Cooking, doctors' calls and reunions . . .

Sorry, peeps . . . not a lot to write about when there's not a lot going on in our lives right now. Just a big waiting game, at the mercy of surgeons' schedules, vacations, etc., to get Bob back on the surgery schedule again. I get it, I get it—doctors need vacations—and I get it that there are other surgeries scheduled and Bob's is a big honkin' surgery—we're told 10-12 hours, possibly—that can't be an easy thing to schedule in the OR, but I can't help but selfishly think, But what about us? When do we get our vacation . . .I'm told by Bob's primary care team that they're working hard behind the scenes to make things happen, but for the first half of the week, it didn't seem so.

Played phone tag all Monday and Tuesday to try to find some things out myself, phone calls to surgeons offices, the cardiologist, pleading to nurses who are filling in for regular nurses who are on vacation, they don't know us, or Bob's long, crazy history, to tell me something, anything. Nobody can tell me anything; I leave messages to pass on to doctors. . .

(kohlrabi-apple slaw . . .)

So, I've been cooking to keep me grounded, sane, preoccupied. Trying recipes that are crazy-bizarre but turn out fabulous and are packing Bob full of nutrition . . . made zucchini bread—with a generous handful of chocolate chips—for the healing, antioxidant properties of chocolate, of course (used unsweetened applesauce in place of oil, and substituted whole wheat flour for at least 1/2 of the white, cut the sugar dramatically, though I need to find a good, natural baking substitute for refined sugar—feel free to pass any ideas along), a kohlrabi and apple slaw, 5 pepper salsa . . . for dinner last night, it was bison New York strips, with mashed sweet potatoes (with butter and maple syrup) and the slaw. Tonight, a freakin' amazing salad made with the leftover bison cut into strips, on a bed of baby spinach, tossed with grapefruit pieces, roasted beets, cucumbers, pecans and feta cheese, and drizzled with a cilantro citrus vinaigrette. Don't know where the combination for the salad came from.

They all just sounded good together. Say it. You rock, Jen. Thank you.

(to the right, my bison-beet salad creation . . .)

Bob had a check-in appointment with primary care on Wednesday; we met with both his primary doc, Doc S (not that Doc S—this Doc S is sofa king awesome. Love this doc. Maybe, to keep things straight, I'll change his name. . . . to Doc Rock, because that's what he does. Rock.), and his resident, Doctor G, who was part of oncology staff when Bob had his 2nd heart attack, and is also an awesome doc, knows Bob's story inside and out.

We first met with Doc G, who went over how things are going, any changes, etc. He told us they had some word from the surgeons and it looks like mid to late September is the tentative surgery time. {{Sound of needle scraping across vinyl.}} Bob looks like he's about to pass out. "I can't wait that long," he says in a weak voice, looking up a the ceiling. No way, I say. That won't work. It just won't work. That is too far out—it's not like this surgery just came up out of nowhere—this was supposed to happen back in April. Bob absolutely can't wait that long. I feel tears burning my eyes, dammit. Why do I always cry. . .

Doc G looks at us with a helpless expression. "We can't wait that long . . .Bob's pain is increasing, he's spending 90% of his time in bed as it is, and we're supposed to wait two more months? How is that possible?!" It sounds like the colorectal doc's schedule is causing the most conflict; that, and everyone is taking vacations, so they're working around that kind of stuff . . .I keep shaking my head, saying over and over as we discuss a few options about what they can do to try to manage Bob's pain . . . eventually Doc G wraps up his time with Bob and says Doc Rock will be in soon, and that they'll keep trying to work on getting the surgery sooner.

As we're waiting, my cellphone rings. "Hello, Jen, Dr. B." Bob's cardiologist. Whoa—calling me personally . . . He tells me he talked to the orthopedic surgeon, has given his clearance and his plan for the in-patient IV blood thinner plan, and that we should be good to go. I tell him that we were just told that the surgery is tentatively planned for mid to end September, but that just can't be, it has to get scheduled sooner, but the colorectal doc is holding up the show. "What's his name again? Gimme a few minutes," Dr. B says, "I'm going to try to track him down and let him know I've given the go-ahead from my standpoint and that this surgery needs to happen as soon as possible. I'll tell him to call you personally, to let you know what's going on." He tells me he's here to do anything he can to help us. "Bob's a good guy, he needs this surgery," he tells me before hanging up. I'm in awe.

A few minutes later, Doc Rock shows up, we first talk about Bob's pain. It's very likely because of the steroid taper; he suggests maybe Bob go back on the steroid until after the surgery. Are you kidding? I say. After all the crazy stuff about his adrenal glands being shot?! No way! He suggests to reconnect with palliative care, see what they recommend, but in the meantime, he recommends increasing the dose of Dilauded (by the way, did anyone see that Lindsay Lohan had a prescription for this heavy-duty opioid supposedly prescribed for dental pain?!? wtf . . . ) for breakthrough pain, see if that helps stay on top of it . . .

