Rallying the troops—no, wait—troupes? troups? umm . . . .

(The photo to the left is one of Bob's—pasque flowers in bloom at River Terrace SNA, on the Cannon River, south of the Twin Cities. Spring wildflowers have always given me such a sense of hope, strength, renewal . . . delicate yet strong, determined creatures, the early harbingers of spring, enduring harsh elements and surviving, thriving despite, in spite of, it . . . kinda reminds me of someone I know . . .)

So, Bob has probably the biggest fight he has yet to face coming up: surgery. It hasn't been scheduled yet, but I'm feeling maybe next week it'll happen, as long as everything checks out okay. He's severely under weight, has been battling the pain game for far too long (and it's getting worse) and as such is weak and lethargic, and now we're three weeks out from chemotherapy, which means something needs to be done soon. Bob needs to gain strength and weight, yet the heart attack and its residual effects are still paramount in the minds of all involved—is his heart strong enough to withstand the rigors of surgery?—is the main question, along with, "is the tumor growing, and how soon can surgery safely be done, all things considered . . . " So many variables, yet surgery needs to happen sooner than later if there's any hope of getting the tumor out before it grows or spreads. Crazy conundrum . . .

I am asking a huge favor of everyone following Bob's story: would you please, please, please put your phoning, texting, typing, chicken-pecking fingers and/or good ol' fashioned letter writing skills to work and send Bob some messages of encouragement, support, love, and whatever else you might think he could use at this time?! It doesn't have to be anything profound, life-altering, impressive or even make any sense. His spirits have taken quite a beating and right now, he really needs his friends, family, colleagues—his army of angels—more than ever, to boost his spirits, to give him that extra "oooommmmppphh!" to keep going. "When you're going through hell, keep on going" . . .

You can leave a message on the blog (look for the box below the main postings), or you can send them to me (I think my address is on the blog, under my profile) and I'll pass 'em on. Or you can e-mail Bob directly. He also likes text messages and quick phone calls, and though he may not be able to respond, it does a world of good to have that connection with the outside world. I kinda feel like it's a "call to arms" kind of situation here—we've been sitting in a holding patter for far too long, but I also feel that all of that is about to change, soon . . . if you want/need Bob's personal contact info (phone #, e-mail, etc.), let me know as I don't want to publish it on a public forum. I know Bob loves to hear from everyone, and it doesn't have to be a masterpiece, or say the "right thing;" maybe just let him know you're thinking about him. He likes to hear that. . .

So, the main doc on staff on 7D this weekend has been Bob's oncologist, Doc S, so that's a Lucky Strike extra, having the doctor who knows Bob best right there in the hospital over the weekend—he can see Bob up close and personal and get the lowdown on what's been going on first-hand.

Doc S has a reputation of doing his patient rounds ridiculously early in the a.m.—the nurses and even other oncologists joke that it's because he doesn't like to talk to patients, so he tries to get in and out while everyone is still sleeping. We'd heard this little rumor back during Bob's first round of in-patient chemo a few months back, when Doc S was again on staff one of the weekends Bob was on 7D; Bob said it was like he and Doc S were having this little unspoken contest of wills—Doc showed up at Bob's room at 6:30 a.m. the first morning and found Bob awake. Next time, he showed up at 6 a.m., again, Bob was awake. Next time, 5:45. Bob, again, was awake . . . thank god Bob was only in the hospital for 4 nights, or things could have gotten ugly. Guess what Doc S didn't figure out is that Bob never really sleeps . . .

Anyhoo (btw, does anyone wonder how I ever get anything done in life, when I digress so?

It's not just on this blog, peeps, it's my whole life . . . once again, a collective, head-shaking, "Poor Bob . . ."), I knew I wouldn't get to the hospital early enough this morning to talk to Doc S myself, so I left a List of Demands for Bob to share with him, first and foremost that Bob is absolutely not to be discharged until we see a considerable improvement in his condition. (Pic to the right is a flower called a hepatica, another early spring bloom taken by Bob, at Hastings SNA.)

There are so many things going on with Bob, given all he's been through, that I believe he needs to be in the hospital at this point, to shake all this shit out, get it all straightened out, as best as it can. Clearly, it's not happening while he's at home—running to the ER every other day is not my idea of optimal health care; it's frustrating, scary, a huge waste of time and resources, is a terrifying call for us to have to decide whether or not what he's experiencing is "just" a panic attack or a real-live heart attack. And often the ER just provides the "band aid" fix for much larger problems that need to be handled in a hospital setting. I know hospitals aren't great places to rest and recuperate, and I realize insurance companies have their demands, that patients need to be driven in and out through the hospitals like cattle in a stockyard, but once in a while a patient needs to be there. And, right now, Bob is one of those patients.

