Let your tears come. Let them water your soul . . . Ellen Mayhew

This week has brought more relief for Bob as far as physical side effects are concerned—fewer and less intense—no additional hair loss, no mouth sores, the skin on his hands is healing, even his appetite continues to improve. I finally convinced him to let me give him a haircut the other day, so he now looks less like Beetlejuice and more like just a dude with thin hair (seriously, he hadn't had a haircut since October—the long, stringy, wispy wisps that he hid under baseball caps in public but subjected me to behind closed doors were really starting to scare me . . .) We're going to try pizza tonight for dinner, which is also a big deal; every day, his meals and food cravings/choices have become more broad and varied, just like the old Bob, who used to eat anything and everything . . . lots of positives, thinks to be grateful for.

But, I see that the waiting game is wearing on him. . . guess we're trading physical side effects for mental ones at this point in the game. I'm amazed it's taken this long to take its toll. . .no matter what Bob has faced in life, he's never played the victim card, never been one to be comfortable with pity . . . he's been so strong during these long days, and if he has tough times, he definitely keeps them to himself. But yesterday, I think, it all finally caught up to him. I got a text at work from him, "I've been crying all day, don't know why . . ." Call me crazy, but I think I might have an idea . . .

This whole ordeal has been going on for months—since the end of October—and it's definitely been an exercise in patience, perseverance, faith, will, whatever you care to call it. Bob has not worked since the end of October. He has had little contact with friends and family, outside of me and visits from his parents; part of that is due to his condition and not being able to get out and about much, or just not feeling well enough to be up for visitors. Another piece in the isolation factor is that we live in the boonies—if someone did wish to stop in for a visit, it's not an easy trek out here to our little house in the wilderness . . .

He spends hours alone, at home. Exactly what he does while I'm at work is unknown, though I could probably guess and be close. With limited mobility, he has few choices. Lot's of TV, I'm sure. Sleeps when he can, same with eating. Reading is difficult, because he still can't sit, and reading is usually most comfortably done sitting in an easy chair . . . writing e-mails or blog entries takes much effort, as he has to do so standing up, which fatigues his leg. Now, with the mild weather, he takes little walks outside, to get the mail, maybe out to the garage to putter a bit. Before all this happened, he would be out in the back yard this time of year, burning piles of buckthorn that he'd cleared in the fall.

Concerning Bob's condition itself. . . the sheer enormity of it weighs heavily, oppressively, I'm sure most intensely when he's here alone, while I'm at work. Lots of time, too much time, to think about what has happened, what is happening to him, what lies ahead. I think back to when this all began, and all he has been through since then. The astounding pain he's endured—physical, mental, emotional . . . is beyond anything I could ever comprehend. I try to imagine the worst pain I've ever experienced and come up with nothing. Nothing, in comparison to what I've seen Bob endure. . . mental as well as physical. Nothing holds up to what he's faced.

The fact that he's on heavy-duty opiates to control the pain, yet he's never without pain, it never, truly goes away . . . at best, it's "controlled" at about a 3 on the 1-10 reference scale doctors, nurses all use (though I always translate that in my head as a 5; I believe that Bob and others who suffer chronic pain, have a very high pain tolerance. A 3 in their world is at least a few notches higher for the rest of us wimps . . .) The pain is a constant reminder of what he's living with right now. The pills are constant reminders. The blankets draped on the couches, his side of the bed that's never slept on, the bottles of Ensure, the golf clubs that sit in the corner of the basement . . . no matter which direction he turns, the reminders hat his life has been hijacked, kidnaped, and no ransom note left behind. No signs, no clues no hints as to if or when or how much of his old life, our old life together, will be returned.

I get my strength from Bob; if he seems okay, is in good spirits, I'm okay and in good spirits.

When he has bad days, I have bad days . . .when he told me he broke down yesterday afternoon, when talking to the Palliative care nurse, and couldn't stop crying all day, I told him that on my way to work, I cried and cried, till my eyes were hot and blurred and I could barely see the road. When I got home last night, I sat on the floor next to him lying on the couch. We entwined arms and cried some more. This morning, we both feel better. At least a little. Crying releases some of the pressure, the emotions that have no where else to go but out. Like fissures in the Earth's crust, letting all that boiling, churning, hissing stuff out . . .Bob doesn't like to cry, doesn't like to feel weak, like this is beating him down. . . I try to tell him that's not what crying does, that it cleanses, releases, and it's okay . . . then again, I'm a big crybaby, and can cry at the drop of a hat. . . maybe trying to justify my own helplessness . . .

Bob goes into to see Doc S. next week; we're hoping nothing delays the next round of chemo, the in-patient gig. Bob said he's looking forward to Club Chemo; at least there, despite the never-ending flurry of activity (and interesting roommates), at least someone is always around, someone is always there to look after him, to make sure he's okay, to address pain, fatigue, appetite, nausea with the press of a button. Hopefully, we'll have a better idea, too, of when surgery will be performed. Even that is a big fat question mark. . . .the photo above is one of my favorites of Bob. Maybe I've posted it on a previous blog, I don't remember. Even so, it bears repeating. Reminds me that this is what I need to keep my sights on. That Bob will be strong and healthy again.

My guess is that all of this is why he finally gave in to the tears, the heaviness of it all. But then again, I've said it once, I'll say it many more times, what the hell do I know . . .