A shift in perspective. . .

A strange thing, to shift my perspective of this hospital stay to one of progress instead of one of setbacks . . . that's what our lives have been for over ten months, revolving door hospital stays resulting from crises, setbacks, over and over . . . many steps backward, none forward, never getting beyond a certain point, always running into that invisible wall that cut short any progress. Until now.

It's something I have to physically, consciously engage in, every minute of every day that passes, not something that just "happened!". That when I come into Bob's room and hear his voice stronger, it's momentum forward. To see the movements of his hands and arms become more fluid, more independent, another degree forward. To see him try (unsuccessfully, but still trying) to grab the bedside rails and push himself up in bed—inching beyond zero . . . that when PT and OT come in to work with him, it's because now, their work makes sense, there is no tumor impeding the efforts. The stretching, the strengthening, the relearning, is finally relevant and will, in time, produce amazing results. The tiniest of things contributing to forward movement are big deals. Ever-so-slightly, barely perceptibly, but finally, finally moving beyond pre-surgery status quo. . . holding pattern finally broken. Everything else, prior to surgery, had been repeated, endless attempts to bring Bob back to zero. Now, he's moving beyond zero. Maybe not much, maybe just an nth of a degree past zero. But finally, after nearly a year, we are moving in the direction ahead of zero.

So hard to explain, and I'm rambling incoherently, and will probably never be able to explain this perspective, this point in the journey. . . and don't want to sound like this is all puppy dogs and rainbows because even with this microscopic forward motion, everything is changed. Life as he has known it is gone. So easy for me, for any outside observer of his situation to say, "You'll be okay, Bob! You'll get through!" My take on the situation, anyone else's take, is far removed from Bob's. It ain't us who's dealing with all that's wrapped up in this big ol' package of Sucks to be You! gift from life, thankfully, we all breathe that huge, collective sigh of relief in our heads. . . and I would not be surprised in the least to witness a period of serious anger, resentment, grief, sadness from him in the coming weeks. . .

Bob doesn't think there's a whole lotta progress going on right now. Can't see it, from his perspective. He still hurts tremendously, all over, more so than before surgery . . . still feels like a helpless caged animal in his ICU bed, is alarmed that he has no feeling in his lower right leg, that he can't move his right foot, wiggle his toes, and that will never return . . . is still not allowed to eat, because his internal systems are still "waking up" from the long, intense surgery, and not ready to process food (would likely make him vomit at this point) . . . I know that, to him, he's still miles behind where he was prior to surgery, and has so much catching up to do, and what an insurmountable task it seems right now. Right now, his job is to simply focus on recovering from surgery, before moving down the path to reconstructing his life.

He was in incredible pain prior to the surgery, but was still able to get around, able to eat, able to lie on his stomach. He can't yet see that the things they're working on with him now are preparing him for even more good things to come. He "gave" his golf clubs to his dad yesterday, telling him he won't be needing them any more. He's entitled to these feelings right now, as his life is so full of unknowns, of dramatic, incomprehensible changes that most of us will never, personally, experience in life. He's earned the pity party. . . . I don't have a wholelotta faith in much of anything in this world, but I do have all the faith in Bob. I know it won't last. Let it out, work through it, then move on. It's how he rolls . . . Guess it's time for me to hang up the chef's hat and apron momentarily and dig out the ol' cheerleading uniform and start the pep rally . . .

Two guys from orthotics just came in to fit him for a hip brace, which will keep his pelvic girdle stable when they start working at getting him upright, on his feet, transferring from bed to chair, and beyond. He's gonna look like part Storm Trooper with that contraption on: a big white plastic two-piece ensemble, one part fits around his hips, like a PVC girdle, the other around his right thigh. We're told some people simply don't like it and decide not to use it, because it's big and cumbersome and feels more hindering than helpful, but everyone's different, and when you've just had something the size of a grapefruit (the size of the tumor and surrounding bone, I was told) removed from your pelvis, any extra support is probably a good thing.

There's also talk of moving him from ICU up to a "regular" room, possibly today, as all of his stats, etc. look great—heart and cardiac issues are strong and stable, hemoglobin and other blood factors being monitored look great, no signs of infection, lungs sound clear . . . Bob doesn't feel ready to leave ICU yet, but at this point, there aren't any critical issues to be watching, and again, moving out of ICU is yet another step forward. The ICU doc said they definitely won't move him before he's absolutely ready, because they don't want him back down here (until he's coming by to say "goodbye!" on his way out), but can't keep him just because he's scared, either . . . I'm going back to his room, see if they're done fitting him, will update as we learn more. Again, as I have said many times, forgive the ramblings, the stream of conscious stuff. Gotta get it out somehow. . .

love, love, LOVE to all! xxoo

Hopefully another uneventful night. . .

