Sunday, Sunday . . . random thoughts . . .

I feel like I'm living in a Stephen King novel. Every time I go to the bathroom, I find a neat little pile of black hair, sitting on the sink, or maybe in the shower. As though someone's trying to tell me something. Will my dogs be next? Will I be next? I'm afraid to look turn around . . . "Heeeeerrrrrre's Bobby!" (A gratuitous nod to my favorite scary movie of all time, The Shining. Can anyone say, "Overactive imagination"? Or how 'bout, "Too much time on our hands"?)

For as much hair as Bob's shed (shod, shud?) already, you'd think he'd be bald as Kojak (with a fentanyl pop instead of a Tootsie Pop). But, no one would look twice at him at this point. I can tell his hair looks thinner, but it just looks like he's had a smart new haircut. Seriously, y'all wouldn't notice a thing. His brows are thinning too, just noticed that today. No more Grandpa Andrzejek brows. No more vibrissce to help him feel his way through the house in the dark. All in all, he's feeling okay these days. Has had a pretty good appetite, walking around much more than he had pre-chemo, and is in good spirits. Wish I could share all the one-liners he comes up with while we're hanging out here. He's full of 'em! Or, full of it . . .

These past few weeks have been probably the best weeks for Bob, since all this began. Barring his stint in the hospital when he started chemo, he's more mobile than ever, though he still can't sit, not comfortably, anyhow. He does get fatigued when he's on his feet for a while (half-hour or so), but if he anticipates that, and tries to rest before the pain and fatigue catch up to him, he's able to be pretty active around here (right now, he's emptying the dishwasher!). The mouth sores are dissipating to the point where he can eat just about anything, though he gets a few surprises now and then (such as chocolate candy. Guess that just means there's more for me . . .). We had Cajun-style beans and rice with sausage for dinner last night and he ate a nice big bowl of that. Tonight, we're doing pork chops on the grill, at his request. When he goes in for the stint at Club Chemo in a few days, we can bring him whatever he wants to eat, and since there's a wonderful selection of restaurants around the U, he will hopefully be eating well during this next round.

We just got his temporary handicap parking permit in the mail yesterday! (THANKS for the application and suggestion, Dan M.!) That never occurred to us, to apply for one, but Bob definitely qualifies for it, based on his condition. I can't believe how ridiculously easy it was to obtain the permit—fill out an application, check a few boxes, mail off the app with five bucks and a week later, ta-da. We did have to have a doctor's signature, but do they really verify that? Not that I'm suggesting anyone go out and procure one of their own, because from what I hear, there are plenty of people out there abusing the privilege, but I just found the process amazingly easy (and cheap), considering anything else relating to the government. Bob teases me about taking the permit for my own personal use, "borrowing" Bob's cane and permit and heading to Rosedale . . . but in all reality, is not a funny thing. I always think about a bumper sticker I saw years ago, "I'd gladly give up my parking permit for your legs . . ." I'm sure Bob would agree.

Normally, on a day like today, with Super Bowl Sunday here (neither of us care one iota bout it, whether or not the Vikes are playing. I am going to watch the Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet, however!), and with the beautiful, mild wintery weather, Bob and I would head to William O'Brien or maybe Afton State Park, for an afternoon hike with the dogs. After hiking for a few hours, we'd stop somewhere, maybe the Brookside Tavern in Marine on St. Croix, for some onion rings and a beer, before heading home to make dinner . . . one of my favorite kind of days with him . . . but now, I do like our quite days together during this time, as well. A different kind of togetherness, but together just the same.

Just a few more days of our quiet home-body-ness, and then Bob'll be shipped off to the U. Even though this next stint requires a hospital stay because they'll damn near kill him with the dose of methotrexate, we're told most people tolerate this really well. I still can't figure that one out, and will definitely make sure I know where the "off" button on the IV is, just in case. Doc S. says the average stay for this type of chemotherapy is about five days but he's seen patients stay ten days, had one that made it through in three, though evidently that is not the norm. Like everything so far, there are no absolutes, no definite plans, no cut and dried answers, and like everything so far, we just roll with it. It's all we do, and we do it well.