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!