You do good work, peeps, you do good work . . .

Can please someone tell the creepy carny man to stop this whacked-out roller coaster ride and let me off? Pleeeeeeeeaaaaaaasssssseeeee????!!!!!??? I'm tired, I'm dizzy, I'm ready to throw up. . . I've lost count how many times we've been jerked this way and that, hurled to the bottom of the deepest, darkest valley only to be flung high into waves of hope, then yanked back down, thrown back up, over and over and over . . .

Yesterday was, without a doubt, the darkest day for me yet on this journey; at no other time have I felt so alone, felt so absolutely without hope, without direction, without anything to hold on to. . .and I don't even know how to sort through the events of the past 24 hours, to make a coherent path from what we started with yesterday to where we are today. Bear with me, peeps; quite honestly, this is more for my own clarification (and for Bob, for when he's coherent enough to want to sit down and wade through this), so there's gonna be a lot of info thrown out here, and lots of it may not make any sense . . . as it still doesn't to me . . .

When I got to the hospital yesterday morning, we're told that Bob can't have the biopsy on his kidney done because it's an invasive surgical procedure that would require an incision, and because Bob is on Plavix and blood thinner (whole aspirin these days), the risk of bleeding is too high—he'd have to be off the drugs for quite some time (a week or two) before they could do the biopsy, but his cardiologists say no way to taking him off Plavix and the aspirin this soon.

My first reaction was to this was, "Are you freakin' (see? I'm tryin' to clean it up, for your sake, folks) serious?!? It's no secret Bob's on blood thinners, and I'm pretty sure the people doing the biopsy are aware of potential issues that can interfere with this procedure, but they don't make that connection between Bob's condition and the biopsy until now??!!! AAAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" So, instead of the biopsy, Doc S ordered an MRI on Bob's kidney. The MRI is more detailed than a CT scan, but won't show exactly what the spot is; it'll just confirm that something is indeed there, which will then mean that the biopsy will have to be done, which would mean the blood thinners would have to be stopped, and everything delayed indefinitely. If the spot is more cancer, well, we couldn't even go there. If it was not more cancer, then we come back to other options. (I'm feeling the need for a flowchart here . . .)

Bob did have a bone scan, which was done to evaluate the condition of his bones (when I'd mentioned the neck pain Bob's been having that wasn't going away, they decided to add the bone scan, to check there for signs of metastasizing cancer there, as well). So, about midday, Doc S and his oncology fellow (a "fellow," in addition to this one being a guy, incidentally, is what they call an "oncologist in training," so to speak; a doctor who trains in the specialty of oncology at a university hospital. Kind of. I think.) arrive in Bob's room and start to give us the lowdown. Which is basically nothing. For all the talking, hemming, hawing, clearing of throats, we're really told nothing more than we already know. That Bob can't get the biopsy done. That he needs the MRI. That the MRI isn't a definitive tool, just confirming that there is or isn't something on Bob's kidney. That if there is, the picture looks pretty grim, but they'll have to do more tests to find out exactly what the spot is. That if there isn't, there are definitely more options, but still more crud to wallow through. That they really can't tell us anything else until the MRI results come in. So, take that, kids. See ya!

Bob's oncologist is the most difficult medical professional I've ever had to talk with. Any time I talk to him, I leave more confused than when I started. He offers scant explanations, he seemed to defer much of the situation to others—to the cardiologists, to the surgeon . . . I'm beginning to think that, other than pumping my husband full of toxic waste and nearly killing him in the process, he hasn't done much of anything for Bob. By his own admission, the tumor is growing. Slowly, but still, growing . . .they still want Bob's cardiologists to assess Bob and see if he's ready for surgery on the tumor. Cardiac clearance is another piece that needs to be in place in this big ol' puzzle.

