A safe and memorable Memorial Weekend to all . . .

(picture to the left is of the song our 4 year old niece, Amelia, wrote for Bob, called "My Little Rainbow . . ." She's taking piano lessons, loves to play, and just had her first recital, at which she refused to play, because she, "didn't like all those people looking at her . . .")

Sitting out on the screened deck this evening, enveloped in darkness, breeze lightly cooling us . . . Bob's on his cot, I'm on the wicker loveseat with a glass of wine (Kim Crawford Sauvignon blanc, in case anyone's wondering) and my laptop. Rocco is underneath me, cashed out for the evening . . . Gaia's out on the deck, where she's been for most of the night. I think she's claustrophobic, as she's never seemed to like it out here in the cozy screened-in. Maybe because there's not enough room for the four of us . . . Bob just sat up, told me he's contemplating ice cream . . . off to the kitchen we go, Bob, Rocco and me, for vanilla, with chocolate and caramel drizzled on top. . .

The past few days since he was discharged have been, for the most part, uneventful. Bob has a portable PCA, which connects to the PICC line in his arm and administers a continuous dose of one of his pain meds. It also has a button that he can push to administer an additional boost of pain med as needed. Since we've been home for a few days with it, we're discovering the pros and cons to this setup. Even though the PCA unit is about the size of a Walkman radio (old skool, kidz . . .), it's carried in a shoulder bag with which most women are familiar, but with which Bob is annoyed. It goes where he goes, morning, noon and night, awake and asleep, and we have yet to figure out how he showers with it, too. (Actually, "without" it, as we have to wrap the site of the IV in his arm with Glad Press 'n' Seal, then tape it, then release enough tubing so that the unit can be laid outside the shower, away from water . . . tomorrow will be our shower experiment day . . .) Bob has found the whole thing highly annoying and interfering, but the alternative is to be hospitalized for pain control, so "put up or shut up" is the only alternative at this point. Only a few more days . . .

Initially, the "booster" dose of med was a bit too much—when Bob would push the button, he'd turn into a zombie within a few minutes. Not kidding—he would literally fall asleep standing up, voice stopped mid-sentence, eyes rolled into the back of his head . . .not a fun way to spend the rest of the weekend before his surgery, for any of us. If he could manage to remain conscious, he was confused, disoriented, frustrated . . . a call to his palliative care doc, who adjusted his meds, and then to the home health agency who came out and adjusted the machine brought a better result from the button-pushing. Pain relief with less zombie side-effects. . . still, Bob's not "Bob" right now . . . pain is controlled, but not gone. He's tired, sleeps a lot, though he's still very restless, anxious, has slight zombie-tendencies . . . I was hoping he'd feel up to running a few errands with me today, but I ended up going out alone . . .

Got a package in the mail today; opened it up to find an adorable stuffed owl in scrubs inside.

From Claire and Grace, our nieces in Billings, MT. They went to Build-a-Bear and made Bob his very own owl to watch over him in the upcoming days. Hedwig, as the owl was named, has his own beating heart and a "magical sound" that plays when his foot is squeezed. Rocco is obsessed with him and thinks he should have it as his own, so we have to be careful to keep Hedwig out of reach . . .

We're hoping to have a little gathering tomorrow here; maybe my mom, sisters, their families, for a bbq, to quietly celebrate and honor the holiday. Anyone in town, feel free to swing by and say "hi!"

Even though we're somewhat isolated out here on Walton's Mountain, I can't even begin to describe how enveloped in love, support, encouragement, generosity, prayers, hope that we feel, from so many people in our lives, near and far . . . we have been feeling it throughout this journey, throughout the whole thing, really, but especially these past few days. The upcoming surgery conjures up so many things, so many emotions, so many anticipations, expectations, fears, worries, outcomes . . . it could mean the beginning of a whole new life, a whole new way of looking at life, of living, of being . . . right now, we have no idea. No clue. No inkling. . . all I know is prayers, love, hope, words of encouragement . . . right now, that's all we know . . .

Flurry of activity . . .

Bob's surgery is officially on the schedule. Next Tuesday, June 1st. That was decided for sure yesterday, and as such, Bob's room became the site of a whirlwind of visits, consults, tests, etc. to be done prior to surgery.

He had cardiology consult yesterday; said from a cardiac standpoint, his heart looks strong and healthy, so they gave their "go-ahead" with the surgery. They ceased the Plavix yesterday, will also cease the aspirin upon the surgeon's request a few days before the surgery . . .

Met with someone from vascular surgery, and learned something new: that tumors, particularly bigger ones, actually create their own blood supply by which to feed itself, like some creepy, freaky sci-fi creature . . . so, they're discussing the possibility of doing a minimally invasive procedure to cut off the blood supply to the tumor, which would be done prior to surgery. The goal is that by cutting off the blood to the tumor, it'll lessen the amount of bleeding during surgery.

Anesthesiology also paid a visit and said Bob's good to go, in their eyes. Not sure what the point of that visit was, as they showed up after I'd left; maybe will ask someone today, if I remember. Sounds like anyone and everyone who has anything to do with the surgery needs to give their "thumbs up," or to address any concerns from their perspective prior to surgery. So, it was another good reason to have Bob in the hospital this time, to get a lot of stuff done in a timely fashion. I'm imagining trying to get all of these things done on an out-patient basis, and am pretty sure it would have taken forever, if at all. . .

Bob had an MRI last night, one more pre-op image, to get a current, detailed view of the tumor and surrounding areas. And he had a PICC (long-term IV) line inserted into his arm, and will be going home with a portable PCA (Patient Controlled Analgesia) pump, for his pain meds. I got to go to a class to learn about the PICC (already knew about that) and the PCA pump (new stuff); how to operate it, change the medication, battery, etc. The PCA pump is a device that delivers Bob's meds via the PICC line. It delivers a "baseline" amount of medication continuously, along with a button that Bob can push to control an extra boost of the drug as needed (the "boost" is set to a specific amount allowed in intervals, and only so many "pushes" can be delivered in a set time frame, so he can't OD).

He had one on an IV pole in the hospital, but they have a portable version for home use. Bob'll carry the PCA in a little pack about the size of an old-skool Walkman. The IV delivery of meds is more effective than pills at this point and the theory is that it'll manage his pain better for this next week, while waiting for surgery. His pain has gotten to the point where he's maxed out on the amount of medication he can take via pills, hence, the IV version; uses less of the drug but gets into the blood system faster and more effectively. The trade-off is that the meds make him so groggy and zombie-like. He has a difficult time recalling words, and his memory is also being affected; a frustrating situation for this normally very coherent, in-control guy. He's very tired, but can't actually sleep well . . . it's a delicate balance, getting the pain managed to a tolerable level while still being coherent enough that he feels he can function. His Palliative care doctor assured me that this will be just a temporary set-back, as they'll start weaning him from all these drugs after the surgery.

That's the quick, down-n-dirty update. I know you're disappointed not to get a full chapter today, but got a busy day—head to the hospital for a few hours, then to work the rest of the day. Penny and Jim will be up later, to be with Bob in the afternoon, and to bring him home. Let's all toss up a few prayers that this will be a boring, uneventful week . . .

