All quiet on the western front . . .

Bob's back home, discharged this afternoon, yea!!!!!! I'm so happy to have him here with us again. I miss him so much when he's gone, end up doing a whole lot of nothing when he's in the hospital, like a big part of me, sucked right out . . . Even though our lives are oddly disrupted right now—nothing is as we once knew it and we don't know when it will be given back, at the mercy of so many unknowns—it is still so comforting, so peaceful when he's here with me and the dogs. We don't—we can't—do much of anything together because of his condition, but just being at home together is our time. We just "hang . . ." we talk, we watch the Food Network, maybe a movie, sit in the quiet of the living room, dark except for the glow of my holiday tree shining in on us from the screened deck . . .

Bob will be home with us, uninterrupted, for a day. I say "us," meaning me and the pups, who also miss him when he's gone. During Bob's absence, Gaia will walk to the front door to be let outside, where she lies on the front sidewalk, head resting on her front paws, at times sleeping, other times looking off into the distance, as if waiting for Bob's return. She'd stay outside all day, all night, till Bob came back, if I let her. Rocco doesn't seem to notice much that Bob's gone, until he returns. Then, he's all over Bob, sniffing, jumping, grabbing a toy to get a game of tug-o-war on.

Monday is the one day this week I get Bob to myself. Not sure what we'll do. Watch a movie? Take a short walk in the neighborhood? Maybe take Bob and his handicap parking permit and head out to the mall . . . hehehe. . . He's been craving fish and chips for several days now, so perhaps I'll hunt some down for dinner tomorrow night. Don't know of any English pubs (or even a Long John Silver's for that matter) nearby, which may be a problem . . . the day will pass much too quickly. . . Then it's back to the U every day for the rest of the week: Tuesday, he goes in for a CT scan, to find out how the tumor is responding to the chemo. Wednesday, he meets with Doc S., to go over the results of the CT scan, to discuss how things are progressing and what is in store for the coming weeks (we wanted to try to consolidate those appointments, to make things a tad easier, but they need time to process the scan results. Thursday and Friday brings two outpatient infusion sessions of chemo, the same drugs Bob had in the beginning.

Bob slept much of the day when we got back from the hospital. I finished my Sunday "stuff" while he napped: laundry, walking the dogs, grocery shopping, changed the decorations on the tree from Valentines to shamrocks. Bob said he feels like he can handle pretty much any food right now, and asked if I'd pick up some grilled shrimp and rice at Applebee's when I was out. He craves the oddest things lately, but I'm happy to comply. This round of chemo seemed to have the fewest and least severe side effects so far, if you don't count annoying roommates as a side effect.

I'd love nothing more than to hear the doc say, on Tuesday, that the tumor is responding better than they'd expected to the chemo, and that it looks like Bob is ready for surgery. Even though, with that, will likely come a whole host of new adventures . . .

peace, love and shamrocks, all!

Roommates! and other thoughts.

OK - I had quite a blog entry written. Tried to save it to do other things. Came back to it a while later, and she was gone. Lost forever. I will try to recreate it here, but I'm upset that I have to do this all again... oh well, here goes:
I do believe the nurses at 7D have a devious plan to give me all the roommates that others reject. Meet my current problem. He doesn't like the room location because it's too close to the nurses' station and that makes it too loud. He complains that the room is way too hot, forgetting that maybe the extra 250 pounds he's carrying might have something to do with that. It's also too light in here. Oh, and the bed is too short. Tonight I found out that he must not understand the concept of how a phone works, as he apparently thinks he must shout into the phone so that his friend in Brainerd will be able to hear him. Wonder how loud he'd go talking to someone in New York ?
Now, he has come up with the ulitmate gripe with this terrible room: "Hey, nurse... how do you expect me to use this toilet when my testicles hang into the water? For point of reference: I do not have this problem.
He would like his own room. I would like my own room. That's probably a given in the hospital. Not so sure why they ever thought double rooms were a good idea. I asked the charge nurse if there was anything I could do to expedite HIS request to get his own room. She looked up and said "Sorry."

Here are some things I'm wondering about as I'm held prisoner here...

