Sleeping soundly. . . yea!

Bob was finally moved up to 7C, the oncology floor, around 7:30 last night (that would be Wednesday now, since I started this entry yesterday, but couldn't keep my eyeballs open long enough to finish). Well, technically, he's on a wing called simply, "Medicine," so I don't know if it's actually oncology or just happens to be on the floor with the other oncology services—you think I'd know all the nitty-gritty details down by now . . . (okay, now I know—just asked his nurse. The "medicine" wing is patients who aren't post-surgical, but who have chronic, complex medical issues. A variety of patients, not just oncology, are here. Inquiring minds gotta know . . .) Has his own private room (yea!) and pretty much fell fast asleep shortly after he was moved and settled in. I gave him several kisses (annoying as hell, I'm sure, to someone desperately trying to catch up on sleep) before tiptoeing out of the room to head for home for the night.

Took forever and a day to get Bob moved—was supposed to happen Tuesday, but a room wasn't available till last night, so much of the day was just sitting around, waiting. A few docs popped in here and there, but otherwise not much action. And that, my peeps, is not always a bad thing in our world . . . sounds like he'll be kept here at the U at least a few more days, till everything looks safe and stable enough to discharge back to home. The color in Bob's face looks so much better, his stomach isn't nearly so distended, and he was even—finally—able to sit up at the edge of the bed last night, for several minutes, the first "real" physical activity he's done since arriving Sunday night. They're still not letting him eat anything yet, want to make sure the bleeding's under control, that the bowels are "waking up," that all tests that require "nothing by mouth" have been done . . .

The bowel obstruction that flared up in the past few days seems to be correcting on its own, so the docs decided to scrap the NG tube (again, yea! as it soooo sucks to try and get one in Bob—always has issues with gagging, etc; that, and it adds the risk of irritating his GI tract, which could lead us back to more bleeding) and see how things go.

Overnight, Bob's hemoglobin levels dropped enough that they decided another scope should be done this morning, just to make sure the ulcer site hadn't ruptured. That came back fine (give me another yea!), no bleeding from the ulcer, but now he's just had yet another test, down in Nuclear Medicine (yes, nuclear + medicine, used together in the same phrase . . .), to rule out the possibility of internal bleeding somewhere else that isn't showing up on the scope. This procedure involved drawing some blood from Bob, radiating it, then putting it back into him. The radioactive blood is then tracked, via an hour long x-ray, which will show abnormal bleeding in other parts of the body, if there is any. Bob was told that if something showed up abnormal, they'd have to move him to another room, another machine and do another test. That didn't happen, so we're assuming everything turned out fine with that test, as well, though we haven't had official word on the results yet, so I won't give that an official yea! just yet . . .

The GI doc thinks the drop in hemoglobin levels could just be because Bob's been given so much fluid but hasn't been able to "output" as much (more coming in than going out, is how he put it), so maybe his blood is simply diluted with the extra fluids. . .

Bowels are finally, slowly "waking up," his urine volume is increasing, no more bleeding in the GI tract (good grief . . . to talk about my husband in such an intimate, yet highly public way—I hope it doesn't come across as disrespectful or insensitive; the reality is, the tumor and so many of the complications he's dealing with are localized in the pelvis, sooooo, kinda hard to talk about what's going on without mentioning those very important functions. . .). Doc just popped in for probably the last time tonight—gave the official word that no other bleeding was detected with the nuclear medicine test, and he's now graduating to a clear liquid diet! With all the tests that have been done in the past several days, it doesn't appear that the tumor is impacting his bowels or kidneys/urinary tract , that thus far, it's localized. . .(gimme a whole bunch of yeas!) . . . maybe soon, we can head back home. . .

Not back home yet. . .