Another day down, a little progress made . . . {{{hack, cough-cough, hack-hack-hack,gag, cough}}}

I'm taking desperate measures to get better . . . latest effort is a Neti pot up my nose, to try and clear some congestion and post-nasal drip. Thanks Julie, for the suggestion and the photo. New profession: circus freak. Friday night, I even tried an onion/honey concoction I'd encountered on countless websites as a natural "cure all" for dry, hacking, persistent cough. I about vomited all over the kitchen with that one; though I did fall asleep for a few hours after choking it down . . .

I stopped by a Target quicky-clinic Friday morning on my way to work, to see if someone could at least tell me what I don't have—strep, H1N1, whooping cough, pneumonia, bronchitis, sarcoidosis, cystic fibrosis, lung cancer . . . for better or worse, the world wide web has replaced the old-skool Reader's Digest Medical Encyclopedia as my go-to source for self-diagnosis . . . Strep test came back negative and the PA at the clinic said it sounds like I just have a lovely little virus that's running rampant this spring, starts out with body aches, sore throat, low fever and morphs into a dry, hacking cough that, all in all, takes a few weeks or so to clear. Nothing to do except treat the symptoms, so I walk out of Target with a bottle cough medicine, a prescription of little gel-pills that are supposed to melt in the throat and coat it with a numbing agent, more Excedrin, a bag of cough drops and bottle of Vitamin Water to wash it all down.

Thursday night, I had left a message on Bob's beside table for him to show every doctor who came in to see him if I wasn't there: that they must call me after visiting Bob, so I can hear first-hand what was discussed. No more traumatic doctor's visits for Bob to deal with alone. Often, the docs make their rounds so early, before I can get to the hospital, and I end up missing out on critical information. I want to know everyone and everything that comes through his room, so Bob isn't left to have to hear and process all of it alone.

I worked a few hours Friday morning and then got up to Bob's room around 1 pm, chocolate malt from Grand Ol' Creamery in hand. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have been on 7D, feeling like I have been, but still had so much to do, many people to try to contact, because many doctors aren't around on the weekends. They told me at the quicky-clinic that I should be past the contagious stage of the virus, but tell that to the casual observer who was lucky enough to witness the coughing fit I had while taking a walk around the wing with Bob. Must have looked like a violent evil possession worthy of an exorcism. At the very least, a quarantine.

With gallons of water, the cough syrup, drops and obsessive hand-washing/sanitizing, I held up long enough to talk to the colorectal surgeon on the phone (not sure if it was my bedside message or the message I'd left with his nurse in the morning that prompted the phone call). I was surprised at his candor; despite not knowing anything at all, really, about Bob and his situation, he was extremely empathetic, listening to my concerns respectfully and openly.

At this point, I'm done trying to be "together," done with filtering and censoring words to try to stay on the doctors' level. I will never be on that level, so I have to quit trying. I'm emotional, reactive, on edge, freaked out, sick, scared, desperate, bleary-eyed, mad as hell, cannot bear to see Bob suffer any longer . . . I'm going to make Bob as real a person as I can to these people, so that maybe it finally sinks into their heads that their patients aren't diseases. They aren't tumors. They aren't a diagnosis. They are people, with lives, loves, dreams, fears, hobbies, likes, dislikes, idiosyncrasies, quirks, talents, faults, families, friends . . . who just happen to have a disease, a tumor, a diagnosis . . . pathetic, fruitless endeavor, I know. Doctors don't get to be doctors by being sappy, wimpy, emotional, sensitive wrecks, by caring too much. I don't mean they don't care. They just don't get too attached. And that's probably a good thing for all of us, as much as I don't want to admit it. . . but a little compassion? Sensitivity? Communication skills? or at least have a spokesperson . . .

I tell Doc M that I was extremely concerned that he didn't know about Bob's heart attack. I said, "You're going to be doing a major surgery on him and you didn't know that critical piece to his history? Do you know that that wasn't his first heart attack? Do you know that he's a childhood cancer survivor and that all these critical health issues that he's experiencing as an adult is the result of the radiation he was exposed to over 30 years ago?" That we were told that when they stented Bob's heart, there was a lot of scar tissue in his chest from the radiation. That maybe that is something he, Doc M, might encounter when he does his part of the surgery, and that maybe sooner than later is a better time to know that? That I can't pretend to even have one bit of knowledge about what his role as a surgeon entails, but the more he knows about Bob, in my book, the better?

He apologized for not being more knowledgeable about Bob's condition at this point, but that I should be assured that they will be going over his medical history in great detail prior to the surgery. He went on to explain his role in the surgery, that he will be "clearing the path," so to speak, for the orthopedic surgeon to come in and remove the tumor, and that he will spend considerable time examining Bob's scans, slides and all pertinent information about Bob's condition, alone and with the team. I didn't get any sense of arrogance, annoyance, impatience or any other "doctor attitude" from Doc M. Just a genuine apology and explanation for why he wasn't yet up to speed with Bob's situation. Once again, I'm told that it's going to be an extremely lengthy, complicated surgery, and many very difficult decisions have had to be made and still have to be made. We've been told the surgery will be at least six hours . . .

I then had to ask the doctor why, upon introducing himself to Bob, was the first thing he had to say was that he didn't think he could save Bob's rectal function? I told him that it had disturbed Bob tremendously, that it was a rather harsh and insensitive introduction because Bob was alone, with no support around him, and being on all the medications, he couldn't even begin to process what that meant and what else it could implicate . . .

Doc M first said that he didn't intended to upset Bob; he thought Bob was aware of all the potential issues regarding the surgery and just thought he'd dig right in and share his role, what he was going to be doing, and be upfront about the very real possible outcomes of the surgery, from his standpoint. Yeah, but Bob's never met you before, Doc M, I say. And he was alone, no family or anyone with him when you told him that. Back when Doc O was laying out the best and worst case scenarios, we heard about the good, the bad and the ugly in a general, generic kind of way, but here you come in and throw out what you know, specifically relating to Bob, that's very different. It hit home. Hard. What he heard is that after the surgery, his life will never be the same. In every possible way.

Doc M apologized if there was a misunderstanding; he said that he didn't tell Bob he couldn't save Bob's rectal function, rather that he "wasn't sure" if he could, that there's nothing definite at this point. Based on what he's seen about Bob's situation, the tumor is located in an area where many nerves are located, nerves that control everything from the pelvis down. He didn't say he absolutely couldn't save those nerves, but that the potential for permanent damage was there; that they won't know for sure until they get in and see first-hand how the tumor impacts everything. He tells me that colorectal surgery is his specialty, that he has treated many, many patients who lose bowl and bladder function but go on to live normal, active, fulfilling lives. He's not saying that's how Bob will be, for certain, no one does, but that he wants to be straighforward about the risks and potential outcomes. The main goal is to save Bob's life. That's what we all want, right? he asks me. Absolutely. But, did you have to start with that kind of introduction? I ask. I mean, why couldn't you have started on a more positive, a little more hopeful note? Especially given all Bob has gone through already. . . Doctor M, if someone told you that you could possibly lose all function of your pelvic region, wouldn't you be just a tad bit disturbed yourself . . .