Who would have thought that li'l ol' moi would take to cooking as a source of therapy? I do use that term loosely, cooking, as what I do in the kitchen in no way resembles what you see on Food Network. Not even close. My "techniques" are quite renegade, the process somewhat, um, unstructured, if you will. Nothing anyone should try at home themselves. And the four-letter words that spew forth as I chop, dice, slice, simmer, roast, boil (sometimes burn) are sprinkled as liberally as pepper in a stew . . . children under 18 are not admitted into my kitchen without an adult. That, and the incredible mess that results is quite astounding . . .

But in the dicing, slicing, roasting, simmering and whatever other "-ings" I manage to partake in, in the kitchen, fill me with a sense of purpose, a reason, a meaning, sometimes even relaxing, if I get into the groove of it. If nothing else, it's kept me busy and occupied, something to do till I'm so tired, I have to quit or I'll lose a finger . . .

Got home from the hospital tonight and decided to make salsa with some of the muthaload of tomatoes we got from our neighbor the other day. I can't believe I haven't thought to make homemade salsa before. Chopped tomatoes, bell pepper, jalapeno pepper, red onion, cilantro, fresh lime juice, a sprinkling of sea salt. Holy hanna. Love. From there, I went to a Mediterranean-ish dish—quinoa, chopped cukes, tomatoes, onion, bell pepper, black olives, olive oil vinagrette, lime juice . . . roasted a large pan of beets (just drizzled in olive oil) . . . as I painstakingly chopped, diced and sliced, I thought of Bob's orthopedic surgeon and the 8+ hours he spent hovering over Bob, delicately slicing, dicing . . . still couldn't begin to put it in perspective. . . was going to juice a "recipe" I'd seen online—a concoction of carrots, romaine lettuce and spinach that the creators swore tasted like chocolate milk. But by then, three hours later, my kitchen looked like a bomb had exploded in it, my eyes were bleary and I still needed to take out the garbage, sort through the rest of the tomatoes I didn't use, not to mention the time it would take to clean the disaster before me, without adding to the mess. . .

I was at the hospital for a few hours in the late morning/early afternoon, then slipped away to attend my niece, Amelia's, 5th birthday party for a spell. Got to see lots of family and even an old friend from high school with whom Jill has reconnected with recently . . . after about an hour and a half, I felt the pull of the hospital. Said goodbye to all and headed back to the U.

Bob was even more lucid and talkative tonight than he had been before I'd left. Unbelievable. His memory is amazing—at least for events prior to the surgery—he remembers our conversations in the hospital leading up to the surgery, he asked why he wasn't on Integrilin right now, he rattled off his meds and the dosages, with complete accuracy, to his nurse . . .His short-term memory, right now, is a little sketchy—asked several times where Nancy was, that kind of thing—but is to be expected, given the length of the surgery and the time he was "out."

He asked if I would massage/move his right foot around, as he said it felt odd. I found it under the blankets and started rubbing very gingerly. Prior to surgery, I wouldn't have been able to even touch his foot, much less massage it. He couldn't feel my hands on his foot or on his calf, and became somewhat concerned; I told him to not even go there right now, it hasn't been even 48 hours since the marathon endeavor he'd just been through, and it's going to take a long time to know exactly the extent of the surgery results. Right now, focus on the good things. That, at least when he's lying still, his pain is very manageable, that every time I come into his room, he's more and more clear-headed, stronger in his voice, that all his vitals are remarkably stable, that he has an astounding number of people praying for, thinking about, cheering him on.

He still hasn't been able to eat anything, as he has a tube through his nose, down to his stomach, to help pump out fluids, air, assist in getting things "moving again," as his nurse told me last night. After such a major event, it takes a while for the systems to "wake up" and start working again, so he may get really nauseous and throw any food or liquids up, which would be so painful and possibly interfere with the wounds. Maybe tomorrow, his nurse said. . .

At one point, his nurse had to reposition him, and he asked me to leave. "It's not pretty, Jen," he said, "I cry and scream like a baby. I don't want you to hear or see it . . ." I left his room and stood outside the drawn curtain for a few minutes. At first, I heard nothing but his nurse and her partner talking, Bob's voice punctuating the conversation now and then. That's not so bad . . . then I heard, Okay, now. On the count of three, Bob. One . . . two . . . three . . . followed by Bob's wails filling the hallway . . . I quickly made my way down the hall and out the doors of the unit, so I couldn't hear him.

Tomorrow is the start of a busy week in a hospital. Lots of teams of docs coming in and out. I'm going to try to get to the hospital early, and catch as many as I can . . . and with that, time for bed. xxooxxoo Love! to all . . .

The tiniest of baby steps . . .

Saturday, August 28. . . Bob will be in surgical ICU for at least a few more days. All has been stable, heart is strong, other vitals looking good. Still on the respirator, sedated, though not totally knocked out, as his blood pressure has been slightly low (not alarming so, we're told), and putting him totally, unresponsively under would drop it even more, not be a good thing. He'll open his eyes if gently roused, and can responded with a nod or a shake of his head.