*Why does my bed have buttons that read "arm" and "disarm" on the control panel?
*Does anyone see some kind of quirky logic in calling your French toast "Texas French toast?" I mean, aren't these bodies about as far apart on the political spectrum as possible?
*Why do the nurses put on HazMat suits when they handle the chemotherapy drug that they then dump into my body?
* Why does a nurse think that I can piss on command? After asking for a sample and simply standing there, I decided that she meant right now, and I was correct. I told her I just can't do that. She then told she would come back in 5 minutes...
*The U of M's wi-fi at the hospital would not let me access the Poweball home page because it's against their policy on gambling. Reminder to all that the State of MN runs the Powerball here. kinda funny.

Anyway, for the most part I'm feeling fantastic! At least in my little world. I still have the leg pain. I've lost a lot of hair. I get tired easily. I'm having problems regulating my intake and outtake of food (enough here!). Food is still a hit and miss proposition. Etc., Etc., Etc. Yeah, there are problems to be sure. But I just want everyone to know that I do feel like we're making some progress here. I'll keep you all posted on this progress in the coming days.
Love to everyone!
Bob

Blah, blah, blah . . .

I know this is supposed to be Bob's blog, and I am really hoping at some point, he'll take over, or at least feel up to making more frequent appearances. I'm starting to feel like the opening act for Guns 'n' Roses . . . trying to appease an audience that's on the verge of a riot, while the headliner lounges back in the dressing room, partying with groupies . . . Me (clears throat): "a-hem . . . okay, for my next number, ladies and gentlemen, I'll be performing my grandmother's favorite song, 'Green Green Grass of Home' on the organ . . ." crowd's thunderous roar: "Boooooooooooooo! AXL! AXL! AXL . . . "

Before heading up to the hospital last night, I met my good pal, Kristina, for an early dinner last night. We met at Brasa, on Grand Avenue. Good grub. I ordered the pulled pork, deep fried yucca (sounds exotic and was quite deelish, but I still think it was just fried potatoes disguised with a fancy name), and collard greens. Kristina had breaded fish, beans and rice and cornbread. We both thoroughly enjoyed our meals; portions were perfect, and price was very reasonable, too. I ordered dry rubbed chicken, with chips and guacamole to take up to Bob. It was nice to see Kristina, catch up, share a good meal. We got to Brasa early, before the dinner crowd; by the time we were saying our good-byes, the joint was hopping and people were waiting in clusters at the door for a table. We both give it two thumbs' up; give it a try, folks! There's also one in Mpls. Don't know if this is a local outfit or a chain; the website doesn't give much but all the meat is from local producers, which is cool.

I got up to Bob's room around 6:30 or so. Walked into his room and was met by his new roommate, a large man sprawled out on his hospital bed, kickin' back with legs wide open, hospital gown hiked up around his hips, displaying a traumatizing peep show all for god and everyone to take a gander. Wooooooaaaaahhhh!! Don't look, Jen . . . DO NOT look! I smiled at the ceiling and scurried past to Bob's bed by the window. I know it's hot in those rooms but wow. Is that necessary . . .??? Bob thinks his hospital records say, "Mr. Andrzejek is an easy-going fellow. Gets along well with anyone. Put the wackos with him . . ." Yesterday, there was another man sharing the room with Bob. Not sure what his diagnosis was, but everything he did was s . . .o . . . . o . . . o . . . s . . . l . . .o . . .w . . . . Took him four hours to pack up for discharge. When he left, Bob discovered all his very own toiletries in the bathroom lined up neatly, labels all facing forward. Dirty towels folded neatly in the shower. Bob's neat, but not that neat. Weird stuff up here on 7D, man.

I brought in a pretend candle for Bob to have in his room; it's very pretty—a purple glass bottle with the bottom cut out, sets in a metal base over a "votive" candle (battery-run). The "candle" even flickers like a real one. Bob loves candles but obviously can't have them in the hospital, so I thought this would be cool for his room. Gretchen had given it to me for my birthday back in November; I'd forgotten it at her house, so she brought it to the salon yesterday, along with a really cool book called The Cancer Poetry Project, a compilation of poetry written by cancer patients, edited by a woman from Minneapolis, whose husband is a cancer survivor . . . I brought that up, too, so Bob could see it, though he'll probably want to wait till he gets home to start reading it.