So many things about Bob's condition right now are inextricably entwined: he has to get stronger and healthier (relatively speaking) before he's ready for surgery, but he can't get stronger and healthier until some other underlying things are addressed (e.g. lack of appetite, strength, weight loss, med issues, potential infections, multiple conditions relating to the heart attack and the chemo, and the tumor itself), and the tumor is also preventing him from getting stronger and healthier and needs to be addressed now. We know what he's supposed to be doing and have tried so hard, at home, to help him eat, to get some exercise, to be there for him—Jim and Penny have been a godsend for us, being with Bob during the week while I'm at work, so he has 24/7 care, but clearly there are many things out of our control that are interfering with our efforts. Being in the hospital, right now, is the safest and most effective place for him to be.

I also requested that all the pre-surgery stuff be done while Bob's in the hospital, to take advantage of being on-site, where doctors, procedures, tests, etc., can come to Bob while he's being stabilized, instead of having to drag him to all these pre-surgery appointments with this doc and that one, to have this procedure and that scan done. Use the time wisely, or "working smarter, not harder," as Bob would say. Now, isn't that a great idea? That's me, an "Ideas" kinda gal . . .

Bob called me this morning to let me know Doc S would be calling me to discuss my "demands." He also said he had a rough night, mostly because he's hooked up to so many IVs and the main IV line that was put in while he was in the ER is in a most awkward spot—right at the crook of his arm, so he's constantly making the machine beep due to an "occluded line" whenever he bends his arm. I told him to ask his nurse if the IV line could be moved to a different spot. Maybe they can't but won't hurt to ask, especially since he's gonna be there another few days.

An hour or so later, Doc S called me. Man . . . I realize he's one of those "genius super doctors" who has saved many lives, but good lord, dude can't carry a conversation to save his life . . . lots of hemming and hawing and throat clearing does not instill a lot of confidence in me, but I try, lordy, I try, awkward though it is . . . I do appreciate that if he or his nurse says he's going to call me, he does, and he does listen patiently to my teary pleading and demands, and I do feel he has Bob's best interest at heart, which is more important than a dazzling personality. . . must be tough being a genius. Thank god I wasn't cursed with that ailment, though "brilliant" oftentimes makes more money than "dazzling." Unless you're Lady Gaga, who possesses either both or neither, depending on your opinion . . . there I go again . . .

Doc S said the game plan is to keep Bob for several days, during which time, he'll order a number of tests and appointments—a bone scan (a new test that I've not heard about up to this point—a general screening on the condition of Bob's bones; it's separate from the CT scan that will be done at some point before the surgery, of Bob's abdomen, chest and pelvis), the kidney biopsy should be done tomorrow, and he'll contact cardiology to see Bob and give their assessment of Bob's condition from a cardiac standpoint relating to surgery. He'll also speak again with Dr. Ogilvie, to see what's going on over in that camp, to see how they're doing rounding up all the key players for surgery. Doc S's take is that plans for surgery need to be amped up, and though he couldn't give me an exact time frame (that's up to the surgeon), I get a feeling it's going to be within the next week or two. He addressed all my concerns and demands and agreed that right now, the hospital is the best place for Bob to be. Seriously. It's almost as if he read my mind . . .

I'd say Bob had a good day today. I got down to the U around 1 (stopped for lunch for Bob—he requested Jimmy John's subs); he had already taken a few walks around the wing with PT, has eaten a big breakfast—more than he has in a very long time, and his pain is being managed at a very tolerable level 2 to 3. My mom stopped by the hospital to visit and came bearing gifts—an angel candle holder from my Aunt Pat (who, if anyone I know, can relate to a "T" to the chronic pain Bob is experiencing. Pat is a three-time cancer survivor and has gone through the ringer in her cancer journey, though one would never know it, she's the epitome of grace and beauty . . . incidentally, I had the great fortune to spend a few hours on the phone with her last night—I was trying to track down my mom and got Pat instead. We talked so long, shared so much . . . might make that phone call a weekly standing occurrence . . .) My mom also brought a game for Bob—Golf in a Can, we call it. It's a golf game using 12-sided dice and God knows what else. I'm sure Jim's gonna be all over that one when they get up here . . . Bob's nurses adore him—he's a smart-ass, but truly appreciates all they do for him. In fact, last night, we learned two of the night-staff nurses were fighting over him. . .

Bob ate more today than I've seen in a long time. Ate most of all three of his main meals. We learned today, via a visit with a dietician, that the hospital has all kinds of supplemental items Bob can use to add calories to foods. One called Benecalorie, for instance, is a weird, thick, tasteless substance (looked like melted lard) that Bob could mix with hot foods to add additional calories, nutrients and such. He also had two small ice cream treats and a 500 calorie nutritional supplement shake! No doubt in my mind he's in the right place, right now. . . Rock on!!

Okay, eyelids are getting far too heavy to keep up; fingers keep firing off typo after typo. Time for bed. Peace, love and ice cream malts to all!

Oh, I almost forgot—Bob has his own "suite" on 7D! I didn't know they had 'em! No roommates, no emotionally scarring testicle peep shows, no Fuzzy's to deal with—now this is more like Club Chemo, without the chemo.