When I arrived this morning, Bob turned his head toward me and nodded when I asked him if he could hear me, if he was doing okay. He then tried to tell me something, he slowly raised his left hand, made a weak fist and slowly shook it. Or maybe he was trying to squeeze it, I couldn't quite tell. His lips moved around the the ventilator tube that's helping him breathe right now, trying to form words around the obstruction. I hate when he does this, because I am a worthless interpreter . . . he looks at me so intently, trying so hard to communicate, and I have no idea, simply no idea what he wants, but still awkwardly, anxiously try . . . Are you in pain? Head nods yes. Does the wound site hurt? No. Are you having chest pains? No. Keeps making the squeezing motion with his hand, almost like a modified version of "bathroom" in sign language. You have to go to the bathroom? I thought he nodded his head yes. You have a catheter right now, you don't have to worry about that. Slowly shakes head in frustration, continues to squeeze his fist. Does the tube hurt? Finally, a slow but definitive nodding of the head. I'm so sorry . . . I know you hate that thing, but there's nothing I can do about it. Hopefully tomorrow, they can remove it. . .

He wasn't yet started back on the Integrilin, which sent me into mini-panic mode. Ummmmm. . . what do you mean "not yet?" I keep myself under control, as the last thing Bob needs is me going all wacko on his ICU nurse, but I gave her the litany, that the surgeon told me last night that it would be started up again right away this morning, and that I hope everyone in ICU is well aware of his heart-attack history, and that Bob's cardiologist gave explicit instructions that he was to be on it right away after surgery, come hell or high water . . .

I think she sensed my panic mode rising and went to find the doctor to come and talk to us, because I'm told there's good reason to keep him off it, and he could better explain that to us. The doctor found us in the waiting room and sat down to explain, very carefully, so we could understand this complicated balancing act, why Bob isn't back on the Integrilin. He said that because Bob lost so much blood (1.5 times his blood volume) during the surgery, and that there's still a risk that he could be bleeding internally, restarting the blood thinner could be extremely dangerous. Integrelin is a very powerful anticoagulant, and right now, Bob's hemoglobin and other blood levels have been safe and stable, and putting him back on Integrelin isn't recommended. He is back on Plavix, and has been on the full-strength aspirin throughout the surgery, so it's not like he's not on anything. . . he said he completely understood my concern, but they are keeping a very close eye on Bob and will react and adjust things as they progress. All this is being done under close consult with the cardiology team . . . I felt a little better after talking to him. A little.

Shortly after he, I checked my e-mail and there was a response to my late-night desperate plea to Bob's cardiologist, who told me that the good thing is, his planned worked—blood didn't clot up, heart attack didn't happen, but it also worked too well, with the excessive bleeding. He's well aware of the situation and concurs what is being done. Everything with Bob's situation is a risk and balance. Hopefully, the worst is behind us, he wrote. Feel better. A little.

Sunday, August 29. Nancy left around 6 a.m. this morning; she has a long drive back to Billings, back to her family, to work in the morning. She stopped in to see Bob before she left town and sent a text that his nurse said it was another quiet, uneventful night.

As of 10 a.m. today, Bob has been off the respirator, very groggy and labored when he talks but appears to be very cognitive, too. When he talks, his words are almost a whisper, thick and clumsy falling from his mouth, but I can tell he has so much to say. Of course he would. I talk a little with him, but after a while, I can see it takes so much out of him to utter the short sentences that require such force to get to me. I tell him to rest, I'll be in and out to see him. There's plenty of time to talk when he's feeling better.

He's not in pain when he's just lying still, he told me, but when the nurses have to turn him, the pain is so excruciating, he can't even describe it. From his neck down to his feet, intense pain floods his body like nothing he's ever felt before. After a 13 hour surgery, and all that had to be involved with that . . . all the hands and tools inside of him, manipulating, mutilating, twisting and turning, pulling apart, removing things, trying to put things back, make parts fit that weren't meant to fit, stitching, stapling . . . for 13 hours straight . . . a victim of torture is probably the only person on earth who would be able to understand the physical agony that ravages Bob's body right now . . .

But even in this weakened state, he stays strong. So strong.

13 hours. I am married to a Super Hero . . .

I owe a quick update before I crawl into bed. 13-hour surgery . . . didn't even know that was human or medically possible . . . Bob's orthopedic surgeon emerged from the OR around 9 tonight, to give us the synopsis of the 1/2 day surgery: Bob's heart was stable and strong the entire time, we're told. Lost a lot of blood, but was to be expected, given the duration and intensity of the surgery, so the decision to keep him off blood thinners till early tomorrow morning was made, due to the risk of increasing the bleeding. Yes, I freaked "a little" about this, questioned the decision, and later sent a quick e-mail to Bob's cardiologist, who is in Sweden, on vacation at the moment, to let him know of the a slight divergence from his orders. I know, I know, the surgeons were with Bob for the past 13 hours and know first-hand the situation, but . . . Been there, done that, do not want that t-shirt . . .