The GI bleeding is from an ulcer in Bob's duodenum (new word of the day . . . ), the first part of the small intestines, just beyond the stomach; discovered yesterday, by the GI team, using a scope down into Bob's upper GI tract. Right now, it's presumed to be caused by being on so many blood thinners, which are tough on the stomach, which also causes lots of bleeding, double-whammy . . . he was taking an antacid-type medication, but evidently, not enough . . . the bleeding stopped yesterday, not before losing a considerable amount of blood. Bleeding has stopped and he's on a more effective, potent regiment of antacids and stomach "protectors," (for lack of a better word there), but ended up needing 4-5 units of blood to replace what was lost, still very weak and not allowed to eat anything, which isn't a big deal now, because he's not much of an appetite, anyhow. . .

He'll be at the U at least another few days, as now a new problem has arisen: a partial bowel obstruction. . . his stomach has become quite distended, he's not having bowel movements, nor is he putting out much urine, despite receiving continuous IV fluids. . . Many tests are being done to determine the cause of the obstruction. It could be from the additional narcotics given for the GI scope and other tests (narcotics are notorious for affecting bowel function, causing constipation and sometimes worse; Bob hasn't been on nearly the amount of narcotics he was pre-surgery, so perhaps, as has been proven time and again, he's just so sensitive to the additional narcs and his body is reacting as such); it could be that perhaps the aggressive tumor is now growing and pushing into his organs and causing disruptions. . .

Doc on staff in the ICU ordered an NG tube to relieve the pressure of what "might" be just a minor obstruction; I asked why some kind of scan isn't also done right away, to immediately rule out the possibility that the tumor is growing into the GI or urinary tract. You know, that proactive approach I'm always bitching about . . . That was followed by a dirty look from the doc, who brusquely explained that the NG tube needed to be inserted immediately, to relieve the distention. Just asking . . . Shortly after, we're told Bob will be transferred out of ICU sometime today and have a new team of docs looking after him. . . and even before the NG tube is inserted, another round of tests were ordered—CT scan, ultrasound, x-ray all on his abdomen. I ask his nurse why this was being done. She pulls up Bob's record on the computer and says, "Well, it looks like the doctors want to look more closely at his abdomen and kidneys, to see if they can see anything physical that might be causing the obstruction." hmmmm. . . .

As of this writing, 10:30 p.m. Bob hasn't left the ICU, nor has the NG tube been inserted (his nurse tried manually, but had no luck. I guess I could have told them that, too, that Bob has a history of not doing well with NG tubes, but I didn't give it much thought, and figured Bob would let them know. . . at some point, interventional radiology will have to do it, if it's going to be done at all. . .)

and to think Bob just wanted to "ride it out" at home. . .

Third verse, same as the first...

Home barely a week, and we're back at the U, Bob's in ICU... God, I thought we had seen the last of this place ... Writing this from my phone, so forgive the typos...And right now, all I can do is sit and write. Either that or sit and wring my hands at his bedside, which I know would drive him nuts...

Bob had been feeling kind of queasy for the past few days, I took his temp, no fever or any other signs of infection, just a constant upset stomach since Christmas eve, would kind of ebb and flow with intensity, though he said it seemed to be going away yesterday...

Last night, however, the nausea came back, became pretty intense; I grabbed a trash can and set it beside Bob, lying on the couch...suddenly, he started heaving and violently throwing up, all blood, so much blood...he said he immediaty felt better and just wanted to ride it out at home, I said that was BLOOD and LOTS of it, no way....quick call to 911, back to Stillwater ER (we'd just been there a week ago, the day Bob was discharged from the U--i don't think i even wrote about this one--we'd literally just walked in the door, suddenly discovered Bob's wound site was bleeding profusely...went to Stillwater ER, as it would have meant a trip back to the U during rush hour, and god knows how many more hours in the U's ER. Serious as shit, don't EVER go to the U for a real, life-threatening emergency, you'll probably die before you're seen...that bleeding incident was controlled by the great staff at Stillwaters ER, and he was discharged with no more issues relating to that...)