We had candlelight dinner; well, Bob ate while I sampled a few (read: dang near all) of the chips with guacamole, standing at his bedside table. He loved the chicken I brought up; however, even though the guacamole was not at all spicy, there must be something in avocados that irritate Bob's mouth because as much as he wants to, he just can't eat 'em. He had a caramel Rice Krispy bar for dessert, a special request treat brought in by his mom.

Bob pointed out some swelling on his right ankle (his "cankle," he called it. It's the only thing with any substance on his body at this point). He noticed it earlier, after taking a walk around 7D with his parents. Oddly enough, he realized he was actually walking on the entire surface of his right foot—heel to toe—with no pain, something he hasn't been able to do in months. When he got back to his room, after his parents left, he pulled down his sock to check his right foot out and realized it was twice the size of his left. He showed the nurse, who alerted the doc on staff. They ordered an ultra sound, to see if a blood clot was causing the swelling. I left the hospital around 8 p.m. and the ultra sound still hadn't happened. If it is a clot, it's just a matter of giving him a blood thinner to break it up. If it's not, it could just be from all the fluids that have been pumped into Bob over the past few days.

When I got home, Penny and Jim were still up. We watched a little coverage of the Olympics, then they both said their good nights and went to bed. Bob and I texted a few messages back and forth. The techs eventually came for him and did the ultrasound; no clot or anything was found. Guess it's just fluid build up that will eventually dissipate, like what had happened to his left hand the last time he was here.

Just got off the phone with Bob this morning, and good news, kids! He said he's got a good blog entry going and should have it ready to go this afternoon! Stay tuned, oh loyal fans! Have a great weekend! LOVE!

Hand shakes, White Castle and vomiting . . . (not that any of those are related)

Definition of awkward: Social worker who totally, completely, utterly disses my outstretched hand offered during our introductions yesterday. Ummmm, yeah. . .

So, yesterday, when I stopped by the hospital for my daily dose of Bob, we decided to get the hospital social worker to come up and help us make wade through the quagmire that is Social Security disability. The reality is, he hasn't worked in three months. In fact, he said he figured out that yesterday was the exact three-month date from when he stopped working. Happy anniversary. . . Right now, we have no idea how long he'll be out of work; between chemo, surgery, possibly more chemo, recovery, we don't know what's in store for him, how long this'll go on. Things are fine for us now, but as I'm quickly learning, to quote the wise, beloved John Lennon, life is what happens when you've made other plans. Thus, we're ironically trying to be proactive, find out what options are out there for us, put up the safety net before disaster hits. Maybe Bob'll never have to go on disability, but we may as well start getting things in place, since we all know how swift, efficient and rational our government is. . .

We're told it's no problem to arrange for a meeting with a social worker while in the hospital, that they're just a phone call away. Bob wanted to do it while I was there with him, so we could ask questions and take notes together. So, his very kind nurse (they're all very kind up on 7D) made the phone call for us yesterday and said the social worker would be right down to meet with us. Few minutes later, we heard a voice outside Bob's door introducing herself as the social worker.

A woman entered her room and greeted Bob. They had met once before, back during his first hospitalization (when he became so sick from the first infusions). I'd never met her before and stretched out my hand in greeting. "Hi, I'm Bob's wife, Jennifer," I said in my customary sunny manner (quit groaning. You all know that's me . . .). Then . . . (loud, dramatic organ music inserted here) the dis. There I'm standing, smile on my face, outstretched hand in the direction of Madame Social Worker, and I'm met with a big, fat handful of nothing. Yessiree, ladies and gentlemen. A complete and utter disregard for my greeting. She looked me straight in the eye and continued her own introduction.

I quickly recovered from the snub by turning my outstretched hand into a flourished fuss-with-my-hair gesture (as if that wasn't painfully obvious), and sat down. As Mdm. Social Worker and Bob started discussing the reason for her visit, I started obsessing why, why, why would this professional woman do this to me: Doesn't she like me? Is it my hair? People either love or hate redheads, y'know . . . did I look at her a funny way? Does she have a burning desire for my husband and is insanely jealous of me? Am I insane? May I just imagined it? Maybe she didn't see my hand, which was thrust right in front of her, as she looked directly at me . . . Despite the barrage of neurotic thoughts pummeling my brain, it took only a moment to process this very brief interaction before the light turned on. Ohhhhhhhhh . . . I get it now . . . she doesn't want to catch my cooties!