So much to say . . . surgery in many ways, was a success, we're told, but I can't even begin to utter those words, given that Bob's knocked out, in ICU, will be there likely several days, and we won't know the extent of the effects of the surgery for at least that long. The tumor was removed, and from what the surgeon said, he removed enough peripheral bone as well, to make sure all the cancer was taken with it. However, during the course of the several months that the surgery had to be postponed, the tumor grew enough to impact his sciatic nerve and S1-S3 nerves, all of which had to be sacrificed (best case scenario, prior to surgery, was that only the S2 nerve, the one definitely entwined in the tumor, would have to go). What that means at this point, we don't know for sure. Definitely limited mobility in his right leg, a "drop foot" syndrome; the nerves affect the ability to move the foot upward and therefore will drop downward. And, permanent numbness down the back of his leg. He'll have to have a brace on his foot/ankle, to support and assist the foot in mobility. . .

The tumor also grew into a blood vessel in the area, which they were able to cut and reconnect, It's still functional, but it is a concern, because it's a main vessel leading to the lungs, the area where osteosarcomas tend to spread to, and blood supply is usually how it spreads . . . we're told constant CT scans on the lungs will be necessary from here on out . . .

I will post a more detailed entry tomorrow, but just wanted to get at least this much out. I am so tired, but we are so very blessed, grateful, appreciative, happy, for all our family, friends, near and far, for everything you've done and continue to do for us. My faith in the human spirit has been strengthened 100-fold. . .

And, have I ever told you how amazing it is to be married to a Super Hero? I don't think I'm worthy . . . And, as sick and anxious as I've been all day, I also felt the lightness of a safety net below me . . .that was the beautiful love radiating from all of you, and the inner strength that came from Bob, throughout the surgery. We felt it, in the midst of the nauseating anxiety, the nervous energy, the restlessness, the downright frustrating and horrific day, we felt your presence.

xxooxxoo Love! to all!

Twelve hours . . .

Twelve hours, not a word yet. Getting dark outside. . . I keep telling myself 1.) at least they're not racing through the surgery to get the hell out of here for the weekend and 2.) we'd have heard something by now if anything really serious had happened, right? Right?!?!?!?

Thank you, thank you, thank you, everyone, for keeping the prayer/good vibes/thoughts/p.d/love/encouragement/support/phone calls/e-mails/text messages/facebook messages/etc. coming . . . helps so much, more than we can say. . .

xxooxxoo LOVE!

Nine hours down, ??? to go . . .

Waiting, waiting, waiting . . . nothing tortures the soul, challenges the spirit, wrings the heart dry, makes the skin crawl more than waiting. In my book, anyway. Today, anyway. I'm so damn impatient (except when I make others wait for me. See how that works . . . ?). If only I'd learned meditation somewhere along the way, I could use this time to calm my mind, soothe my stomach, smooth the backflips in my heart, keep me in some sort of zen-state and embrace this waiting game. Trouble is, to calm this girl's ADD mind, I'd have to be sedated to meditate (medicate to meditate), which kind of defeats the purpose, now, doesn't it? Our lives, for the past ten months, have been one long waiting game, punctuated by spikes of crises . . . and I just keep telling myself that after today, we can move on. Dramatically, drastically, forever changed in so many ways, but able to finally move on. Right on . . .

Colorectal surgeon came out a few hours ago to tell us his role was nearly done and all had gone so much better than expected from his end. He's a smart-ass, that man, likes to give me crap, even when I ask serious questions. In a better frame of mind, I'd give more back. Told me this morning he likes to break for martinis mid-surgery . . . I think he does it for comic relief, to get the furrow-browed redhead to lighten up a little. . . he said he encountered no major issues during his piece of the surgery, no bleeding issues, nothing about nerves, other things being affected by the tumor, but I know better than to jump to conclusions at this point; it ain't over yet. As he stood up to return to the OR, I asked him to give Bob a kiss from me, whisper in his ear that I love him, when he went back in. He smiled, said he'd be sure to. . .

It's now 4:30, nine hours from when Bob first went in for surgery. Still no word from the orthopedic surgeon, the "star" of the show, the guy who's removing the tumor, or any of his teammates, as to how things are going. No news is good news, right? No news is torture. No news for nine hours makes my mind go in places it really doesn't need to go. Nine hour surgery. My god . . . my friend, Julie, has been sitting with us all afternoon. She said, "Just think though, they're closer to being done now, than they are to just starting." Wish I had more to share, but I will update again soon. Can't be more than a few more hours, right?

Three hours down, ??? to go . . .

(Masterpieces to the left created by my "new" niece, Sophi, who brought these to us while waiting in the surgery "lounge")

So, the hospital stay this week was blissfully uneventful to the point of absolute boredom, at times. Well, except for the drug-seeking roomie Bob had yesterday (not kidding. More on him later, if I remember to return to the subject . . .). Lots of just sitting/lying around, with the IV drip of Integrilin (the blood thinner), trying to keep the pain managed, which has been tough. Bob's been experiencing some new numbness near the tumor site, as well as his foot, a recent development. Had some visitors, a few colleagues from the wine biz, a good friend from high school (who came with a Jake's pizza in tow), various and sundry family and friends popping in, dispensing group hugs, kisses, stuffed animals . . .