So the gist of the day is, nothing can be decided until the freakin' MRI is done and the results are in. I spend the entire day at the U with Bob, ordering food for him, sitting with him while he ate, trying to help him find a tolerable position to eat (standing fatigues him quickly, can't sit; we did find that if he lay on his back and adjust the bed and bedside tray, he could eat quite comfortably in bed). We went on a walk around the wing of 7D, he slept much of the day. I kept replaying the conversation with the doctors and any way I tried to analyze the situation, I hit a brick wall. So if the spot shows up on the MRI, the biopsy will have to be done. Which means the Plavix and aspirin will have to be stopped. Which will screw up everything with cardiology. Which will screw up everything with oncology, because it will delay the tumor surgery indefinitely. And if it's found to be more cancer, well, then . . . but if it's not, well then . . .

I finally left Bob to get some rest around 7:30. When I got home, I had a knot in my stomach so tight, I thought I was going to throw up. I started cleaning the house. I made some salsa. I folded clothes. I fed the dogs. I kept replaying the conversation over and over. What did we learn? What do we know? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I called my mom and started to explain the day, and as I did, I started crying. Heaving, hysterical, chest-heaving crying. I told her that this was the first day I truly felt hopeless with this situation, that no one gave me one iota of anything to grasp onto at that meeting . . . that I don't know what to do, that I had to hold it together with every fiber of my being in that meeting, because there was no way in hell I would let myself break down in front of Bob, but now that I'm home, I truly, honestly, have never felt so alone, and so so empty . . . my mom listed quietly, but I know she didn't know what to say, either. Eventually, we hung up, with me promising to call her when we heard any new news in the morning.

Then, I picked up the phone and called 7D and asked for Bob's nurse, Susan. Our rocker-chick nurse who adores Bob, whom Bob adores back, who gives him grief, takes such good care of him. I asked her if she could explain to me again exactly what went on in Bob's room today. . . why don't I understand it? Why doesn't any of this make sense to me, at all? Why does it feel so hopeless, like everything hinges on the result of the MRI, that nothing, absolutely nothing can move forward until the results of the MRI are in, and that if the MRI shows something, anything, on the kidney, that it's a hopeless case. . . can she give me at least a little glimmer of hope? Throw me even the tiniest of bones, something to gnaw on?

Susan, in her laid back, almost painfully slow manner, told me that if she didn't have access to Bob's records where she could prep herself about Bob's situation, and re-read what the docs had written, she wouldn't have understood the day's meeting, either. She confirmed what I believed, that nothing can be decided until the MRI is done. Then, there are several options, and maybe tomorrow, I need to call doc S and ask him to clarify these options, along with the pros and cons of each. She talked with me for at least a half an hour, and with each word from her, I slowly felt at least a little better, at least the crying stopped. She said to spend some time tonight writing down lots of questions, and then demand tomorrow that Doc S outline all our options step by step. And if I don't understand something, keep asking until I get clarification. "I don't think that's an unreasonable request," she said. Trouble is, so often in these situations, I can't even begin to formulate the questions until after I've been given time to process all that we're told. And she said the cardiology team would be in too, so they might be able to shed more light on the situation, too, maybe if they gave Bob clearance, he could have the surgery done sooner than later . . .

So, morning came. I walked the dogs, ate a quick breakfast, and then got up to the hospital around 9 a.m. No one had been in to see Bob yet. I'm glad, because I want to be talking to these doctors, too, to get more answers. So shortly after I arrived, Doc W came in, the oncology fellow. I asked him to give me a better explanation of yesterday's conversation, and to give me all the possible outcomes of what could happen from here on out. He started explaining what the options were should the MRI show the spot . . . I asked if he had seen the results yet. At first he said "no," then he said, "Here, let me see if maybe I can pull up Bob's records on the computer here." He turns to the computer, I hear the clicking of the keyboard, and then he said,"Well." then a few moment's pause, Then he turned to us and said, "Well, I have really good news for you. The MRI shows absolutely nothing on the kidney. Nothing at all. Now isn't that great," and looked at us with a smile, "a little bit of positive news here, that's great."