I quickly pulled myself together and joined in the discussion with Bob and Mdm. SW. We talked about what Bob needs to do to apply for social security disability, who we need to call, what's required on our end, how the process works. She clarified for us that social security disability is solely based on one's disability, not on one's income. Seriously, did she really just ignore my handshake? WTF? She also shared with us a number of other useful resources we can tap into, should we need them—legal services for cancer patients, other assistance programs that can provide small grants for things like groceries, gas, etc. Again, we may never need such services, but good to know they exist, and how to access them, should things get to that point. Okay, did my fingernails look unkept, grungy? Was I picking my nose when she came in? Not exactly pretty stuff to talk about, this disability stuff, but absolutely necessary. It's too easy to fall apart, to put your head in the sand and ignore this crap. God knows how many mornings I wake up and just want to pull the blankets over my head, go back to sleep for a very, very long time. Like, till all of this is over. Let someone else do this. I'm totally unqualified, totally inexperienced . . . Sorry, Jen, that ain't an option. Actually, I'm finding that the more proactive we are, the more involved I am in all of this, in digging, searching, asking questions, the less helpless I feel. Why didn't she just say that she preferred to not shake hands . . .

Overall, Mdm Social Worker was a very nice, very helpful woman, and I'm grateful it worked out to meet her while I was with Bob, but all the while, as we talk, I cannot let go of the simple act of her ignoring my handshake. Now, don't get me wrong, peeps. In this very contaminated society in which we live, with deadly viruses weaving their way through the general populations, I get it. (Though it's not the swine flu that scares me. The fact that a helluva lot of people do not wash their hands after using the bathroom does.) I absolutely understand and respect someone's desire to not shake hands. But seriously—to completely ignore someone's outstretched hand? Really. How 'bout a simple explanation? That you work with a lot of sick people and you prefer not to shake hands. Or, what about this idea: buttons for the staff at the U of MN hospital to choose to wear, something happy but to the point: "We 'heart' our patients and want to keep them healthy! Please don't be offended if I don't shake your hand!"

What made this so glaringly obvious (besides my neurotic mind) is that, in our many weeks of hospital visits, doctor's appointments, and countless other contacts with medical professionals in this journey, this is the first time that a health care professional did this to me. Every doctor has offered his or her hand in greeting, usually before I do. Every nurse, anyone else with whom we've had more than a brief encounter. The hospital is littered with canisters of hand sanitizer. Even so, I totally get this woman's wish to not shake hands, but would not be carrying on like a Sinefeld episode, if she had simply addressed the situation directly. Okay, lesson for the day, kids. Just be direct. Passivity (is that a word? If not, it is now) sucks.

Oh! Are you all here, waiting around to find out about how Bob's doing? Well, why didn't you say so?!? Honestly, not much to report with these hospital stays, which is why I go off on tangents, obsess about the absurd, report on the mundane, revel in the everyday activities going on around us, in the midst of this crazy thing called cancer. He had a little harder time with side effects yesterday; threw up a few times and had been kind of queasy all day, not able to eat much. Don't know why, maybe the second round packs a harder wallop, maybe the drug builds up in his system and the effects don't show up till round two . . . hopefully, he'll feel better today. I'm meeting a friend for an early dinner after work tonight, at a new(ish) restaurant in St. Paul called Brasa. "Latin comfort food" is what their website says. I told Bob if he's feeling up for it, I'd order something to go for him and bring it up for dinner.

After the social worker left, Bob and I took a walk around his wing. He unplugged the IV, wrapped the cords around his "Patient Pal" (the stand that holds all the IV bags; says it right on the pole, Patient Pal), and headed out. Slow going, but it always feels good to get out of bed and move. At some point during this stay, he'd like to get outside and get some fresh air, especially since it's been so nice. Our walk went by too fast and before long, I had to pack up and head to work. Penny and Jim were coming up in the afternoon, so I didn't feel quite as bad about leaving. We returned to his room, said our goodbyes and I was gone.