During a quiet moment in Bob's room, between family, friends and medical personnel visits, Bob wondered aloud, more to himself than to me, "I wonder if after the surgery, I'll have to get around with a walker . . . maybe crutches . . . I think I'd prefer crutches . . ." I thought a walker would be easer, no pain in the armpits, seems like it would be more stable. Bob says, "Yeah, but you really can't use a walker as a weapon. Crutches, now, you could swing them 'round, get some good momentum with 'em, take someone out if you needed to. . . ." huh?! Why the hell would you want to wail on someone with your crutches? "Well, Jen, you never know when someone's gonna come after you. Gotta be prepared." Guess Bob still has a bit of Jack Bauer complex. . . Well, you could use the walker as a battering ram, I offer. "Yeah . . . that's true. Good idea . . . put a big bronze ram's head on it, like the Romans did . . . you know, now that I think about it, I could put lots of different attachments on a walker. Snow plow attachment, mower attachment . . ." Yeah, you could finally start earning your keep around the house again, I say. . . we discuss the possibility of developing this genius idea into an entrepreneurial adventure . . .

Also many visits from all of Bob's doctors while he was in the hospital: orthopedic, colorectal (two), primary care (2 times), oncology . . . everyone just checking in, addressing any last-minute questions concerns, reiterating the procedures, a few just stopping in to say "hi" and wishing Bob well. Bob's surgeons were ecstatic to see how much weight he's gained; the orthopedic doc said that the surgery will take a lot out of him, that he'll likely lose some weight again, so now he has reserves to tap into . . . I think back, two months ago, when he was down to almost 100 lbs. So sick, so weak and emaciated. I still have visions of the concentration camp prisoner when I think of how he looked then. . . skin stretched taut over bone, trembling, barely able to stand, or even hold a glass of water . . . now, other than the pain, he feels really good, has filled out. Everyone notices, everyone comments, everyone astounded with the difference a few months and good nutrition makes. Well, that and being several months recovering from the ravages of chemotherapy . . .

We got a surprise visitor last night! Well, not a surprise to Bob and me (we were in on the secret), but Penny and Jim didn't know that Bob's sister, Nancy, was going to be with us for Bob's surgery. She'd planned this a while back, because she really wanted to be here for Bob during his surgery. She started out from Billings yesterday, calling Penny and Jim from Bismark, ND, roughly the 1/2-way point, to tell them she was on here way to MN. After they got over the initial shock (What?!? You're driving?!? By yourself?! Nancy! was the initial reaction), I know they were very happy (relieved? anxious? excited? All of the above?) to hear she would be here with us. Nance arrived at the hospital early last evening, and got to hang out with Bob for a few hours. We weren't sure if anyone would be able to see Bob prior to surgery in the morning, so Nancy wanted to spend some time with him before the big event.

. . . I got to the U around 5:45 this morning, Penny, Jim and Nancy were following a little later. Bob was still in his room, waiting to be taken to surgery prep. Maybe 1/2 hour later, the gurney arrived to take him down for the big event. I was told that family members were allowed to be with the patient prior to surgery, so I called the others at home and told them if they left right away, they'd be able to make it to see Bob before he was wheeled into the OR. Lots of activity prior to surgery; lots of docs again, in and out of the tiny pre-op room, reiterating their roles, this time some new ones: urology, anesthesiology, others I don't remember . . . Penny, Jim and Nancy were able to spend a few minutes with Bob before they wheeled him off around 7:30, one last kiss, a blessing and a gift for them. Bob seemed amazingly calm all morning, though I can't even begin to know what's going on in his head . . .

We're all hanging out in the surgery lounge, waiting, waiting, waiting. Solitaire, magazines, laptops, books to keep us occupied, though I'm sure no one has read a full sentence, played a full hand. . . my mom, Gretchen, Brian and Sophi joined us for a while . . . I've received one phone call from surgery already saying so far, everything is going very well. The colorectal piece will be at least other couple hours before the orthopedic surgeon steps in to take over . . . still can't wrap my mind around the thoughts that after this day, our lives on hold will resume another, completely, utterly different form . . . sick to my stomach, hard to concentrate, hard to write anything at all, but wanted to try to give an update . . . have been here all morning, quarter to noon already . . . more later . . . xxooxxoo!!!

"Owl" checked in...(I'm so punny!)

Owl in scrubs is from nieces, Claire and Grace, in Montana, made with love for Uncle Bob, at Build-a-Bear. . .

Not sure what the Maple Grove hospital thing was all about, but we got a call from the cardiologist nurse this a.m., telling us Bob's admission is good to go. She said all the info is in front if her, and if we encounter problems, she's at the clinic all day and can help us out. Even got a couple of emails from Bob's cardiologist, who is on vacation, btw, checking in to see that everything got straightened out. . .gotta love a doc who contacts patients while on vacation. I'm sure some of these doctors, even when on vacation, never really are...