I said, "Sorry to be a skeptic, but does someone else have to 'officially' read the results? Are you sure that's what it says?" He assured me that Bob's record indicated nothing on the kidney. "Again, pardon me for being a skeptic, but how does a spot just disappear like that? Like magic?" He said that it could have been a low-grade infection that cleared up with the antibiotics Bob was just on, could have been something else, the important thing is that the MRI showed absolutely nothing on Bob's kidney, so any issues relating to that can be tossed aside and now we can move on.

Next item on the agenda is cardiac clearance for surgery. The cardiologists were to be in today, to talk about Bob's cardiac situation and how it looks for the pending surgery. Shortly after Doc W. left us, another man arrived, this time, it was Doc K from cardiology. Great bedside manner, this doc. Warm, personable, easy to talk to, explained things so clearly. Does this mean he's not as smart as doctors with no personality . . . hmmmm . . . anyhow, his take on the situation is that now they're wresting with the issue of the artery that's blocked, the one that didn't get stented when Bob had his heart attack. Do they stent it now or wait till after the tumor surgery, as had been suggested earlier. Another issue that was wrestled back and forth between oncology and cardiology all day . . . long, exhausting meetings with cardiologists, oncologists, waiting, more meetings, lots of note taking . . .

And the decision was made to stent the artery before Bob's tumor surgery. Again, this was a complicated decision to be made with no right or wrong answer, just what was the best option that carried the least risks and posed the least obstacles in the long run. After discussing with Bob's surgeon and Doc S, the executive decision to stent the artery before removing the tumor was made because the surgeon said the heart needs to be as strong and healthy as possible, and by stenting it, that would increase the likelihood of a better surgery. Big concerns are that by putting off the tumor surgery, it may allow the tumor to grow . . . but the powers that be (and it sounded like quite the pow-wow, with many, many heads going in on this decision together) felt the tumor surgery, being so complicated and involved, would put a great amount of stress on Bob, and ultimately his heart. . . so, the stent will be put in tomorrow. Yes, I said tomorrow. Stent in, recovery for a month or so, then tumor surgery. How's that for a nutshell ending to a long-winded entry? Oh, and in case you've been wondering about Bob throughout this whole ordeal, he's been quite heavily medicated over the past few days; experimenting with pain management, so even though he's in attendance at all these doctor's meetings, half the time he's dozing off, leaving me to contend with these white coats by myself. . .

This is all so condensed, you know, all the doctors, the conversations, my reactions, the events of the day . . . I've left so much out . . . but I got the basics covered, I think. Oh, forgot to say that the bone scan came back looking good, too. They said Bob's bones appear to have a little more wear and tear visible than someone else his age, but again, probably due to the radiation. . . god, sometimes makes me think, with what we're seeing here with Bob, the residual effects of a treatment that "cured" him 30 years ago but is now trying it's damnedest to kill him, why anyone would ever undergo the treatment . . . to stay alive, I guess . . .

I really need to go to bed here, soooo tired, eyes are crossing, fingers stabbing blindly at they keyboard . . . and maybe revisit this, edit, make some changes, whatever, in the morning after a few cups of my turbo-charged, put-hair-on-your-chest coffee. . . so many details, so many doctors, opinions, meetings, I can't keep them all straight any more . . . BUT, before I hit the hay, I did want to say tell you all that we are hearing, seeing, feeling, all the well-wishes, messages, e-mails, phone calls, prayers, kind thoughts, generous deeds, groovy vibes, pixie dust, immeasurable love. . . coming at us from all corners of the universe, we're wrapped up tightly in it . . . in all the frustrations, sadness, craziness of the past few days, I am once again humbled at the outpouring of your love and support. I've been sharing all of it with Bob, though I do have to say, they have him quite doped up right now, and he barely remembers what day it is, though I have a feeling that beneath the medicated fog, he feels it, too. LOVE! to all . . .