On my way to work, I was nearly taken out by a White Castle semi truck that came barreling down an entrance ramp onto I94. Given Bob's penchant for WC sliders, I think that would have been the utmost living (or dead) definition of irony, me being flattened by an out-of-control WC semi. Of course, had to call Bob and share that tidbit with him. When I got to work, I had to park on a side street and walk a block to the salon. As I'm tip-toeing across ice and through puddles (yea! for warm temps and melting snow!), I spy what appears to be a bag lady walking toward me. Disheveled dress, check. Rumpled hair, check. Multiple grocery bags in hand, check. Talking to herself, check. Yup. Bag lady. Please don't start talking to me, please don't start talking to me, I pray internally, as I'm already late for work and I'm the kind of person who often, unwittingly, invites such colorful characters to stop and converse. Maybe it's my own crazy, disheveled hair . . . as I get closer, I try not to make eye contact, but, I can't help it. Not only is she talking to herself, but in another language. A foreign bag lady. Interesting. Then, I realize she's got a bluetooth device in her ear. . . Really. What's wrong with me? I scurry past the woman and into the salon, where my first client is already waiting for me, and start my day.

Friday morning . . .

Got a phone call from Bob this morning. He's feeling much better, nausea-wise, and got pretty good sleep last night. A short conversation, as a doctor or someone entered his room as we were talking. He said he'd call me later, to give me an update on how he's feeling. Penny and Jim will head over to the hospital later this morning, and I'll stop by early evening, with goodies from Brasa, if he's up for it. Thanks for letting me ramble, folks. Good therapy. The desire to go back to the U, find that social worker and cough all over her has dissipated . . .

Week 2 at Club Chemo

(This pic is from this past weekend, when Bob was home between treatments, Bob and Rocco, bonding . . .)

Why do I now think it's "normal" to wake at 5 a.m.? Get up, get my coffee going, sit down at the computer and start writing . . .this ungodly hour has become a normal part of my daily routine. . . it's really quite lovely, though. I get to watch the sun slide into daytime, the sky outside my patio doors goes from black nothingness to blues, pinks, gold, charcoal trees scratched into the horizon . . . my holiday tree is glowing (oh! that reminds me—gotta change those Valentine's decos to St. Patty's. Got some green shamrock garland to drape it with, for starters. Not a whole lotta St. Patrick's Day tree decorations to be found, 'magine that), doggies are at my feet, Gaia sleeping, Rocco chomping on a bone. At this hour, I'm not as dog-tired as when I get home after a long day at work and try to sit down and plunk out a new entry. Eyes get droopy, fingers don't work, fall asleep in the recliner, kink in neck . . . I'm much more perky and witty (?) at 5 a.m. Guess I'm turning into my mom. She's the only person I know whom I could call at this hour and know I wasn't rattling her out of bed . . .

Sorry we haven't written in a while; work's been busy and we didn't have much time between the two hospital stays before we were packing Bob up and sending him back to the U for the next round of methotrexate. I keep asking Bob to contribute to the blog, as I'm sure people would rather hear from him than my endless rambling, but as much as he'd like to, I know it's very hard for him. Not just physically. The more I think about it, it's gotta be tough, mentally, emotionally, for him. To be in the midst of this thing and all the treatments and side effects, the hospital stays, the copious amounts of pain medications and their side effects, the life on hold . . .

On our drive in to the hospital yesterday a.m., Bob asked me to bring in the Scrabble board, as he can't wait to kick my ass in a game, thanks to the arsenal of new medical terms he's stockpiling. Some big hitters that'll rack up serious points. Methotrexate is one, for sure. . . we talk some, listen to the radio some, he sleeps some, while I ebb and flow with other early a.m. commuters. Occasionally he wakes, piercing the silence with, "What are you doing, trying to kill me?" when I swerve to miss a pothole or change lanes. After doing this drive as many times as we already have, I've figured out the morning traffic patterns and now have it down to a science, based on my several weeks' observations. I've figured out which lanes to be in when, to optimize my maximum speed; even in the thick of rush hour, I can get us to the U in less than 1/2 hour. But, I can't divulge my secrets, lest you are one of the early a.m. commuters and try to hone in on my route—I'd have to take you out. It's a dog-eat-dow world out there on the ol' freeway . . . man, I'd hate to have to do that every day.

