Rough waters . . .

Sunday night . . .

Nausea has crept up on Bob tonight and is now taking over. He hasn't eaten much all day, I told him he should eat a few small things—crackers, mint tea, something, to calm his stomach, but he's having a hard time coming up with anything that sounds even remotely palatable. This morning, the ribs and kraut I put in the crock pot smelled great to him. A few hours later, he asked me to light a candle downstairs, so he wouldn't smell the odors of cooking food wafting through the house. I need to call the triage nurse first thing tomorrow, to ask about this nausea thing, among my long list of questions and concerns. Bob simply can't afford to lose any more weight. I can't do anything to help him, and my presence downstairs is more an irritant right now. So I head upstairs and tell him to text me if he needs anything.

. . . it's times like now, later in the evening, Bob's downstairs, I'm up, alone with my thoughts, when the poisonous ones enter my mind and start multiplying, taking over, like a cancer. Spending much time at home lately, I have lots of quiet time to ponder the situation at hand, to try to make sense of even a little bit of this, and I'm at a loss . . . a complete and utter loss . . . it goes beyond "life isn't fair . . ." or "everything happens for a reason . . ."

Like trying to wrap my mind around the magnitude of an earthquake that wipes out 100's of thousands of people from this planet with one, great big shudder, that's a tough one, too . . . the list goes on . . . then I think, why am I wasting precious time and energy on the past? My focus has to be on the here and now, to help Bob get through this. It just has to be. At night, though, it's hard . . .

. . . times like this, I think of all the medical professionals who have told us, after the fact, in their self-congratulatory, hind-sighted manner, "Oh, yes, that radiation that Bob had as a child, that's most likely the cause of all this." Since Bob's heart attack nearly three years ago, and now this secondary cancer, that's what we hear, from doctors, from nurses, even those who weren't Bob's doctors—people I just talk to, clients at work, friends of friends who are in the medical field . . ."radiation can do that, radiation can do that . . ." Sofa king smart, after the fact aren't you all? Whole helluva lot of good that does anyone now. Where were all of you before the fall out? Twenty years ago, ten years ago, hell, just three years ago? If everyone else has been privy to this information, as it seems to be from their smug responses, then why was the very person who could have really used this info never informed? That radiation can come back to haunt you, wreak havoc on your body, years later, in disguises, when you least expect it, so be aware, beware. . .

. . .it's times like this, when I start thinking about the "shoulda, woulda, coulda's" that I want to tear my hair out, I become furious, vindictive, filled with toxic energy. That's when it teeters on the edge of becoming all-consuming, if I'd allow it. They're thoughts I have to push back because if I let 'em take center stage, the tears start. Then the headaches. The blood boils and the sheer and utter rage against a system that could have warned Bob years earlier about heart problems, secondary cancer, that could have spared him the agony of what he's experiencing later in life. . . that seems like it failed him in so many ways . . . my heart aches with the enormity of it, but the simple fact is, I can't turn back time . . .

And that's not where I need to be, wallowing in woulda-shoulda-coulda-land. Right now, it takes every fiber of my being to not lash out at a system that seems to have known about the potential for all of this to have happened, but did nothing to prepare us for it. The longer we're on this ride, the more I see a system of reaction instead of proaction. A system that treats symptoms instead of causes. A system with blinders, with egos, with super-specialties that get in the way and cloud the whole picture . . . but I have to let all that go, push it aside. At the very least, try to manufacture the seething anger into something else, something more productive . . . it's the very same system that saved Bob's life 30 years ago, saved his life three years ago, and will save his life again.

Monday morning . . .

Doggies woke me up around 6-ish this a.m.. I stood at the top of the steps and peeked down into the family room. TV was on, but Bob was lying with his back to it. I figured he must be sleeping, so I tiptoed back upstairs, and started my coffee and headed to my laptop to finish this rant. Few minutes later, I heard the patio door slide open and close again downstairs. Bob must have let Rocco out. I poured a cup of coffee and went back downstairs. Bob was now lying facing the TV. I knelt beside the futon and kissed his forehead. "How'd your night go?" I asked. "Not too bad," he said quietly, "I got some sleep, eventually, last night and I'm feeling a little better this morning. Not nearly as nauseous. Not great, but not as bad as last night." Maybe that was the worst of it . . . he asked if I'd bring him a glass of milk and one of the chocolate-caramel bars his mom had made. "I know that sounds weird, but I'm really craving one of those and a little milk." Good sign . . . a little while later, he asked if I'd bring him an egg with cheese, and a glass of o.j. . . . maybe the worst has passed, for now.

I run a few errands in the afternoon, meet my sister, Jill and her 4 year old daughter, Amelia, in St. Paul at an adorable consignment store in a beautiful old house on Grand Avenue called, appropriately, My Sisters' Closet. Upstairs, I find a cute pair of tall black leather designer boots that I just have to try on because a girl can't have too many pairs of black boots. As I pull up the zipper on one of the boots, it stops suddenly 1/2 way up my leg and doesn't go any further.

Upon closer inspection, I see the zipper is caught on a flap of leather and won't let go. I call for Jill to come help. Both of us, working at different angles, try to pull, tug, heave and ho, but the zipper just won't give. Several minutes and countless cuss words later, I'm starting to work up a sweat and am in mini-panic mode. I send Jill for help. She goes downstairs and comes back up with a pair of pliers. As she starts tugging and yanking at the zipper with the pliers, I tug and pull in opposite direction on the boot; both of us are grunting, groaning, laughing maniacally, Jill has to pee, hissing swear words through our teeth because Amelia, joyfully trying on sparkly heels, is only arm's length away.

Several more minutes go by and neither realize Amelia's talking to us until she says in her loudest inside voice, "Mommy! Is my nose bleeding?!" We both stop tugging and look at Amelia, who has blood trickling from her nose down to her upper lip. I'm stuck, literally, with a $50 boot on my left foot, Jill's got a kid bleeding all over the place. Classy chicks. I dig a pack of kleenex out of my purse and mop up Miss A's face. Finally, after an eternity of struggling and swearing, we get the zipper down, my foot out, and Amelia's nose bleed in control. I leave without the boots, and head home. Gotta stop at Target for more hand sanitizer and Clorox wipes, and for non-alcoholic mouth rinse for Bob.

I stop at the Dollar Tree; I want Valentine's decorations for my Christmas tree. I find red foil garland and wide fabric ribbon with a valentine design imprinted on it. This'll work. I've decided to keep the tree up, at least through the winter. It's out on my screened deck off the living room, so it's out of the way. I love the way my living room glows with its soft golden light in the early morning and late night hours. Bob likes it, too. I'm going to decorate it for the holidays—hearts, shamrocks, eggs, maybe little flags and poppies for Memorial day . . .

I'm home for a few hours before I have to bring Rocco to Basic Obedience. I've asked Bob repeatedly if he wants anything to eat, but he refuses. Nothing sounds good or tastes good. I continually remind him that he has to eat, even if it's just many tiny portions throughout the day. He has to keep his strength up, keep infections at bay. So easy for me to say, always so easy he managed to slowly eat a tapioca pudding cup . . . Rocco made me so proud at class tonight, better than last week, where he was the dunce of the night. Was on the ball tonight, despite the traumatic car ride to class. No vomit, though. When I get home, Bob asks me to make a Jack's pizza for him. He ate maybe the equivalent of a slice.

U of MN's Cancer Center offices are closed for the MLK holiday. Will have to call tomorrow with my growing laundry list of questions and concerns . . .