Bob called his insurance company this a.m., to see if the could shed some light on the confusion, all they could say is that there was an initial admission with Maple Grove, then through the U...??? Maybe there's some connection between the two entities? They didn't say, or Bob didn't ask. Seems farfetched, but one never knows how these big, ugly beasts operate. . .

Whether it was an insurance issue, a hospital one, or perhaps not an issue at all, no one could tell us for sure, but I've seen enough goofy glitches turn into monumental issues on this krazy karnival ryde to know better than to assume anything. Murphy's law in action, again and again--if I don't say anything, a crises ensues; say something, and it all turns out okay...a few well-placed phone calls and emails to my "connections" never hurts. . .

So we got checked in without any problems and now we're up on 6c, (cardiology floor), room 19, window-side bed. Bob's got his man-purse strapped over his shoulder (a pouch that holds the telemetry unit monitoring his heart--a requirement on the floor). It's party- time. . . Thank god Bob's roomie is being discharged soon, a gravelly-voiced grump hacking and hocking up loogies left 'n' right, yum. . . arguing with his wife that he didn't need to come to the hospital, hopes she's happy about all the hassle it's been for him (even though, evidently, from her side of the conversation, he was ill enough to warrant a stent--or "stint," as they kept saying-- placed. . .)

Y'all are lucky I'm typing this on my iphone, which take me forever to plunk out a message, so I'm gonna quit rambling for now. Maybe I should use my phone for all future posts, keep 'em short 'n' sweet. If only you could be so lucky. . .xxoo!!!

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhoneT

Beating head on wall. . . over. . . and over. . . and over . . .

Today's menu: breakfast—whole wheat pancakes (made with whole wheat, oat meal and flax seed flour), bowl of mixed fruit and bacon (umm, that would be bacon, and bowl of mixed fruit. They weren't mixed together. At least not in the bowl. Later, in the tummy, yes.). Lunch—tomato, avocado, provolone and roast beef sandwich on toasted sprouted bread, sliced tomatoes, watermelon. Dinner: green poblano rice with seafood sausage, corn on the cob. In between: v-8-style juice fresh from the juicer—3 tomatoes, cucumber, 1/2 jalapeno, 1/2 lemon, stalk or two of celery, small bunch spinach and a few big leaves of Swiss chard. Oh, yeah, and ice cream. No, not in the juice. Later, by itself.

So, Bob gets a letter in the mail from his insurance company tonight, certifying his hospital stay on August 24 at . . . Maple Grove Hospital. wwwwhhhaaa?????? At first we thought it might just be a typo, but after thinking about it a few minutes, I called the U (it was after-hours), asked if they had a Bob Andrzejek scheduled for admission tomorrow . . . after being bounced around to a few people and waiting on hold for several minutes, I was finally told that no, there's no record of his admission for tomorrow. They do have him scheduled for surgery on Friday, but nope, no hospital stay prior to that . . .

{{{{bang head against wall, repeatedly . . .}}}} After hearing that, Bob, understandably, becomes agitated, anxious. What if they can't get me in tomorrow? What if they don't have cardiology's orders? What if I have to take a Plavix because they can't get me on the IV blood thinner, and it screws up the surgery? What if they can't get me in to get me on the IV blood thinner? Totally legit fears, for sure. I grab my cellphone and leave a message with the cardiologist's nurse, explaining the issue, and to please get back to me asap tomorrow a.m. . . . then, fire off an e-mail to his primary doc, to give him a heads-up about the situation . . . why do I get so worked up about these kind of things now? Bob asks, pacing around the kitchen. This kind of stuff used to never bother me . . .

"Because maybe you have a helluva lot to be worked up about these past few months?" I offer. I

dunno, just a thought . . . don't worry. It'll be okay. If we have to hang out in the hallway with an IV drip in you for a few hours till they find a room for you, that's okay. It's supposed to be nice out. We can go outside and take a nap under a tree somewhere on campus . . ." I told him I have "the system" figured out by now (ummm, yeah, whatever . . .), that I have countless "contacts" at the U (helps to have a "crazy" reputation, after all), and things will be okay. We'll make sure of it.

Am I surprised about this? No. Just par for the course, same ol' same ol', dealing with a big, out-of-control entity such as the U. Maybe I shouldn't blame them, maybe it was an insurance company coding error, but still. We're the ones who have to deal with the mess. . . I'm just grateful Bob happened to open the letter from his insurance company instead of setting it aside. Can't imagine the mess that would have been, had we arrived at the U, to be told they have no record of Bob being admitted at that time. . . .

An hour or so later, Bob's primary doc e-mails me back. "Sorry this had to happen, but don't worry. I will get it straightened out first thing in the morning." I relay the message to Bob. Okay, he says, but I still don't feel good about this. What if the doctors don't have the right information? What if they didn't get the cardiology notes about what's going on? What if . . .