We head first to the Masonic Cancer Center. Upon arrival, Bob promptly threw up everything he had for breakfast (was able to make it to the bathroom to do so). Don't know if was nerves, truly being sick from side effects, or maybe from being jostled around in the back seat (remember, he can't sit, and has to be lying on his stomach during the whole drive. 94 has turned into a pockmarked obstacle course of potholes and asphalt surges, so it's far from a smooth ride in, sitting or no . . .). Then, off to draw blood and check his levels, make sure everything was back to "normal" (I use that term relatively) before admitting him to the hospital, to start this next round. There is a rare chance that a person's levels of this, that and the other thing aren't where they should be between treatments; if that were the case, this next round of methotrexate would have to be postponed till all was ready. We hung around a bit, till the results came back: everything a-okay, and then headed back up to 7D in the hospital.

Bob got the same room he was in last week, and unfortunately, another roommate. So far, no troubles with this one. Just makes things awkward, as visitors and medical people come and go frequently with just one patient. With two in a room, it's nonstop. Very disruptive. But, Bob heard his roomie was to be discharged today, so maybe he'll be solo the rest of the week.

The routine here is the same: pump him full of fluids, administer the methotrexate (you remember this stuff, right? The neon-orange stuff? The stuff that nurses for which nurses must don hazmat suits? The stuff that, should it come in contact with Bob's undergarments, freaks them all out?), then the flushing and rescue drug. It'll be another five day stay. After he's discharged, either Sunday or Monday, he'll be back at the Masonic Center for another one-two punch of Doxil and Cysplatin. At that point, from what we're told, they'll do another scan on Bob, see how everything is responding to the chemo and decide then if it's time for surgery or more chemo.

Penny and Jim are coming up again today, probably staying a couple nights. Makes me feel so much better knowing someone is with Bob, as I've got two more full days of work before the weekend. Last night and today are probably going to be the tough days of this treatment. Not because of side effects; rather, just because Bob gets pumped so full of fluids, that he ends up being up all night, peeing the excess out. Last stay, he gained over 5 pounds, just in fluids. He's back down to his featherweight number, despite his appetite being so much better these past few weeks. Though that's all relative, too . . .

Anyhow, I need to get moving here; wanna walk the dogs, straighten up the house a bit, etc., and stop by the hospital before work, so will probably update this in a day or so . . . LOVE to all!

Jen & Bob

Tres Robertos! Bob Cubed! Bob, Rob, Robert . . .

Saturday, Feb. 13, 2010

First of all, a HUGE "ROCK ON" to those of you who have submitted entries in the Caption Contest so far! FUNNY sh*t, peeps!!! I KNEW you had it in you! Wow . . . what you all have come up with blows my crummy little idea out of the water, so much so that I'm ashamed to share it. (Okay, I will: It was, "Here's to you, U Brew!" Thank you very little . . .) Keep 'em comin', as we all know that laughter is the best medicine, but we don't know yet what the winner will receive! Until we do, why not take a chance, huh?!?

This picture was taken on my morning walk with Rocco today, before I went to the U to see Bob. Thick frost on the trees, sky heavy with fog, sun piercing through the dense veil . . . a true winter wonderland. Breathtaking. At first, I cursed the electrical wires in this photo, then I felt they added a cool element to the grey, black, white of the image. Bob would be proud.

Bob had a few visitors at Club Chemo today—people whose titles don't end in "-ologist" or "Jen" for a refreshing change. Bob P. and Bob D., colleagues of Bob's in the wine biz. I so wish I had been there—I know I would not have shut up for a minute about three Bob's (hmmm . . . apostrophe or no?) in the room: "Three Bob(')s walk into a hospital . . ." for starters. Okay, maybe it was better I wasn't there. . .

I stayed home this morning because I already knew that at least one of the Bob's had told Bob he was going to stop by for a visit. I wanted Bob to have some time alone with his friends, to catch up, do whatever it is that guys do when chicks aren't around. (Okay, all these Bobs are seriously confusing the hell out of me . . .y'all with me so far?) I got a lot of stuff done around the house: loads of laundry, walked the dogs, cleaned (with Penny and Jim's help before they took off—a humongous THANKS!!! You two are sofa king fabulous!!! Sorry, had to say it . . . please don't demote me from Favorite Daughter-in-Law status for the potty mouth!), worked out, cleaned out the fridge, returned phone calls, e-mails, wrote some thank-you's . . . I finally headed out mid-afternoon back to the U. I arrived as one of the Bobs (not mine!) was leaving. Was so nice to see him, nice to see someone connected to Bob's real life here in the city, someone who has a history with him, who knows him on a personal, rather than medical, level.