I stood in the hallway, leaning against a window on the 7th floor of the hospital, looking down at the tiny people below, the cars coming in and out of the hospital driveway. I start crying. Again. I tell Doc M that no one appears to care that before this cancer, Bob had a real life. A fulfilling life. He's a very active person. That he likes to camp, hike, kayak, golf . . . that he just started his dream job, but had to give it up almost immediately when the problems with his leg began. That all along this journey, for six months and counting, no one has given us any tangible hope for his life. I mean, yes, they say they can remove the tumor and save his life, but what about his life? His life as he has known it, may be deeply altered in a way that right now, we can't even begin to comprehend. How do you expect someone to take that kind of information in, to even begin to process what that means? All I'm saying, Doc M, is that maybe there was some other way to drop that bomb . . .

He apologized again for that, that he only meant to be upfront, to make us aware of the very real possibilities. We discuss the potential outcomes of the surgery a little more, but eventually he says until he really reviews Bob's records and meets with the other doctors involved in the surgery, he can't give me much more information. I ask him to do me a favor, knowing I'm going to sound like a nutcase, but can't help it . . . that the night before Bob's surgery, will he make sure he gets a good night's sleep, and that the morning of, he eat a good breakfast, please not fight with his spouse, and do the very best work he possibly can for Bob. Please?

There's a pause at the other end of the line. Absolutely, he tells me.

Photo collage of Bob, in his room, right above his bed, Pictures of him doing what he loves and will be able to do again: camp, kayak, drink beer, take pictures, snowshoe. . .

Pull up a chair, grab a cuppa Joe . . .

Could have written this blog at 11 p.m. last night. . . or at 1 a.m. or 2:30 . . . or 3:15 . . . or 4:45 . . . again, Bob is back at the the U, this time admitted because his pain has gotten so bad, beyond the scope of what out-patient pharmaceuticals can do for him any longer . . . again, this week can vie for the title of Worst Week of Our Lives . . . again, it was an act of Congress to get him admitted . . . again, I'm grasping and clawing at the tiniest shreds of hope that no one in the medical community seems to give us willingly, if at all. It's up to us to find it ourselves . . .

I'm going to try to back up and sort through the events of the week, so please bear with me . . . I need to do this, for me, for us, to try to make some sense of this whole hot mess . . . We saw Bob's oncologist, whom I'm from here on out going to refer to as The Lump, as that's as effective as he has been in this whole ordeal. Didn't tell us much of anything new; gave us a brief synopsis of the CT scan Bob had earlier in the day. Nothing to report, other than that yes, the tumor appears to have grown slightly. I ask, in desperation, why the tumor didn't responded to the chemo? Is that normal? Something to be concerned about? The Lump just looked at me as though I were an idiot and said, "Well, sometimes tumors just don't respond to chemotherapy." In between the lines, I heard, "You idiot." We asked if he knew any more details about Bob's surgery, and in usual fashion, The Lump responded, "Well, you'll have to talk to the surgeon's nurse. That's in their court now. I really don't have anything to do with any of Bob's care at this point. I'll come back into the picture after surgery, but you should talk to them about that."

Great. So we leave, and we place a few calls, I call Bob's orthopedic surgeon's office (he's the guy who's going to remove the tumor) and leave a message; Bob, for good measure, calls and leaves a message with cardiology, to see if they've heard from anyone regarding the surgery, since they're the ones who have to make the decision about when Bob goes off Plavix, a topic which has its own host of concerns and issues . . . I end up canceling the rest of my appointments for the day at the salon, because I'm feeling so sick and shouldn't be near anyone with the crud I have, much less Bob, but what can we do about that . . . am only getting a few hour's worth of relief from my beloved Excedrin . . . and now I'm on the rag, to boot. Cramps join in the fun . . . I know, just what you all want to hear. Hey, I'm layin't it all out, peeps. That's how much I love you all, and how close I feel to you . . .

Wednesday, still no phone calls from anyone. Bob's been busy with his Palliative care doc, however; they've been trying to adjust his medications for a few days now, to help him find relief. I go to work another 1/2 day, and have to leave again, feeling like a Mac truck has run over me. I keep reminding myself that it's nothing compared to what Bob's had to go through for over six months now, that I can still partially function in the world, that in a few more days, I'll get over this and feel better again . . . at this point, we have no idea when Bob will "get over" his ordeal, when he'll feel better again. Still haven't heard anything about surgery, so I make another call to the surgeon's nurse, this time, a little more emphatic, I think I'm even crying a bit, Please, please call me back . . . Bob's in so much pain right now, and I know you've mentioned next Tuesday or Thursday as potential surgery dates, but we have so much to do before then, and we haven't heard from anyone yet. . . I even call the nurse's pager and leave my number. . . on my way home from work, Dixie, the surgeon's nurse finally calls me back. She apologizes for not getting back sooner, she tells me that because of both surgeon's tight schedules and all that needs to be done prior to Bob's surgery, and the fact that they're looking at an incredibly extensive surgery—six-plus hours—that it's been a very complicated ordeal to get all pieces in place, and that now they're looking at June 1st (the following Tuesday) as the target date. Poor Dixie . . . I start to unload on her as I'm driving home . . . worse than a drunk driver, I'm sure I am, as hot, blinding tears blur my eyes, snotty nose, words garbled by thick saliva tumble out of my mouth, I tell her that I get it that these doctors are very important and busy and geniuses and all, but Bob has been suffering for six months and counting, and at this point, I have no hope that this surgery will ever happen, that no one appears to give a damn that Bob is in this state of suspended living (if you can call it that) for so long, that he hasn't been able to work, he can barely walk or sit or see friends, or do anything at all that he used to, that The Lump (I didn't call him that to her . . . ) gives us nothing, no hope, no light at the end of the proverbial tunnel . . . for an oncologist, he is the most insensitive person I know, he gives us nothing, we learn of things from other doctors, other people, after seeing him . . . that none of the doctors Bob has seen during this whole ordeal has given us any inkling of hope . . . that no one seems to care that there's a person at the end of this tumor, a person named Bob who hasn't had a life in over six months, with no end in sight and is so beaten down and despondent that his life will never be what it was . . . that he's more than just a tumor, or a heart attack or a colorectal patient, that he likes to hike and go camping and kayaking, and walk our dogs and go golfing with friends and was excited about a new job and loves to travel and is a good, funny, honest, ethical, smart, kind, loving person who loves nature, who wants to get his cameras out and take more pictures. . . Dixie listens patiently to me until, gasping for breath, I finally stop myself, apologizing for dumping on her but unfortunately we can't get the doctors on the phone like this, and I know it's not her fault and I hope she doesn't take what I'm saying personally and no wonder nurses want to go on strike when this is what they have to deal with day in and out, they don't get paid enough to have to handle nut-cases like me . . . she interrupts me and gently tells me it's okay, that that's part of her job, that any time of day, if I need to page her, I've got her number. That she's going to have the surgeon call me in the morning, so he can give me more specific information regarding Bob's surgery, the CT scan, the outlook, maybe give me more concrete information to ease my mind . . . I say I'm going to be at work all day, that he can call Bob if he can't get a hold of me. "No, I think he needs to talk to you. I'll make sure he calls you right away in the morning . . ."

So, Thursday comes, Bob's pain has become excruciating, to the point where he can no longer be on his feet for even a few seconds before sharp pain shoots through his leg, taking his breath away, forcing him to lie down. He's been working with his palliative care doc, for several days, who finally tells him today that there's no more she can do out-patient for him, that it's high time this surgery be scheduled . . .