At 12:23 a.m. last night, I get an e-mail from Doc B, Bob's cardiologist. Anything I can do to help, let me know. He's supposedly on vacation. Evidently, Bob's primary doctor forwarded my message to him. I wrote back quickly, asked him to please do whatever it takes to make sure Bob gets admitted in the morning, and please reassure us that everyone who's supposed to be "in charge" knows what the hell is going on . . .

In the grand scheme of things of the shit Bob's been dragged through the past ten months and counting, I can completely understand his anxiety, the worries, the fears that things aren't starting out right, he's earned it, and then some . . . I should know by now that nothing plays by the rules in this big ugly game, nothing, and one can never, ever assume things are going to go without a hitch . . .just once, though, it'd be kinda nice if it did . . .

Anyhow, I'm confident that between Bob's primary doc and his cardiologist, this will all get straightened out, and we'll be at Hotel U as scheduled. Anyone and everyone is welcome to visit, at least Tuesday and Wednesday, anything to keep Bob occupied, keep his spirits up and fighting . . .

xxooxxo! to all!

Jewel-toned meals and sunsets, too . . .

My latest hobby, next to making home-made ice cream, is now juicing. Anything that isn't bolted down isn't safe in this house any more . . . I just got the new juicer on Friday, and already I've made a V-8 style veggie juice, apple-pear juice, watermelon-kiwi-strawberry, a mixed-berry juice. So far, Bob has only tried fruit juices, but I add greens to mine, even the fruit juices, for a one-two-punch of nutrients. Bob is easing into the idea, but hasn't quite embraced the idea of spinach with strawberries. Yet. Just my latest attempt to do my part to help Bob get well . . . they are gorgeous juices, deep, rich, colorful liquids full of so many good things. Anything can be juiced, I tell you (plant-based, that is): greens, potatoes, bananas, nuts . . . I've been eyeballing the hostas in the front yard lately. They've gotta be good for something other than a bed for Gaia.

I'm seeing the world in juice-tones: walked Rocco the other night, and the sunset looked so juicy and vibrant, like a blood orange pulsing low in the western horizon. Juice is all around us, man. Love it!

Before I get to rambling, the basic gist of Bob's week is that he'll be hospitalized on Tuesday, August24, and surgery is Friday, August 27. He can have visitors—the more the merrier, but on Thursday, please call ahead, if you can, because I'm sure there will be pre-surgery stuff going on that might interfere with visiting (like the fact he may be sitting on the porcelain throne for a good part of the day, "prepping his bowels" for the big event. . . )

So we arrive at the U for Bob's appointments on Wednesday, I hop out of the car to let Bob out, and look down to see that the front of my formerly bright white v-neck T is splattered in coffee graffiti. Nice. Thankfully, I had the foresight to bring a sweater along, as the exam rooms are oftentimes kept at the temperature of a meat locker, now it will double-duty as a bib. Well, too late for a bib, I guess. Maybe while we're at the U, I can have that hole in my lip fixed, too. . .

As of Wednesday, Bob's pain was excruciating, had been for a few days, at least when he was on his feet. It also kicked in to a degree when he was lying down, made it hard to find a comfortable position at all; as such, sleep has been drastically affected. He sleeps a lot during the day, in small increments, to try to make up for it. Either the pain wakes him, or his alarm does, as he's back to setting his little timer to take something every two hours, to try to stay ahead of the pain. He was afraid we'd have to cancel his appointments on Wednesday, because even the short walks to the clinics might be too much, and sitting in a wheelchair just isn't an option. We just couldn't miss these appointments, so I told him to take more pain meds, to get through. He doesn't have a "maximum" dose on the one that he takes for breakthrough pain, though he's been somewhat conservative in taking them—the delicate balancing act to reduce the pain without turning him into Bob of the Walking Dead. I told him, too, that if his pain is at the point where he just can't take it any more, we'd be at the U already and could have him admitted right then and there. . .

He took extra medication before we left, but during the appointments, he was so uncomfortable—he tried to sit, but that just wasn't working, so he ended up having to lie on his stomach, facing away from Doc Rock and the endocrinologists during the appointments. Of course, they didn't mind, told him to do what he had to, to be comfortable, but makes for an awkward conversation, talking to a wall. . .

Checked in with Bob's primary doc first, a pre-op appointment. Bob's weight was 130—I can't believe that! There may be some variance with the scales at the hospital, but even if they are a few pounds off, he's almost to what he weighted before all this started. Amazing! He's at his top fighting weight and that's such a huge thing, in terms of how he'll withstand the stresses of the surgery and recovery, I can't even tell ya. Thinking back, I can't imagine the outcome of a surgery as long and extensive as what his will be, when he was at 105 lbs., so weak, so emaciated, so many things going wrong during those times . . . now, he has some reserves to fall back on, during recovery, and other than the pain (and lack of sleep because of it), he feels pretty damn good. Primary care was followed by endocrinology, a follow-up appointment to see how things are going with the steroid taper, if his adrenal glands are recovering.

