, he's moving beyond zero. Maybe not much, maybe just an nth of a degree past zero. But finally, after nearly a year, we are moving in the direction ahead of zero.

So hard to explain, and I'm rambling incoherently, and will probably never be able to explain this perspective, this point in the journey. . . and don't want to sound like this is all puppy dogs and rainbows because even with this microscopic forward motion, everything is changed. Life as he has known it is gone. So easy for me, for any outside observer of his situation to say, "You'll be okay, Bob! You'll get through!" My take on the situation, anyone else's take, is far removed from Bob's. It ain't us who's dealing with all that's wrapped up in this big ol' package of Sucks to be You! gift from life, thankfully, we all breathe that huge, collective sigh of relief in our heads. . . and I would not be surprised in the least to witness a period of serious anger, resentment, grief, sadness from him in the coming weeks. . .

Bob doesn't think there's a whole lotta progress going on right now. Can't see it, from his perspective. He still hurts tremendously, all over, more so than before surgery . . . still feels like a helpless caged animal in his ICU bed, is alarmed that he has no feeling in his lower right leg, that he can't move his right foot, wiggle his toes, and that will never return . . . is still not allowed to eat, because his internal systems are still "waking up" from the long, intense surgery, and not ready to process food (would likely make him vomit at this point) . . . I know that, to him, he's still miles behind where he was prior to surgery, and has so much catching up to do, and what an insurmountable task it seems right now. Right now, his job is to simply focus on recovering from surgery, before moving down the path to reconstructing his life.

He was in incredible pain prior to the surgery, but was still able to get around, able to eat, able to lie on his stomach. He can't yet see that the things they're working on with him now are preparing him for even more good things to come. He "gave" his golf clubs to his dad yesterday, telling him he won't be needing them any more. He's entitled to these feelings right now, as his life is so full of unknowns, of dramatic, incomprehensible changes that most of us will never, personally, experience in life. He's earned the pity party. . . . I don't have a wholelotta faith in much of anything in this world, but I do have all the faith in Bob. I know it won't last. Let it out, work through it, then move on. It's how he rolls . . . Guess it's time for me to hang up the chef's hat and apron momentarily and dig out the ol' cheerleading uniform and start the pep rally . . .

Two guys from orthotics just came in to fit him for a hip brace, which will keep his pelvic girdle stable when they start working at getting him upright, on his feet, transferring from bed to chair, and beyond. He's gonna look like part Storm Trooper with that contraption on: a big white plastic two-piece ensemble, one part fits around his hips, like a PVC girdle, the other around his right thigh. We're told some people simply don't like it and decide not to use it, because it's big and cumbersome and feels more hindering than helpful, but everyone's different, and when you've just had something the size of a grapefruit (the size of the tumor and surrounding bone, I was told) removed from your pelvis, any extra support is probably a good thing.

There's also talk of moving him from ICU up to a "regular" room, possibly today, as all of his stats, etc. look great—heart and cardiac issues are strong and stable, hemoglobin and other blood factors being monitored look great, no signs of infection, lungs sound clear . . . Bob doesn't feel ready to leave ICU yet, but at this point, there aren't any critical issues to be watching, and again, moving out of ICU is yet another step forward. The ICU doc said they definitely won't move him before he's absolutely ready, because they don't want him back down here (until he's coming by to say "goodbye!" on his way out), but can't keep him just because he's scared, either . . . I'm going back to his room, see if they're done fitting him, will update as we learn more. Again, as I have said many times, forgive the ramblings, the stream of conscious stuff. Gotta get it out somehow. . .

love, love, LOVE to all! xxoo