Thus begins my flurry of phone calls for the day. I don't even remember whom I speak with first . . . I think I started with Bob's oncologist, The Lump. I didn't talk to him directly but told his nurse what was going on, that Bob's palliative doctor feels he needs to be admitted to the hospital for pain control, and that while he's there we can get the ball rolling and get everything that needs to be done done, meet with the colorectal doc, any other docs that need to see him, get tests done, cardio clearance, etc. . . she told me that The Lump has said if Bob were in the hospital, the appointment he was to have with the colorectal surgeon (the other 1/2 of the surgery team) on Friday would have to be cancelled. Why? I ask? He's three hallways away from the hospital. Can't he just walk over to Bob's room?

"That's not how things are done," I'm told. "Bob needs to see this surgeon before his surgery, many doctors don't see patients in the hospital, they only see them in clinic. If he doesn't get in tomorrow, it could very well delay Bob's surgery." She suggests he wait it out till tomorrow, then be admitted after his appointment with the surgeon. I don't even remember ending the conversation; I do remember pleading with the nurse that this is a critical situation, that Bob's pain needs to be addressed and he needs to see the surgeon, and that both things should be able to happen now.

In the meantime, I've called Bob's Palliative Care doc, left a message for her that his pain has increased dramatically and asked what should we do. She calls back, I explain what the oncologist's nurse said, and she suggests that if Bob can wait till tomorrow, maybe that would be best, because she doesn't have the authority to demand or control a surgeon's schedule, that she doesn't know the protocol of patients seeing clinic doctors while they're in the hospital . . . she mentions something about a crack on Bob's sacrum, which showed up on the CT scan that was done on Tuesday, that maybe that's what's causing this increased, spreading pain—Wait a minute! What the hell are you talking about—WE didn't hear anything about a crack in his bone! The Lump (again, I didn't call him that during the conversation) made no mention of anything about a crack . . ." She tells me that she just read Bob's records this morning and saw that note on the scan; that maybe I need to talk to The Lump or the surgeon for more details, because there was nothing more about it other than that it was found. She also reiterated that if we needed a doctor to admit Bob, she would be more than willing to do so for us.

The orthopedic surgeon calls our home phone as I'm talking to Palliative Care; Bob and I switch phones, and I have a pretty lengthy, detailed conversation with the orthopedic/oncology surgeon, Doc O., who will be removing the tumor. My head is ready to explode at this point and I can barely concentrate on what he's saying . . . he did give me an amazing explanation as to why Bob's tumor wasn't affected by the chemo. That much I do remember of that conversation: that osteosarcomas are tumors that basically turn into bone, they're rock-hard masses that encase tumors. Therefore, the mass itself typically doesn't respond to chemo, but they'll know more once they get in and remove the mass and examine it more closely, to see if the cancer cells within the tumor have died . . . he also affirmed that, yes, a crack was found on Bob's sacrum, where the tumor is located, but that probably occurred because the part of the bone where the tumor is is very thin and fragile . . . that it won't affect what he will be doing as far as the surgery is concerned. I told him about the increase in pain Bob's having, that we want to admit him because Palliative care can't do much else out-patient but that The Lump has said if Bob's admitted, the appointment with colorectal surgeon will be cancelled . . . Doc O thought that was odd, that doctors at the U see patients in the hospital all the time. He suggested I call the colorectal dept and ask them directly, and affirmed that Bob should be admitted to the hospital. I got off the phone, made a quick call to the colorectal surgeon's office, and of course had to leave a message. I'm pretty sure it was a long and winding one that didn't make much sense but basically asked if the doc could still see Bob if he were in the hospital because the appointment is a critical piece to Bob's surgery.

Finally got off the phone and tell Bob all I've been told. He listens quietly as he lay on the cot out on the deck. I tell him I think we should call his Palliative care doctor back and have her admit him. That way, we can bypass the ER and its forever-wait, and just get in. He's worried sick that by being hospitalized, the colorectal appointment won't happen and his surgery will be delayed once again. He starts crying. I don't know how much longer I can do this, Jen. I don't even know how to process all of this, what to do, what to think any more . . .

I sit at his side for a few minutes, rubbing his back. I can tell he's fallen asleep (finally), so I quietly get up and head for the shower, to try to clear my head, ease my aching body. As I'm quickly rinsing off, I decide enough's enough. This is all so unbelievably stupid. Bob needs critical care right now, and needs to see the surgeon, who is a hop, skip and a jump away from the hospital. He's going in, and we'll get that surgeon over to see him, whatever it takes. I can't believe I'm having to make all these ridiculous phone calls, to beg and plead and cry to get someone to give a damn about Bob and his very critical situation, that no one is taking the steering wheel, that I, along with input from Bob's mom and dad, are the ones who has to try and figure it all out, and I am so pathetically, sorely under qualified, it's ridiculous . . . I get out of the shower, quickly get dressed and call the Palliative Care doctor's pager. She calls back quickly, and I ask her to have Bob admitted. That I will somehow, someway, make that other surgeon's appointment happen tomorrow, if I have to wheel Bob down to his office myself. This has gone on too long. He's suffering. He's in pain, immense, immeasurable, incomprehensible pain and needs to be in the hospital. She agreed and said she'd make the call, and let us know when it was done.

I went out and told Bob I'm waiting to hear from his Palliative doctor to get him in to the hospital. He started protesting, but Penny and I told him it would all be okay, things will all work out. He needs to be in the hospital right now, and the rest will fall into place. I call the salon and clear the rest of my schedule. Shortly, we get the okay from Palliative care that Bob's good to go, back up on 7D, where all his peeps are. His home away from home. On our way to the hospital, or maybe it was while we were in the hospital, I don't remember, I got a phone call from the colorectal surgeon's office. "No problem," was the basic gist of her message, that she'll schedule someone, hopefully the surgeon who is heading that piece of the puzzle, or one of his team members, over to see Bob once he's settled.

Most of the day is just sitting around, getting Bob hooked up to a PCA pump, which via IV, will give him more control over the pain meds he needs. I field a few more phone calls, one to patient relations at the U (which will be a blog for another time, my rantings about the cluster-fuck that is the U of M medical system. Absolutely ridiculous. Horrifically stressfully disjointed, like a cancer all its own, hugely out of control, no one speaks to each other, no one is connected to the other. GREAT case in point is the colorectal surgeon who came to see Bob in his room. I had waited and waited and finally left to go to the can and of course, wouldn't you know it, that's when Doc M, the colorectal surgeon, arrived. Thankfully, I met him and his student-doctor-partner person in the hallway outside Bob's room just as they were leaving. We're chatting a bit and somehow in the conversation, I mention Bob's heart attack. Doc M looks at me. "Bob had a heart attack?" I look at him. "You don't know this? Are you kidding me? At the end of March, while receiving his last round of chemo. . . " I look at him in disbelief and he quickly ushers me back into Bob's room, saying, "We can go back in and talk to Bob, if you wish." At this point, I don't even remember much of the conversation other than that, once again, I plead for them to get moving on the surgery, that while Bob is here, get all that needs to be done done, and get the show on the road. We talk a bit more and then they excuse themselves.