Anyhow, back at Stillwater ER last night, where Bob continued to projectile-vomit straight-up blood, over and over...they had a helluva time getting IVs in him, his veins just kind of collapsed from the sheer loss of blood volume...

Eventually got a few IVs in, given fluids, unit of blood started, then transported to the U, as his hemoglobin was dropping, along with his vitals, skin was cold and clammy to the touch, shivering, color was absolutely drained from his face...just when I'm certain I've seen him at his absolute worst...

Called Penny and Jim, they arrived sometime after midnight, don't even know when....my sis, Jill met me at the ICU unit at the U, to be with me till J&P arrived...didn't do much overnight except to keep fluids and blood running...he continued to throw up until after one, then finally started to settle down...now, this morning, Bob's getting a gi scope, to try to determine where the bleeding's coming from, and if it's stopped or needs to be stopped...gi doc seems to think it's something as simple as an ulcer causing all the bleeding, given the heavy-duty blood-thinners Bob's on, which can both cause the ulcer and the non-stop bleeding...

again, a never-ending balancing act that leaves us frantically trying to figure out what to do, what to do...

Quiet Christmas. . .

Christmas eve a.m. . . .

Quiet Christmas morning, Bob's still sleeping, dogs have been fed, coffee made . . . we'll have a small gathering of family here later on Christmas day, for dinner, but should be a mellow day up until then . . . Bob has been home with me for a full week now, a week that's been mostly uneventful, though punctuated periodically with a flurry of activity: a home health nurse checking in three times a week, PT at least once or twice, and other services as needed (social worker, lymphedema specialist, etc.).

In between those visits, our days have been peppered with visits from friends, family, neighbors, co-workers—pretty sure we now have enough wine, Christmas cookies and Trader Joe's goodies to last till spring, or at least till next week . . . cards of well-wishes and generous gifts fill the mailbox, e-mails adorn the in-box, unexpected packages show up on the doorstep, and not one, but two sets of carolers last night (one group presented us with a candle that had been lit by the light of the Christmas candle burning in Bethlehem—as in the Bethlehem! How cool is that?!) . . . we are in awe, unspeakable awe, warmed and blessed through and through with the gentle waves of generosity, love, support washing over us, showering us endlessly. But, truth be told, I'd give it all back, a thousandfold, over and over again, if I had a choice . . .

Bob's family was here for much of the week; having Nancy from Saturday till Wednesday was a wonderful early Christmas gift. A good five days of quality family time, great meals, just being. . . we even Skyped with Brian and the girls back in Montana one night . . . I swear I didn't lift a finger around the joint till Wednesday, when they finally headed out, first, to drop Nance off at the airport, then home for a few days. . . Penny and Jim will be back today, Christmas day, to spend at least the day with us, maybe a few more, as Bob's birthday is on Monday . . . I thought the house would be almost too lonely with their absence, but as I've mentioned, it's been far from it; haven't really had much quiet time alone yet. I suspect after the holidays, it'll calm down some . . .

Still trying to get used to this in-between world, where all the rules have changed, nothing makes sense, the focus of everything we now do takes on a whole new meaning . . . sometimes seems meaningless, like we're going through the motions just to be doing something, until I realize I'm allowing The Lump's pronouncement infiltrate my brain and affect my actions. . . I have to consciously, forcefully, push him and his words out of my head, remind myself that our mission, our purpose now is to pick up where the U so miserably failed Bob, which is addressing and tending to his quality of life . . .

