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 . . .