Later, Bob tells me that when this doctor was in his room, before I arrived, he introduced himself, and basically the first words out of his mouth were, "I don't think I can save your rectal functions, Bob." The very first thing out of his mouth. Not, "Hi, Bob, I'm Doc M, and it's nice to meet you. Even though this is going to be a very complicated surgery, I'm confident we're going to pull through. You're a fighter, and a strong person . . . " No. Basically what Bob heard was, "Mr. Andrzejek. You're going to have to shit in a bag for the rest of your life."

See, peeps, this is the kind of shit we're up against . . . I'm sick and tired. Literally, sick and tired. I laid next to Bob in his hospital bed for a while yesterday, he stroked my hair, my arm . . . I cried into his chest, told him I'm making a collage of pictures of him to bring to his room, to hang it up in full view and make these assholes know who they're working on. Not once, on this whole crazy scary carnival ride has anyone made any effort to know who Bob is. Maybe if they did, they'd care just a little more than they do now . . .

Inching closer toward surgery . . .

Had Bob's pre-surgery CT scan this morning at 10, with an appointment to see his oncologist at 1:30. We haven't been to the U in a few weeks, seemed like eons since we last made the drive. The CT scan went quickly, which meant we had more than a few hours to kill before the appointment with Dr. S. I needed an oil change, and we both needed something to eat, so we headed over to Roseville, to Valvoline and for some grub.

I've been battling a nasty li'l bug for the past few days here; good ol' fashioned body aches, sore throat, fever, so tired, headachy, not much of an appetite. . . starting to sound like a cold medicine commercial. . . I've been popping a few Extra Strength Excedrin every several hours—warning, shameless product plug ahead—if you have never dried this drug, you must (man, listen to me, sounding like some kind of pusher . . .) I rarely use any medication, even OTC, but, Excedrin is the wonder drug that works wonders; ever since Penny (the original Exedrin pusher) turned me on to it years ago, I use it for all that ails me, and nothing anything else. Oh, I try the others—TheraFlu, NyQuil and the like—but they don't touch my aches and pains like the miracle-drug, Excedrin. I could write a song, extolling its virtues; gives me a few hours of reprieve from the symptoms, so I can at least half-function for part of the day. Even if it's just a placebo effect going on (which, incidentally, I've read quite a bit about lately, about it's powerful use in successfully treating a whole host of illnesses), I'll take it!

I haven't been sick like this truly in years, and have forgotten how much it sucks, and how much of a baby I can be . . . I'm feverishly (literally and figuratively) trying to keep the house as germ-free as possible as the last thing we need is Bob catching whatever bug this is I've got; lots of Clorox wiping, disinfectant spraying and hand sanitizing going on over here. I drove to the U with windows in the car open, hoping my germs would be flung out of the car as we cruised down 94W . . . nice little mental image, if nothing else . . . I'm not much help for Bob right now as I want to keep my exposure to him as limited as possible, short of moving out for a few days till this crud passes. . . I don't mean to be a big whiner, but my worst fear is that Bob'll catch this, make him very sick and force us to postpone surgery yet again. (It'd be a miracle if he doesn't catch it, because right now, I feel like Pigpen from the Peanuts comic strip, walking around in a cloud of germs. I was so hoping that I was home-free in the bug-catching department with May 1/2 done . . .) That, and I just can't do much for him right now, so I feel kind of useless . . . I was just too tired and cruddy-feeling to night to make dinner; thankfully we had leftover salmon for him to heat up, along with some fruit and ice cream for desert. He's kind of having to hang out by himself because I don't want to be too close for him for too long.

I popped a few Excedrine before heading to Roseville after the CT, which held me through the next few hours; we got the oil changed, grabbed subs at Jimmy John's and still had some time to kill, so we drove to Central Park in Roseville. We found a cool patch of shade, spread out a blanket and both laid down in the park for a good half hour-45 minutes, sometimes catching little bits of zzzzz's, sometimes watching the action in the park around us, sometimes chatting a bit . . . seemed that for a Tuesday afternoon, a lot of people had the same idea we did. . . nice way to while away some extra time. . .

Got back to the U in plenty of time for the appointment with Dr. S. Not much news to share, as for now, his part in the adventure is done. He told us that according to the CT scan, the tumor appears to have grown slightly, which would account for the increased pain in Bob's leg and, in Dr. S's opinion, isn't surprising, given that Bob hasn't had chemo in several weeks now.

This appointment, like every other one we've had with Dr. S, revealed nothing spectacular, nothing even remotely uplifting, nothing even kind of, sort of resembling compassion, empathy, hope. . . nothing. I simply cannot get a good read on him—is this something we need to worry about? He doesn't seem to be . . . I still don't know why this doctor is held in such high esteem; as I think I've said before, other than pumping Bob full of toxins and nearly killing him in the process, he doesn't appear to be the "miracle worker" that several people have built him up to be. I even asked him today, again, what the point of the chemo was, if not to shrink the tumor, and what explanation could he give for Bob's tumor not responding to the chemo. He just shrugged and said that sometimes tumors don't react to chemo and left it at that. Didn't say it was good or bad, didn't react in a way that caused me to react (at least not right away), so . . .

Because I'm not feeling great, my mind wasn't firing on all cylinders, and now that I'm writing about it, all the questions I should have asked came to me now, hours after the appointment. Are there other types of chemo drugs that could have been tried, that might have worked better? Is this something to be worried about, the fact that the tumor didn't respond to the chemo? How do you know the cancer hasn't spread during this time of waiting? Will he need more chemo after the surgery . . . Guess someone'll be getting a call from me in the morning . . .

We have a few more loose ends to tie up before the tentative surgery next week. Bob still has an appointment with the general surgeon on Friday, has to get in to the cardiologists for their clearance and for instructions on getting off Plavix, and I'm sure he needs to see or at least speak with the oncology surgeon before the big day. I'm not even going to speculate on the time frame of the surgery any more, as it seems like there's so much that needs to be done yet, I don't now how it'll all happen by next week. But I'm hoping and praying we'll have that definite answer soon.

Oh! A total aside, but a huge deal I didn't want to forget to mention: Bob weighed in at a WHOPPING 122 lbs. today at his appointment! My husband finally weighs more than I do again! He doesn't think he looks very good, but I can see that his face is filled out more, that his abdomen has a little more meat to it, that his coloring is much better. I even think his hair is starting to fill in again, but that's probably expected, since he hasn't had chemo in a long while.

Okay. Need. To. Go. To. Bed. NOW!!! LOVE! to all!!!

No News is Good News. . .

Haven't written in a while, which means, yes a long blog again (please bear in mind that so much of this is for our benefit, Bob's and mine, to process all that happens from day to day, to try and keep track, remember, record, and unfortunately you, dear readers, are subjected to the ramblings if you want to keep up with Bob's condition . . . ) but also means that we've had a blissfully uneventful past few weeks, since Bob was discharged from Transitional Care. No ER visits, no hospital stays, no electrolyte imbalances, no infections, no crazy blood pressure issues, no major pain issues . . . Bob's appetite is much better, he's gaining weight and looking so good these days. I can't help but think of all that might have been averted, had an astute health care professional thought of the TCU right away after Bob had his heart attack, instead of after so many other issues finally warranted it. I mean, 12 weeks of ass-kicking chemotherapy, and a heart-attack on top of that should have called for something preventive, proactive . . . something more than just sending him home right away, but what do I know? I'm just the crazy redhead. . .