At home, for the most part, Bob is getting good, restful sleep, still has a great appetite and is so grateful to be home, with his pups (ummmm, lemme clarify that with a usually. When Rocco succumbs to the "brain worm syndrome," which sends him into a jacked-up doggie ADHD frenzy—happens maybe once or twice a day—then Bob declares, "That's it! I'm going back to the hospital, where a guy can get some peace and quiet!"), with friends and family coming by for visits. Even took a trip down to his office yesterday, to fire up the ol' computer that hasn't been touched in at least four months. . . we gotta work on getting back upstairs, though, as that proved to be a challenge (more on that later . . . )

I've been cooking up a storm—well, okay, not quite a storm yet, as I didn't have to do anything until after P & J left, 'til we ate our way through the week's leftovers. Thursday night, I finally made dinner—Thai Chicken Cabbage soup. . . sofaking good, a spicy, flavorful soup with chicken, cabbage, jalapeños, carrots, cilantro. . . I've been juicing to my heart's content, too, and Bob's been my (mostly) easy-going Official Taster. A sweeter breakfast juice almost every day (spinach or other greens, green apple, a few other fruits), but last night, I tried a V8-ish veggie juice—tomatoes, celery, cucumber, cabbage, dash of lemon. I liked it, our friend Paulie liked it (we're both juicing geeks), but Bob gave it a big fat thumbs-down. . . Paulie and I both tried to convince Bob that sometimes juicing isn't about savoring the flavors, it's about choking down a glassful of goodness, embracing the knowledge that though it may not taste great, it's soooo good for the bod . . . he ain't buyin' it. . .

Our neighbor across the street got our snowblower up and running, even better than it's run, ever. So between that, and the two parties that have been lined up to plow our driveway this winter, we're gonna have the cleanest driveway in the tri-county area. . . he's an amazing man, our neighbor 'cross th' way . .. 75 years young, runs 5+ miles a night (yes, at night), in rain, snow, wind or hail . . . he keeps bringing over various supplements for us to try, juicing books, health and wellness videos, you name it . . . has had his own health issues over the years, and is totally convinced his organic, natural diet saved his life. He's a huge proponent of the "food as medicine" philosophy and in his rough but respectful, blue-collar way, wants to share, to help. . . love this dude. . . he and I could talk juicing recipes all day . . .

Christmas day . . .

Another quiet morning, walked the dogs, started cleaning the house when Penny and Jim arrived, then my mom shortly thereafter. . . I still had to get both Bob and myself showered, dressed and presentable, get Bob's dressing changed and meds dispensed, the house picked up before the holiday "officially" began, though today doesn't feel much different than any other day. . .

Nice, quiet day with family, good food, good company. . . until Bob ventured downstairs for the first time in over 4 months . . . sat at his computer for a good hour or so, I'm sure it felt so good, to be in "his" place again, looking out the windows to the wintry landscape of our backyard, snow so deep even the animals have resisted tracking across the snowy landscape. . . fired up his computer for the first time in many months, gonna take a few days to update all the services—virus scan, etc.—that had expired while he was gone . . .

Periodically, I'd check on him to see if he was ready to come back upstairs. "Not yet," he'd tell me . . . eventually, instead of going down to bother him, I sent a text, "Doing okay?" got one back almost immediately, "No. Just took my first fall . . ." I don't think my feet touched the floor as I flew down the stairs and found Bob sitting on the bottom step. He said he was trying to make his way back upstairs when he missed his footing, fell and hit his head on the concrete floor. He said he was okay, but I about hit the roof when he told me he was trying to make it upstairs by himself. We got him upstairs and into bed, as the trip up was more tiring than the trip down, and he felt he needed to rest for a while. Said the fall scared him more than it hurt, but I'll definitely sleep with one eye and both ears open tonight . . .

As I type these words, I fully realize with heavy heart and acute awareness, that they're just my perspective, my take on things . . . which are dramatically different from what Bob's feeling about all this, and compared to that, my take really doesn't mean a whole lot.

Home is wherever I'm with you. . .

