The kindness of family, friends, strangers . . .

Bob came upstairs this morning and asked me, "What the hell? Did you just give up at the end of the last blog post? It was like you suddenly, in the middle of it, said, 'Well, I'm tired. 'Nite everyone!' and went to bed. No winding down, no closure, no nothin'!" I started laughing because that is exactly what happened, but it was that obvious? I thought I disguised it a little better than that . . . he said I owed you. He should know better than to give me permission like that. . .

Gets to the point some nights, when I slam into the proverbial brick wall; eyes get all cross-eyed, mind goes haywire, nothing makes sense, talking in loop-de-loops, fingers don't work, typos abound, and I just have to end it. I have so much to say, but sometimes it takes forever to get it all out, then I start thinking, when is too much information really too much information? How much to people really need/want to know about all this? How much does Bob really want me blabbering on and on about all this? Just wrap it up, Jen! Maybe I just need to keep it simple, just report on the basics: how he's doing, what's changed in his condition, if anything, what's coming up on the docket . . . it would make it a lot easier on everyone reading this inane drivel, that's fer sher . . . well, until I get that prescription for Ritalin, you're gonna get the drivel. Sorry, peeps.

This past week has been a whole lotta nothing, really, and I just didn't have much to write about, as far as what's going on with Bob, his treatment, etc., hence the abrupt ending to that last post. I mean, I have lots to say, always do even when I say I don't, but felt kind of bound up, literally, last night. Well, not literally, I mean, wasn't bound up that way, but literally, as in . . . ummmm, nevermind . . . . I've got a whole bunch of half-started blog postings that I just don't finish, because they're rants and raves, they're Debbie Downers, pity parties, party poopers. Once I step back from them and re-read them, I think, "Good lord. This is TMI. If people don't think I'm nuts already, this'll solidify the suspicions . . ." Then, I have to come up with something a little less harsh, a bit more palatable for the viewing audience, and by then, my eyeballs and typing fingers are screamin' uncle. But, just for fun, I'll give you a little taste of what I sometimes wallow in . . . indulge me in this one little pity party, then that'll be it. I promise.

Right now, I'm sitting on hold for what seems like a god-forsaken eternity, with our mortgage company. Yes, multitasking again. There's some kind of hardship program that we can apply for, to get a reduction in our mortgage payments temporarily, we've been told. Don't know if we'll actually need it, but why wait till things are beyond help, right? Let's be real: Bob hasn't worked in almost three months, and right now, we don't know when he'll go back. I've spent hours already, gathering information, facts and figures, putting it all together to prove to the powers that be that we're experiencing a real hardship and need a little help over here, please! Been a great time, I'm tellin' ya, as numbers and I have never been good friends. Not even casual acquaintances. For good measure, I've composed a passionate little paragraph in the tiny text box on the online form, sharing additional information, in 1800 characters or less, that will hopefully tug at the heartstrings of the person (is there even a real person?) reading it on the other end . . . I always did better on essays than fill-in-the-blank tests, and am crossing my fingers that this skill comes through for me again . . .

BUT, dammit all to hell—the stupid online form won't accept any of my information—keeps deleting everything as I try to proceed, and I have to re-enter everything. {{{big sigh}}} Again. I've been at this all morning, since about 7:30. It's now 11:28. I started the form a few days ago, when we learned about the program. Poor Rocco, just wants to play tug-o-war, and I keep pushing him away. I'll get you on a walk in just a bit, I tell him. The Great Online Form Wizard tells me that the numbers I've plugged in are just fine, but I must correct the highlighted box below. Which is the text box where I poured my heart out about Bob's condition. The instructions above the box say that only letters, numbers, symbols and spaces are accepted in the box. Seriously. W. T. F. (My in-laws, I'm sure, have finally discovered, via this blog, that Bob married a truck driver . . .)

Thus, the call to the 800 number on the website, which leads to a long and winding road through Dante's voicemail hell . . . press one for this, two for that, three for this . . . you need to call this number for this situation, that number for that, transfer to this person, now over to that one . . . soon, some unsuspecting phone operator is going to bear the wrath of my foul mood and mouth . . .

SOOOOOO. All this waiting and pressing numbers and repeating the story over and over leads me to a representative who basically tells me I'm being a little too proactive on our end. They really can't help us until we're, well, more destitute. Bob was still on the payroll for several weeks while all this started happening, all our bills are paid up, we have a little chunk in savings, so on paper, looks like we're sitting pretty. What's the problem? Well, the problem is, Bob hasn't actually worked for almost three months and we don't know when he'll be able to work again . . . his salary was the bulk of our income, but the rep at CitiMortgage tells me that only when Bob applies for Social Security and gets an award letter (an award letter, as though it's a prize) saying he's really, truly disabled and is not able to bring in the income he once was, then they can tell us for certain if we qualify for their hardship program.

The catch-22 on Social Security's end is that Bob needs to get an authorized letter from his oncologist that says it's likely he'll be unable to work for at least a year due to his condition. Then Social Security may kick in. Then the CitiMortgage program may kick in. And then we're told by many people to just expect Social Security to decline his initial application, which means he has to appeal, do it all over again, waste more time, use up more precious resources . . . does anyone else see the screwed up system in place here, or is it just me? Once again, reactive, reactive, reactive. Like everything we've seen thus far. The novel idea of being proactive, to head things off at the pass before they turn into insurmountable problems, just ain't embraced by anyone, it seems.