Bob is totally addicted to ice cream, btw. It's basically become his main food source. Polishes off at least a half-gallon daily, I kid you not. In fact, he doesn't even bother with a bowl any more, just digs right into the carton with a big spoon, whenever the mood strikes. I had to run to the local Holiday gas station yesterday, not once, but twice, for ice cream. I should clarify that he doesn't eat the whole carton in one sitting; rather, it's spread out throughout the day. At least he's savoring it, not inhaling it . . . kind of. Nothing fancy for Bob when it comes to ice cream—good ol' fashioned vanilla and Neapolitan seem to be the favorites.

Ice cream is the only thing Bob can eat in abundance, though. He still has to take the rest of his meals as small, more frequent ones. He just can't pack it away like he used to, but the smaller meals work, to keep the calories (and nutrition) coming in. Bob had a visitor on Friday, his good friend, Paul, who brought Savoy's pizza for lunch. I didn't get to see Paulie, but Bob said they had a good visit, that it was great to see him, and that lunch was dee-lish. Can't ever go wrong with Savoy's. Or a visit from Paulie!

Bob still has trouble sleeping and tires quickly, despite the great strides he's made in the past few weeks. The sleep issue is manifold: part due to medication, which can make him very lethargic and sleepy, but then when he does fall asleep, it's for short spurts, not long, restful spans. Part of this is pain-related (not being able to get comfortable, or being wakened by the pain), but another part is, I believe, his anxiety . . . we're working on relaxation techniques

to help calm and ease his mind so he can sleep for longer, uninterrupted stretches. He hasn't had a major anxiety attack in almost two weeks, but I believe it still clouds his mind and prevents him from being able to fully relax when he's trying to sleep. Despite that, he's also working hard at getting out for walks, going on errands with me or with his parents, just trying to move as much as he can. stretching, working on PT exercises. A week or so ago, Penny and Jim bought Bob a camping cot to put out in the screened deck, and he's been taking naps out there since our summer weather has returned. It's a wonderful space—feels like being in a treehouse, surrounded by the birds chirping, swaying branches, wind rustling the leaves, the sun filtering in through thick layers of green.

Bob was supposed to have an appointment with the general surgeon this past Wednesday, at 4 pm. (His surgery, we're told, is kind of a two-part deal: general surgeons are needed to "clear the path" for the oncology surgeon to remove the tumor.) When Bob and his parents arrived at the clinic, they were told the surgeon was still in surgery, was running at least 90 minutes late, and that they couldn't guarantee there'd be time to see patients, even after waiting that long. Bob said he couldn't wait around, to reschedule. That appointment is still in the process of being rescheduled. . . This week, Bob has his pre-surgery CT scan and another followup with his oncologist. The surgery is still tentatively scheduled for the last week of May, either the 25th or the 27th, we're told. Which, this just hit me NOW—is next week, holy crap. . . lots to prepare for, to think about, to do, before then . . .

An Ode to Penny and Jim . . .

(Jim napping on the screened deck after a long day . . . )

Changing the subject here, I've been meaning to give a big shout-out on the blog to Penny and Jim for quite a while now, as without their help all these months, I don't know where we'd be, in more ways than one . . . they basically move in with us, from Tuesday through Friday, to be with Bob while I go to work . . .

It's a huge relief for me, knowing that Bob's in good, capable, loving hands, and not alone while I'm working. I'm constantly asked how I get through the days, how can I go to work and not fall apart, and the first image that pops in my head are Bob's parents. I don't think I could go to work if we didn't have our amazing live-in help. I was going through the old blog entries, trying to figure out when/how it came to be that Jim and Penny started staying with us, but couldn't find the exact date, or remember a specific conversation about how it happened. It started as kind of a part-time deal, back when Bob was just beginning chemotherapy—there were times that I just couldn't take off work, so they'd come up and take Bob to chemo, sit with him as he got his infusions, then brought him home again, stayed the night, and left in the morning. When he did the in-patient stints of chemo, they'd stay for the week, hanging out at the hospital all day with Bob, to keep him company so I didn't have to take too much time off work.

(Quilt to the left—with rocco peeking from beneath it—is the quilt Bob and I received from Penny for our wedding, nearly 15 years ago.)

Since Bob's heart attack, it's been every week, Tuesday through Friday, for over six weeks, and counting. It's a huge weight of my mind, having them here, knowing Bob isn't ever alone, but even more so, it does Bob a world of good, having his parents with him. And I'm pretty sure I'm not speaking out of line by saying that the arrangement is good for Penny and Jim, too, to be with their son as much as they can, to do what they can to help him get through this. I know they'd want to be nowhere else but by Bob's side as he goes through this, but it can't be easy for them, as they have their own home to care for, their own lives going on back in St. James, driving back and forth, over two hours here, two hours home, for weeks on end, is a labor of love, for sure. . .

(The quilt to the right is one of Penny's masterpieces. We've had it for so many years, it's worn to a cuddly, flannel-esque softness, but is Bob's favorite. Nothing like being enveloped in Mom's loving handiwork, no matter what age. . .)

There's nothing Penny and Jim won't do for us: they do lawn work—raking, mowing, . . . they clean the house, go grocery shopping, help Bob with his laundry, walk the dogs (well, Gaia, anyhow. I usually take Rocco, as he's a little more rambunctious than G.). . . they take Bob to appointments if I can't . . .a wonderful home-cooked dinner is always ready when I get home from work . . . every Friday, when they leave, they tell us to work on a to-do list for them, for when they come back the following week. "I just don't like sitting around, doing nothing," Penny says. Funny, I have no problem doing that . . .

Penny works miracles when Bob is feeling on edge; she keeps the panic attacks at bay by sitting by his side, massaging his hands, soothing him with soft, motherly words . . .she told us one day that, in the midst of the intense, exhausting days following Bob's heart attack, while at home, she was suddenly overcome by a sense of calm and peace. A voice deep inside of her told her that Bob is going to be okay, that everything is going to work out just fine. Penny is a no-nonsense kinda gal, not prone to theatrics, and I believe her, wholeheartedly. I truly do.

Jim keeps Bob in the loop with the latest golf stats; they've got some kind of draft-thingy going and bet a few bucks here and there on various tournaments. He's a softy, that Jim . . . as tough as this is on both of them, Jim is more easily choked up, more given to tears, which chokes me up every time . . . on more than one occasion, he's told me, "Bob might be your husband, Jen, but he will always be my little boy . . . " My eyes fill with tears just writing those words. . . anything Bob wants or needs, Jim's quick to hop in the van and head to the store, for a prescription, for ice cream, whatever Bob wants or needs . . .

We are blessed, so blessed, with these two angels in our lives. They ease the load, dry the tears, make us laugh, feed our bellies and our souls, take such good care of us, keep such good watch over Bob, their son, my husband . . .

(the quilt to the left is the most recent one we received from Penny, a spool-design . . .)

Benefit Fund for Bob

Hey, everyone, just wanted to mention, in case you got an e-mail (or two . . .) from a few good friends of ours, Julie and Cindy, about a benefit fund set up in Bob's name at our bank. Yes, they are legitimate friends, and yes, it's a legitimate account. The first e-mail sent was the rough draft (which had Bob's name spelled wrong) that accidentally got sent out before the final draft. I'm posting this on the blog because we got a message tonight from another friend asking if the e-mail was the real deal or a hoax, which is a legitimate concern that we thought should be clarified before someone reports Julie and Cindy to the local authorities.