Finally, at long last, my Bobby is home with me. Sleeping in our bed with me, sitting at the dining room table eating dinner with me. Sitting on the couch, watching the morning news with me, as the sun fills the dark eastern sky with glowing lava . . . after four long, sad and lonely months in a hospital setting, he was released from the U of M on Friday, with the harsh, heavy pronouncement from his oncologist, The Lump, that there is nothing more he can do for Bob. That the sarcoma has returned, aggressively, has spread through much of his pelvis, is in operable—too much of his pelvis is now involved—there are no chemotherapy or radiation options left. We ask, what are we to do now? He said, go home, prepare for hospice. . . I look at him wildly, I swear it's all I can do to not fly across the room and attack this man. Instead, I squeeze and twist the kleenex in my hands and ask with a choking voice, "Has there ever been anyone who's overcome such a situation? Who has survived the odds? Anyone?!"

Well, I suppose, in theory, it's possible, The Lump says, almost with ridicule. But not to my knowledge. "So, you're saying there is a chance," I say. He looks at me with distain or pity, I'm not sure which. "That was a joke," I tell him. "Sort of."

My fingers numb, fumble, trying to type all of this, and once again, tears flow like they'll never stop, I don't think they will . . . chest so heavy with the weight of my heart, I can hardly breathe . . . who knew one could cry so much, for so long. . . don't tear ducts just dry up after a while . . .

Driving home Friday afternoon, with Bob beside me, things were almost like "old times." Almost. I drive, Bob sits in the passenger seat (which was usually the reverse, in the "olden days," in the Jeep, anyhow). It strikes me that this is the first time, in over a year, that Bob's been able to sit in a car, upright, with no pain . . . immediately, he turns into his best back-seat-driver-in-the-passenger-seat role, instructing me with the quickest route to get to the bank then home, as though I haven't done this drive a gagillion times over the past year: "take a right here," and "get into the carpool lane—there's two of us, we can bypass the ramp lights"—he should know, he's maneuvered the arterial mess of highways in the Metro for years, in his sales position—his hand outstretched toward the dashboard as we fly along 94, as though preparing for a rear-end accident at any minute. This drive, with just the two of us, one of an endless list of things I've missed deeply this past year . . . one second things are "normal" between us, the next, the reality of the day crashes down and I'm sobbing, all over again, and again . . .

Our drive home, I cry almost the whole way, cursing Bob's doctor, telling him that The Lump is just one doctor, not the only sarcoma specialist, and we won't give up just because that heartless bastard has . . . that I hate the U of M and The Lump, with every cell of my being, for what he—they—have dragged Bob through all year, only to toss him aside in the end, once they were done experimenting on him . . . I hope we never set foot back in that little shop of horrors disguised as the U of M Medical Center . . . that sending Bob home is the single good thing The Lump has done for Bob the entire year he's controlled Bob's destiny . . .

At home, finally, I know we will eventually find our way to a sense of peace and dignity, maybe even some semblance of clarity and knowledge . . . we will regroup, rebuild a routine of living life enveloped in love, good food, friends, family . . . that right now, driving home in the Jeep, in spite of the raging storm of anger, sadness, helplessness, desperation, I feel like I've won the biggest lottery in the world, bringing my grand prize, my Bob, home . . .

Bob's sister, Nancy, flew into MN from Montana Saturday afternoon; Penny and Jim have been here since at least Tuesday or Wednesday. We've all been kind of cocooned out here on Walton's Mountain, getting settled, getting home nursing care set up, cooking up a storm with lots of good, healthy meals . . . trying to figure out what to do next, how to live in this in-between world, where once again, for the 11-teenth time, the rules have changed. Wednesday, Bob was coming to terms with life with a bum leg and loss of other functions. Tough, but hopeful. Friday, he's told to go home and prepare to die . . .

For me to even try to interpret what Bob must be feeling at this point is beyond arrogant, beyond anything anyone will ever comprehend in our lifetime, as much as I wish so badly that I could know . . . all I can do is continue to be with him, to help care for him, to love him, to help him along this newest, most frightening part of the journey yet, and try not to let my heart break so far beyond repair that I'm useless . . . how that'll happen is beyond me . . .