I don't want Bob turning into a freakin' zombie like what happened prior to his most recent heart attack, but am afraid we'll be heading down that path again. We have several weeks to wait for this surgery and I just don't know how he's going to make it that long. Doc Rock then suggests maybe we do the embolizing procedure again, where the blood supply is cut off from the tumor, as it seemed to have some success in treating Bob's pain. (Bob doesn't even remember having that procedure done, that's how jacked-up on meds they had him at that time . . . ) he says he'll have to contact interventional radiology and discuss the probability of being able to do that procedure again. I think it sounds like a waste of time, but go ahead and look into it . . . we talk surgery schedule again, he says he'll do what he can on his end to move it up, if at all possible.

We eventually leave, nearly 2 hours after arriving. That's another thing I love about Doc Rock and Doc G—they give us enormous amounts of time when we're with them. Truly listen, offer options, look into things. Just amazing, their service to us . . . but I'm still sick about having to wait two months for the surgery. That just can't be.

We get home, have a late lunch and Bob lies down for a nap. My phone rings, I answer, it's Doc M, the colorectal doc. Holy shit. I am just not used to doctors calling me personally. . . he says he talked to Doctor B, and was told Bob's looking "beautiful" (seriously, beautiful is how he put it; I thought he was talking about me at first. ummm . . . joke, peeps, that was a joke), and that surgery is a go, that he's in the process of looking at his calendar to get Bob on the surgery schedule. Because of a few other conflicts, the soonest he can mesh his schedule with the orthopedic surgeon's is August 27, but there are a few other things to be ironed out with that date, so it's not set in stone. August 27, August 27 . . . I do a little mental calculating, That's about 5 weeks out yet.

I tell Doc M, "That's not what I was hoping to hear. I was hoping to hear you say that Bob'll be going to the hospital next week, for the IV Integrelin, then the surgery. Bob's pain is getting much worse. He's in bed 90% of his day, he eats his meals in bed. We're supposed to just wait another five weeks like this?" I can hear him sigh big on the other end. He said it's going to be virtually impossible to get Bob in sooner, given all the schedules that have to coordinate. He suggests another surgeon in his office might be able to take the case, if we'd be okay with that, but there's only one other surgeon he would feel comfortable recommending. He tells me he'll look into that, but that they'll keep working on the August 27 date, too.

We hang up and I go tell Bob the latest. He listens quietly and then says, "Well, it's a good couple weeks sooner than what we were told earlier. If we can just keep the pain under control, not get any worse, I think I'll be okay. And, I don't want another doctor doing the surgery. I want Dr. M. He knows me, knows my long history, and that makes me most comfortable." I said, "Well, if your pain gets any worse, I have no problem hauling you into the ER and demand you get admitted. Maybe then, if it becomes a "real" emergency, something'll be done sooner."

Later in the evening, close to 9 pm, my phone rings again. I answer. It's Doc B again, the cardiologist. Seriously, it's three minutes to nine when his call came in—I told you this dude is an adrenaline junkie. Probably never sleeps. Maybe he's the House-kind of doctor I've been praying for, all jacked up on prescription drugs, but a medical master-mind, a genius who's also just a little off-kilter . . . He's just calling to make sure Doc M got a hold of me, to let me know what's going on. I tell him that the surgery won't be scheduled until the end of August. He's not surprised, as he tells me it's incredibly difficult to get not only doctors' schedules in synch, but anesthesiology, the OR room schedule itself, and a host of other things. . . he reiterates his plan to have Bob hospitalized and on the IV blood thinner for a week before surgery. "I want to do everything I can to help you people," he tells me again. Oh, and what about your recommendation for him staying on aspirin? I ask. Are you still wanting him to be on it throughout the surgery? "Absolutely, without a doubt," he says. "He will not go off the aspirin, I've told the doctors that that is not an option." I thank him for getting in touch with Doc M, to help move things up a little earlier, and for checking in with us, and hang up. Maybe if I keep being persistent, like an annoying mosquito in the ear, we can get it moved up even a few more weeks . . .

So, that's the latest on the surgery front, and that pretty much wiped me out, writing all that. Didn't I start this entry saying there's not much to say? Bob's high school class reunion is this weekend. The benefit pizza dinner that was planned for him was tonight. I got a report from Jill on her way home from the benefit; she said it looked like a great turn-out, that she got to meet a lot of Bob's old classmates, and that they put up a nice display of photos of Bob, along with am open letter, of sorts he had written to share with everyone. Penny and Jim were there; Bob got a phone call from them, and heard their take on the event. They said it was a really nice benefit, got to see a lot of people they hadn't in a long time. Penny said all week, though, she was feeling really sad about the event, because Bob wasn't able to attend. I asked Bob if he told her that he's never gone to any of his reunions, so she shouldn't feel bad at all? He said, well, no, but maybe he should have . . . but, I know what she means . . . Bob and I are simply in awe that his old classmates have thought of him like this. So many times throughout this ordeal, I am rendered speechless, at the kindness, the generosity, the heartfelt support and strength radiating from our friends and family, near and far, old and new . . . breathtaking, I tell you . . .

I don't have it in me to write much more tonight. Maybe will add more tomorrow. LOVE!