Can someone please tell me that I have this all wrong—that social security and mortgage hardship programs and everything else are in place to help prevent families from going bankrupt, from losing homes, from depleting everything they've worked so hard for? Please don't tell me these programs don't kick in until after all that happens? If that's the case, then I'm telling all of you: DO NOT GET SERIOUSLY ILL. EVER. And, DO NOT MAKE ANY MONEY. OR SAVE. EVER. You will be punished for your foresight. My public service announcement for the day. You're welcome.

This is the stuff that can keep me up at nights, if I'd allow it. That, among other things. But maybe we've been through enough to finally know that worrying about something I don't truly know the answer to is useless. It's okay to freak a bit as it's occurring, but gotta try to maintain a grip on reality and keep in all in perspective. Thanks for letting me vent. Now, time to move on. You just gotta.

So, the other night, I went over to a friend's house for dinner. There's a group of five of us who try to get together once a month, rotating who hosts every time. It was Tammy's turn this month, and she surprised us by serving up a hearty Thanksgiving dinner. She missed the holiday this year with her own family, but the lovely irony was not lost on me—I am so grateful for friends, family, neighbors, co-workers, people near and far and everything everyone is doing to help us get through Bob's ordeal, and how fitting to have a Thanksgiving dinner right about now. If only he were able to enjoy some of the leftovers . . .

At the dinner table, my friends presented me with a $100 Rainbow foods gift card and a case of Ensure. Vanilla—Bob's favorite! As I started getting all weepy, they said, "Shut up!" (Yes, they're a sentimental bunch.) "We're doing this for you because we know we'd be doing the same thing if we were in your shoes. It's hard to ask for help—it's weird, it's awkward and sometimes you just don't know what you need, so we just decided to go ahead and do something, without your permission." I sat there, blessed, grateful. I know times are not easy for anyone these days. They have their own bills to pay, kids to feed, houses to keep, problems of their own, and no one really has extra bucks to spare. . .

Several times now, my sister, Jillybean, has made the 45 minute drive from her house to ours, bearing goodies such as wild salmon (that her husband, Jade, caught on an Alaskan fishing trip), funky soups and other concoctions. Her latest was Rockin' Moroccan couscous, which did just that—rock! I loved it, Bob couldn't eat it, as his mouth was still giving him trouble, but I was able to make several meals for myself with it. My friend, Kathy, came to the salon with a bag of home cooked goodies in tow. The case of wine from his colleagues (for me, not him), sweet little envelopes arrive in the mail, with chocolate, recipes, more prayers. . . Bob's parents are available at the drop of a hat, to come up and help get him to and from appointments. I have countless other people on stand-by in case Penny and Jim can't get here. I get phone calls, e-mails, messages from people near and far, letting us know they're here for us, just say the word. And in the meantime, they're praying for Bob and a speedy recovery . . .

Asking for help is one of the hardest things for anyone to do in a crisis. Heck even without a crisis, it can be difficult. You don't want to be a burden, you think you can do this all yourself, it really isn't that bad, others have it so much worse . . . We don't have kids, don't have that added stress, but when one member of the marriage is for all practical purposes, disabled, it does kinda throw a wrench into the system. I've discover just how much that member (name rhymes with Rob) contributed to the household, not just in household tasks or financially, but in so many more ways. We'd be snowshoeing lots this winter. We'd maybe be taking a warm weather vacation soon, and/or a weekend up north. He'd walk the dogs with me. We'd run errands or go out to dinner together. He'd sleep in bed with me . . .

Doesn't help, either, that I have a bad case of Worse Case Scenario Syndrome, this deep-seeded fear that the time I want to start cashing in on all the kind, heart-felt offers from everyone, I'm gonna get shot down. Me: "Hey, Neighbor Joe! Just wondering if you could take Bob to his next chemo treatment, because I have to work—" Neighbor Joe: "Jeeze, Jen. You know I'd love to help out, but today's the '7 1/2 % OFF All You Can Fit In This Sack' sale at Menard's . . . really don't wanna miss that," or . . . Me: "Say, Franny Friend! Would it be possible to bake your Mama's Famous 12 Cheese lasagna? Bob really likes that, and his mouth is better, and he was just talking about it the other night—" Franny Friend: "Jen, you know I'd do anything for you, but this is a really bad week for me—American Idol finals, y'know . . ." Ummm. Yeah. I know. I need therapy.

I can't even begin to wrap my mind around the numbers of people praying for Bob, keeping him in their thoughts, blowing that damn pixie dust in his general direction . . . (my mom said she's grinding pixies into dust for Bob. He liked that visual . . . poor pixies . . .) The people I do know about make me bow my head in gratitude. . . . it boggles the mind knowing there are countless more, that we don't even know . . . It seems like every day, I hear a moving story about a friend of a friend, a colleague of a family member, a neighbor's church member, a prayer group in Michigan, someone, somewhere, who's heard about Bob's story and has jumped into the prayer parade. Bob's Army, as one friend calls it. It humbles me, moves us, and it is that which keeps me going. Those prayers that help balance the anger, the frustrations, the self-pity I feel when dealing with all the other crappy stuff. The crappy stuff just happens. Can't control that. Guess my MO is that I get pissed initially, scared some, sad a little more, a little reactive I guess, especially when, right now, we really don't have a lot of answers to anything. The trick is to not allow the anger, the pity, the fright, to take over, to not lose sight of what really matters in the grand scheme of things. I don't do it by myself, I can tell you that.