The song from the video above is one that's played in my head for months, nearly every time I've gone to see Bob in the hospital. . .

Home, let me come home

Home is whenever I'm with you

Home, yes I am home

Home is wherever I'm with you

—Home, by Edward Sharp and the Magnetic Zeros

Aching heart, burning eyes . . .

PET scan and biopsy results back today. Both have indicated that the sacral mass in Bob's wound is more cancer, and it's deep, in his pelvis. Right now, that's all we know, but I don't know what else there is to know, or want to know . . I feel I've come to the end of my journey with this blog, that it has more than outlived its purpose, has gone on far too long, without end, and I can't bear to write another entry. Between the immense weight of my heart and the blinding tears that have burned my eyes all day and into the evening, and the spinning, endless thoughts in my head, I'm exhausted and have finally run out of words. I honestly, simply, can no longer keep this up. Maybe, with tomorrow as a new day, I'll have changed my mind, or have found a ghost writer, but for now, I can hardly type through the tears and am having a really hard time making this one make any sense. I hope you understand . . .

Please continue to keep Bob in your prayers . . .

love! to all

Jen

Tests, tests and more tests . . .

So, has everyone shoveled their way out of the MOAS's yet? (As you can see, I'm resorting to acronyms, since being back at the U. In case you don't know, MOAS is short for Mother Of All Storms. I made it up, but you can use it, if you wish). I am eternally grateful for a few neighbors who helped rescue me from the canyon of snow that is now our yard. I feel like we live in an arctic fortress . . . Our snowblower now doesn't work, not sure what's up with that; fired right up with the first big storm we had. Now, nothing. Our neighbor across the street, a retired mechanic, has been working on it, hoping to have it up and running again for the next round. If not, I am SOL . . .

Sitting and waiting, here at the U, goin' on a week now, for all the latest scans and tests to be done. "As long as we have you here," has its pluses and minuses. Since last Monday night (when he first got here), Bob's had an ultrasound on his leg, an MRA, an MRI, is going down, as I type, for another ultrasound on his lower extremities . . . he'll be getting a PET scan in the next day or so—it's scheduled for Wednesday, but if a cancellation happens, he may get in sooner. Trouble is, he can't eat or drink anything but water six hours prior, so it's hard, if not impossible, to plan for a cancellation, like what happened this morning. I told him to just starve himself from now till Wednesday, in the event another cancellation opportunity pops up, we can seize it. He looked at me, with a Tootsie Pop hanging from his mouth. Yeah, right.

Beats being shuttled back and forth from Bethesda to the U for all these followup procedures, but also means a lot of sitting around, doing nothing. Not even PT or OT, believe it or not. They did come in and assess Bob last Friday, but we haven't seen 'em since. I'm tellin' ya, the U's therapy programs are slipping. Our last gigs here, they were the first ones knocking on the door, trying to get in to see Bob. Even when he was in the ICU, with tubes running in and out of every orifice, therapy popped in, crackin' the whip, "Hey Bob! Let's get you moving! I know you're unconscious at the moment so we're kinda limited in what we can do, but every little bit helps!" I'm sure the weather has them a bit short-staffed, but I'm just not used to being neglected like this (from them, anyhow). . .

The ultrasounds are being done to monitor the clot (DVT) in Bob's right leg, and to check out his left leg, as that's showing some signs of swelling as of the past few days, as well. His right leg is still absolutely ginormous and to me, looked even more swollen today, if that's possible. We've been told that it can take months for the swelling of a DVT to go away, so they aren't too alarmed that it's been like this for a month now, but did order another ultrasound, to monitor the progress of the clots.

Overall, I think Bob looks more "puffy," in the face and abdomen, as well as the legs, and mentioned it to the doctor rounding this a.m. Docs said it's most likely due to the additional, continuous fluids Bob's been getting for the past week, so they've discontinued the IV fluids (under the condition that Bob be diligent about drinking adequate water/fluids on his own), and are confident much of the extra swelling will dissipate.