These amazing friends (along with a few others, and family members) have been at us for months now, to do something like this for us . . . I have to admit, I'm still trying to embrace the whole thing . . . don't know if I ever will, as much as in my heart I know these awesome chicks are doing this out of love and support and the simple desire to do something to help us. It's just in my head, my own stubborn pride and other "issues" that make me squirm with the awkwardness of it all. . . guess it really hits home how serious this situation is . . . serious as cancer. Bob is actually more "okay" with this than I am, and that is really what matters, so we gave Julie and Cindy our blessings to go ahead with their plans.

But I have to say that I am humbled by, yet again . . . once again, have been brought to my knees, in awesome wonder of the immeasurable love, support and generosity of the people in our lives. Near and far, friends, family, people we haven't seen in a long time, people we haven't even met . . . you all, just by being a part of our lives, render me speechless, fill us with hope and strength and carry us through each and every day. We feel your love. All day every day. I kid you not. Benefit or not. And I hope you feel ours, with our gratitude, back to you.

Anyhow, I just wanted to get the word out to assure you that the e-mail is not a scam by someone in Nigeria posing as "Cindy" and "Julie" in an effort to clean your coffers while lining their own.

In case you didn't receive their e-mail, the account is set up through our bank, Community Resource Bank in Roseville. Donations can be made out to Robert Andrzejek Benefit Fund, and mailed to:

Robert Andrzejek Benefit Fund

c/o Community Resource Bank

1501 West County Road C

Roseville, MN 55117

And now, just to shake the awkward uncomfortableness, here's a video I took of Rocco, when we took our daily walk/run around the 'hood yesterday. It was so entertaining, I'm toying with the idea of installing an underground sprinkler system in our own yard, not to actually water the lawn, but for the sheer entertainment factor.

All's been quiet on the eastern front here in West Lakeland, since Bob was discharged from Transitional care, which has been a blissful change of pace from the previous weeks. We're working on PT stuff, on getting out on walks in the neighborhood, joining me for errands around town, trying to slowly integrate into the world again. He's also been working really hard at packing away the grub, and polishes off about a whole half-gallon of ice cream a day. Not kidding. That'll be my next video. This morning, I was hugging him and teased him about his "love handles." (Yeah, like I could really find them on his now-whopping 113 lbs. frame.) He said, "Yup, one's vanilla flavored, one's chocolate." Was cute when he said it, but now that I type that, seems kinda gross, really . . .

We had a surprise, impromptu BBQ at our house Sunday, for Mother's Day. My mom had spent the morning with Gretchen and her fiance, Brian, in the morning, and was going to go over to Jill's for the afternoon, but they decided to bring the dinner to us, instead! It was a lovely day, with Bob hanging out, chatting with everyone like ol' times (I thought for sure he'd have to take a few naps, even fake a few, especially considering it was my family, aka The Loud Family . . .). We grilled out, hung out, lounged on the patio . . . good food, good company, good day.

Bob has an pre-op appointment with the general surgeons tomorrow, and another CT scan/oncology appointment next week. Quiet days, so not much to report. A good thing, indeed.

Peace, love and sprinkler-diving to all!!! xxooxxoo

Adjusting between appointments. . . and a good sign . . .

(Bob took this pic of Rocco and me, getting the mail the other day. Rocco eats our junk mail, a handy trait to have in a dog . . . )

Bob's been home since last Friday afternoon, and the days pass quickly, but still, it's been a bit of an adjustment for him. We're working on a lot of stuff that are essential for his health and recovery as we move forward toward his surgery—taking walks, working on the PT exercises he was given, making ice cream malts when the mood strikes, addressing and nurturing the mental and emotional impact he's facing during this critical illness . . . we still don't have a definite date for the surgery, but last we're told, the surgeon was looking at the last week in May, which will be here before we know it.

Bob looks so much better than just a few weeks ago. He's moving around quite well, though he had some issues with the pain in his leg increasing. A call to his Palliative care doctor brought a few adjustments to the medications he's taking, and hopefully that'll work its magic again; he used something called a Flector patch while in the hospital, which is a topical analgesic on an adhesive patch, applied directly to the area of pain. His doctors made such a big deal about the fact that his insurance won't cover the cost of the patches, so we hadn't filled the prescription before. But, that is the one medication he hasn't used since being discharged, so maybe it had helped with pain, maybe he needs it . . . I made a phone call to his insurance company for an explanation (for some reason, it's not a justified "cost-benefit" in their book, but was told it should be available for us to purchase, if we want to pay for it ourselves), then a call to Walgreen's to find out how much the patches would be out of pocket—six measly bucks a patch (The way Bob's docs acted about it, I was expecting them to say, "Oh, they're $150 a patch!")!

We said, we'll take 'em, even though we have to pay out of pocket. I have no problem shouldering the burden for some of our own health care, especially when we're given a choice . . . why his doctors made such a big deal about this, without any more explanation is just baffling, that just because insurance won't cover it, we shouldn't even bother with it . . . anyhow, Bob's appetite is coming back and he's able to eat so much more—you should see the ice cream this boy's packin' away—Klondike bar after breakfast, fudgesicle (how the heck is that spelled?!? that doesn't look right . . . ) after lunch, maybe a bowl of ice cream before dinner, and our nights usually end with an Ensure malt. The ice cream alone must pack an extra 2000 calories in Bob's diet!

Our weekend was quiet and uneventful for the most part. Took a trip into town for "provisions" on Saturday: Target, grocery store, Menard's. Bob actually sat in the front seat of the car and was able to withstand the walking the entire time. Slow going, but he made it through each stop. He was quite worn out from the outing, but was damned and determined to start "integrating" himself back into the world again.

Sunday was quiet, no errands to run. Spent the day doing little projects around the house and later, Jill, Amelia and Gretchen stopped by for a visit. Gretchen brought her black lab puppy, Drake, along, and Rocco was in heaven, as he hasn't had a playmate who could keep up with him since his cousin, Casper, left. Drake and Rocco tore up the backyard, tumbling, chasing each other, diving off the deck, over and over. Fewer things cuter than puppies playing, I'm tellin' ya . . . that right there was the proverbial chicken soup for our souls . . . wish we'd taken some pics to share (adorable pic to the left, though, is a recent one of Gretchen, Sophi and Drake—I stole it from G's f-book page. Is that wrong?) . . . Rocco isn't much of a "puppy" anymore, as he's about a year old now, but definitely still acts like one. Drake is maybe 4-5 months old, and is almost as big as Rocco already. He comes from good huntin' stock, and will probably grow up to be a strapping lad. The two doggies provided such entertainment, we could have sat on the deck all day and watched 'em play . . . and, no, Gaia did not join in the fracas; she desperately wanted to, but only long enough to tear the adorable intruder apart, so I distracted her with a big ol' meaty bone from Hagberg's, the local meat market.