When I entered Bob's room, his room was darkened. He was lying in his bed, eyes closed. I leaned in to kiss him, he opened his eyes. He apologized for dozing off, told me he had a great afternoon, first with his parents, then with the other two Bobs. I told him to go back to sleep; I could read a magazine or entertain myself with my uber-cool iPhone while he slept. He dozed for a short while, but his IV kept beeping; air bubbles, empty bag, time for a new drug, another transfusion. Eventually, the interruptions ceased and I let him sleep, read a magazine, fiddled on my phone. Maybe a half hour later, he woke again, seemingly refreshed and alert. He told me he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. He hadn't had much of an appetite since then, but was starting to feeling hungry. Hospital food's finally wearing him down. Bob's nurse brought in a three-ring binder full of local restaurant menus, so we dug through them, and finally decided on the Village Wok, a U of M legend for Chinese cuisine. After calling in the order, I trotted off to pick it up which was a whole three minutes away from the hospital. I think just getting out of the hospital took longer than getting to and from the restaurant.

I wish I could leave a glowing review of the Village Wok, but the legend of the Wok is just that. A legend. So-so food, not bad, but not good. Veggie fried rice was bland, uninspiring. Bobs spicy garlic chicken, same. Very saucy, but not in a good way. My spring rolls were okay, but nothing was worth writing home about. We picked at our food, talked a bit more until Bob finally pushed his food away and lay down. I know the signs: eyes close, breathing becomes heavy, slower, voice slurred. Time for me to go. He opened his eyes long enough to say goodbye, kiss me a few times, then lay his head back on the pillow and was soundly sleeping.

I made this little sketch of Bob on an app on my iPhone called Sketchbook Express. I call it, "Bob Sleeping." Sketchbook X is fun little app where you use your finger and chose a number of "tools" to create works of art. My husband sleeping is a work of art.

Valentine's Day, 2010

Bob was discharged from the U tonight. Just in time, as a new patient was being rolled into the room while Bob's nurse was going over his discharge orders. I was taught how to flush his PICC line, to be done daily to keep it clear, as they'll be using it in the coming days when he returns for the next round.

A very nice Valentine's Day for us—home together, a bottle of montepulciano (for me), green bean Tater-Tot hot dish (for Bob, mouth sores are back), Neil Young softly crooning on the radio, dogs hanging out in the background, light snow falling softly outside. Happy VD, everyone!

Caption Contest!

First things first: I just got off the phone with Bob and he told me there's a slight chance that he may be discharged tomorrow. (Yea!!! I'm crossing my fingers and toes and anything else that I can manage to cross!) His preliminary blood work looks really good, but he's getting a blood transfusion today, as the chemo interferes with bone marrow production, which is where hemoglobin (oxygen component of blood) is produced. The infusion will increase his hemoglobin, while his marrow production gets rolling again. They'll do more tests tomorrow and know how everything looks for sure, and of course, they won't let him go home until everything is right as it should be again. But I just wanted to get the word out, in case anyone is thinking to stop by for a visit. Text or call Bob before you do, so you don't arrive to an empty room!

On to the next exciting item! We've decided we'd like a little more interaction with our viewing audience (because there's only so much sitting around in a hospital room one can do before one starts doing things like taking pictures of the patient in compromising situations . . .). As such, we're going to have a Caption Contest! I've posted a picture of Bob below, and we're looking for a great caption that best fits the scenario. The picture is just too awesome to keep to ourselves and is begging for a title, a slogan, something that best captures the spirit of what Bob is expressing here. (I already came up with a few, but will refrain, in the spirit of fairness, and because you all are already subjected to enough of my crap!) We're not sure yet what the prizes for the winners are (maybe some hospital souvenirs, maybe a date with Bob, maybe a great big bucket of nothing!!!), so don't try too hard! Bob could use a few laughs, so have fun and make him proud!

Good luck to everyone! Put your thinking caps on, and may the best caption win!