The fluids were being given because Bob's blood pressure had been quite low and his heart rate has been running high, though that's been an ongoing thing since his first heart attack, maybe longer, even. . . another li'l conundrum in the big complicated picture, trying to balance all that, and ruling out all other possible causes, as well (thyroid, steriods, the fact that Bob is super-deconditioned, being ill for so long, all of the above, none of the above) . . . he's super-sensitive to his blood-pressure meds—a little too much makes his BP plummet (as does dehydration), but the cardiologists' general consensus is that he needs to be on them as his heart heals. He's been so susceptible to dehydration, which can add to the low BP/high heart-rates, among other even more serious side effects. A never-ending balancing act. . .

An MRA is like an MRI, but is used to view the vascular system of the body. Doc Writes-On-Her-Pants ordered it, because eventually, she will be the one in charge of what will be done with Bob's wound, be it a flap procedure or something else. She needs to see what the blood supply in the tissue surrounding the wound is like, if it's healthy and adequate to be able to sustain a flap. There are many reasons to do this particular procedure; in Bob's case, it would be done to help with the final healing of his deep wound. Doc WOHP would use healthy tissue, with its own blood supply still intact (the big diff between a graft and a flap; a graft doesn't have its own active blood supply) from an area near the wound site to "fill in" the remaining spaces in the wound. A healthy blood supply is needed for the procedure, hence the MRA, to see if the tissue surrounding Bob's wound site could provide this. The things I learn when sitting for hours and days in a hospital . . .

The colorectal team ordered the MRI, because they want as much information as they can get about the wound site, so when they do decide what to do (they will be part of that team), it's based on sound, solid information. They also finally got the CT scan from Bethesda, so those scans, along with the PET, should give the teams what they need to figure out the next step.

The PET scan is the one I'm most worried about. This is the test that will tell us what the unidentified tissue mass (I'm going to give that my own acronym, UTM) in Bob's wound is, hopefully. PET scans detect cancer cells (among other things), and will hopefully rule out that the UTM is more cancer. . . funny (not in a ha-ha way . . . ), that it never occurred to me that the mass could be more cancer, and I've been watching it grow, have seen it from day one, every time dressing changes were being done at Bethesda. No one else ever suggested that possibility, no one else ever seemed too concerned about it; in fact, most anyone who's ever looked at Bob's wound site has gushed on and on about how "beautiful!" and "clean!" and "healthy!" his incision site is. Even when I have been pointing out, all along, ummmm, that big lump there—is it supposed to be like that?! All along, have been assured that things looked just great! That at some point, someone will have to figure out just what that mass is, and what to do with it, but for now, we were told, things are progressing just fine! So maybe that's why I never questioned it . . . you think by now, I would know better. . .

And maybe it is just that, fine. As I've said before, the hardest thing in the world to do is to not freak about the unknown, all year long, that's been my mantra, whether or not I've always been good at heeding it. Doesn't help, and is wasted energy. But this time, it's hard, harder than it's been all year, for me to adopt that mentality. Lots of deep breathes are being taken over here, lots of tears being squelched, lots of thoughts being shoved back to the far corners of my mind. . .

Quite honestly, I believe Bob is handling all this better than I am. Right now, the UTM is an unknown, and until we know more, there's nothing to get worked up about, is how he's essentially responding to it. In fact, his spirits have been pretty upbeat. He has his fave rocker chick-nurse on staff tonight, and has been joking with her and the rest of the staff all day (this afternoon, when the cardiology team was discussing, very seriously, the potential cause of his rapid heart rate, Bob piped in, "Hey! I'm just very excited to be here again!"), very engaging, responsive, interactive more than I've seen in so very long . . .

I need to take his lead . . . or maybe some of the meds he's on . . . deep breath . . .