Early Sunday evening, I could tell Bob was beginning to get anxious, listless . . . he tried lying down, resting, but couldn't get settled, was back up, pacing, so I said, "Let's go for a drive." We went out to the car, he climbed in back, laid down on the pillows and blankets we keep in the car, and we headed north. Drove through Stillwater . . . still a few straggler touristy-types slowly wandering the streets, window shopping, as most stores were closed for the night . . . headed north out of town on 95, took a few side roads, winding up and down the river roads, narrow roads, thickly lined in hardwoods that are already full with leaves. Fruit trees blooming, lilacs heavy with clumps of purple and white . . . we drove under an old railroad bridge, where the road turned to gravel, so I turned around and went back from where we came . . . back onto 95, into Marine on St. Croix, an adorable post-card village that used to have the neatest little bar—the Brookside—where we always stopped for a beer and fat, crispy onion rings after a long hike at William O'Brien state park, just up the road. Had a great patio out back, under a canopy of expansive, age-old trees, sometimes a band was set up on a little stage, playing for the constant flow of visitors—bikers, families, couples . . . We heard it had recently closed, but a big dumpster outside the building gave me hope that maybe someone else was going to take it over, open it up again. Bob slept most of the ride, only occasionally, I'd see his head pop up in the rearview mirror, but most of the drive was in silence . . .

When the sun's rays barely skimmed the top of the trees as it slid behind the bluffs on the western side of the river, I turned the car around and headed back home. We finally pulled into the driveway, and I killed the engine, Bob lifted his head, looked around and said, "Thanks for doing that. For some reason, being in the car like that, just driving, really relaxes me . . .I slept quite a bit . . . " it was a relaxing drive for me, too, meandering through the valleys of the St. Croix, no one else on the roads but us . . .

I have Mondays off, another quiet day; Bob went to the library and post office with me. He even got a new library card (his mom's response: "Bob's going to start reading?!?" I always tell Bob that I can't believe how smart he his, since he never reads. Never been a book guy, not sure how he gleans all the knowledge he has stored in his brain . . .). Got home in the late afternoon, to the commotion of crows in our back yard. We've been hearing this for several days, and Bob's sure they're harassing great horned owls somewhere down in the wooded backyards. At one point, they sounded like they were just below the deck, so Bob wanted to go investigate. "I think I'm up for the walk," he said, grabbing his cane and thickest Polartec jacket and was out the door before me.

We set out down the deer trails that lead to the "jolly forest" below our house, Bob taking tentative, yet determined steps, using his cane and trees, and sometimes my hand, for support. The crowing and cawing became louder and louder as we got further down the hillside, soon, we were surrounded in the cacophony of caws, hollers, cackles and screams of the crows, almost as if we were the object of their scorn. Suddenly, just ahead of us, an explosion of mottled feathers burst upward from near the wooded ground and and a bunch of crows took off after it, their caws and cries trailing behind them. Bob was right: it was a huge great horned owl that had been harassed relentlessly. Bob though maybe it was a parent, that it was flying away to lead the crows away from baby owls that might be around. "There might be babies down here somewhere . . . it's about that time. I used to always find them at Reservoir Woods right around Cinco de Mayo . . ."We walked around a little, didn't find any evidence of babies, and eventually made our way back up to the house. Bob's leg started hurting a little after the walk but he said it was worth it, to see the owl. He still maintains that there have to be babies somewhere down there, and that he'd love to find them.

Jim and Penny got up here Tuesday morning, as has been their routine since Bob had his heart attack. A true blessing, to have them help us as they do, basically moving in for the week so I can go to work, a huge relief for me, knowing Bob's in good hands. They do so much for us—Jim's Handyman Extraordinaire, as I'm sure I've mentioned before. He fixed the futon in the basement that Bob likes to lie on—the thing just collapsed on my mom when she stayed with me a few weeks ago—boards split, screws tore right through the wood . . . thankfully she (and Rocco!) wasn't hurt, but I was convinced it was beyond repair and was ready to break it apart and haul it up to the trash. Then, I thought I'd present Jim with the challenge, and he took it head-on. Within an hour, he had it in better shape than it was before it broke! He claims I can now use it for a trampoline, it's that strong . . .

Tuesday morning, the crows started at it again, and Bob mentioned to Penny and Jim that he thinks there might be baby owls in the backyard. Jim said, "I'll go down and scout it out for you." Bob told him to look on the ground, or on a tree branch maybe 10-15 feet above ground. As I headed out the door to go to work, Jim headed out to go check on the status of owls for Bob. Later at work, I got a voicemail from Bob. His voice was so excited as he told me his dad found two baby owls huddled together on a limb in the yard, just as Bob suspected. At first, Jim though they were adults, they were quite big already, but even without seeing them first hand, Bob knew they were young. "They're my owls, in my backyard," Bob told me on the message. "It's the coolest thing . . ." He asked his dad to go with him so he could see them. He took his cameras and slowly made his way to the backyard again, to where Jim found the owlets. Jim lead him to the magic spot, and Bob was able to get a few photos of his avian babies.

Call me superstitious, blasphemous, a freak, a crack-pot or whatever, but I do believe in signs, in symbolism, in messages given to us . . . when Bob asked me later that night when I got home,

if maybe seeing the owls might be a good sign for him, I said, "Absolutely. . . "Anyone who knows Bob knows that nature is his religion, that animals, creatures, the wildflowers are his gods, the saints he honors . . . for years, our goofy nickname for Bob has been Bubo or Buboman (from the latin name for great horned owls, bubo virginianus) . . . seeing those baby owls on Tuesday is as powerful to Bob as any prayer, any blessing bestowed by a cloaked figure, any invocation sent up to God, any burning bush. . . are those fuzzy little creatures a good sign? he asked me. I say, without a doubt, "Absolutely." Then again, I also firmly believe that a dream I had a few weeks ago is a definitive sign that Bob will come through all this, but it was a strange dream, which involved Bob having a baby, and me not being able to decide what to wear to the birth . . . and now you all really think I'm a freak, a crackpot or whatever, so I'll stop right there . . .

Bob had a followup appointment yesterday with the cardiologist, Doctor B., who put the stents in when he had the heart attack 5 weeks ago. Bob said it was good to finally meet, face-to-face, fully conscious, the man who saved his life. Every time I talk with another doctor, I glean more information, another piece to this big crazy puzzle . . . (before I forget, Bob's weight was 112 pounds! YEEEEAAAA! to endless ice cream!) The cardiologist told Bob he was quite the conundrum in the medical field, that his situation with the heart attack threw them all for a loop. That there was no way to prevent or predict the heart attack Bob had, even though he has a history of heart issues, and that there are no easy answers in how to treat him from here on out.

We're told that the occurrence of his heart attack, even given his history, is so rare that there is no protocol in place to prevent such an event, that the risks of placing all heart patients who have cancer on Plavix and blood thinners are greater than not, that it's really just a game of odds; most people don't have heart attacks while getting chemo, but that once in a rare moment, they do . . .That the second stented artery (the left main that was most recently treated) was a tough call, too, that normally it would be treated with bypass surgery, but given Bob's situation, that wasn't an option. That they have to revisit it in six months, after the tumor surgery and may have to do bypass then, depending on how it's healing . . .

The doctor did say that Bob is healing well, that his heart strength is increasing and improving greatly, and that he should be in good shape, from a cardiac standpoint, for the tumor surgery. He'll be on the Plavix and aspirin till about 5 days before the surgery, then they'll stop the Plavix, do the surgery and likely put him back on the Plavix after the surgery.

Once again, I've rambled enough, so will sign off for now.

Peace, Love and Baby Owls to all!