Bob got through the appointment with Doc Rock, barely; we discussed the finer details of the coming week— that he'll be admitted on Tuesday, put on the IV blood thinner, then taken off a few (several? don't remember the exact number, probably because we've heard different things from different people) hours prior to surgery. After discussing Bob's pain with Doc Rock, the plan for his hospitalization and anything else we could think of with, we came up with Plan B: Bob is to increase his breakthrough medication over the next few days, see how he does (it takes a day or two for the increase to take effect) and if he's not feeling better by Friday, we call to have him admitted for pain management. We're willing to try upping his "breakthrough" medication, as he's not showing signs of zombie-dome or mental confusion, hallucinating, falling asleep standing up or any of the other signs of over-medication.

Had an hour to kill before the endocrinology appointment. We went up to their clinic, hoping that maybe there was a cancellation, but no luck. They were able to get us into an unused room so Bob could lie down while we waited, which helped immensely (and certainly beat lying on the dirty carpeted floor, which we were prepared to do, and brought a small blanket and pillow along, just in case). The appointment with endocrinology was quite insightful. It's information I've heard before, but all new to Bob. The adrenal gland stuff happened after his last heart attack when he was really, truly effed up, one of may periods of this crazy carnival ride that he doesn't remember. Doc N (a young guy, cross between Zach Efron and David Spade, I kid you not. Super nice, knows his stuff . . .) explained to Bob that because he was on a very heavy dose of steroids back before he had the last heart attack (the highest dose he's ever seen anyone on, this doc says. WTF?? is what I say . . . ), for pain management, but in the process, the steroids took over the job of the adrenal glands, which in turn, forced them to go dormant. We're told that steroids are never meant to be used long-term for pain management, at that high of a dose, because of al the dangers associated with it.

That explains the increase in pain; the steroid was doing its job helping to control it, and I believe it was intended for him to be on them for just a short time—a week or two, to get him through to his surgery, then the heart attack happened and all hell broke loose . . . again, I "get it" when someone tells me we have to be our own advocates in this big fucked up system, but when disciplines of doctors don't even agree on the treatments, how the hell are we supposed to know what to do?! Bob's primary care doc put him on the 'roids, his oncologist team decided to taper him off, because they felt he was on them too long, and ran the risk of infections, kidney and liver issues (since they had been affected, temporarily, by the heart attack and subsequent issues). But when he had such a severe reaction to the taper, and I called Bob's Palliative care doc to let her know what was going on, she was pissed that he had been taken off them . . . but the endocrinologists, Bob's primary doc, and the oncology team all seem to think that he shouldn't be on them for so long . . . Again, will someone please tell me how I'M supposed to know this without an MD behind my name? And apparently, even that doesn't seem to do the trick, at times!

Which brings me to the big surgery looming in the not-so-distant future, and all the things racing through my head as we race toward this event, once again. All day, I constantly push the thought, "What could possibly go wrong between now and Friday?" out of my head, but it returns, again and again. What else am I not thinking of? What else should I be asking? Am I missing anything? I've called all the doctors involved and left rambling messages about various concerns that pop into my head throughout the day. That Bob wants to meet with both surgeons face-to-face while in the hospital, prior to the surgery, to discuss the procedure and other concerns. That Bob will not undergo the horrific bowl prep he was subjected to the last time—that there has to be another option, because that one just ain't happening. To remind them that Bob is to stay on the aspirin throughout the surgery, and will need extra platelets to help his blood clot as needed, and that he needs a big ol' "stress dose" of steroids during the surgery, because he's adrenal insufficient. That it's his right side that has the tumor . . . maybe I should go mark his right hip with a Sharpie right now, just to be safe . . .

To have been living in this "in-between" world for so long now is such a surreal thing. So out of touch with the "real world, neither of us working, one debilitated by pain, illness, set-backs, horrifying events that have gone on for so long . . . the other, just witness to those events . . .wondering how our world will be when this surgery finally, really, truly arrives, and what our lives will be like afterward. And then my mind stops. Hits a black wall. I can't go beyond that.

So, after all the doctor's appointments, all the calling to various offices I've done all week, all the nurses I've talked to, did it surprise me that 1.) we got a phone call at home, after Bob's appointments on Wednesday, at 8 in the evening, from the orthopedic surgeon who will be removing the tumor. Doc is on vacation and takes the time to call us at home (maybe because his nurse told him that Bob's nutcase wife has called every day the past week?) He talked to me for a good 10 minutes or so, then I handed the phone to Bob, who carried on with the doc for at least another good 15-20 minutes . . . clarified some questions and concerns, said he's absolutely stop in to see Bob before the surgery . . . and 2.) I got an email from Bob's primary doc later that night (close to midnight, I believe), asking how Bob's pain has been since we left his office, and to let us know he'd be available by pager all weekend, should Bob's pain increase to the point where he felt he needed to be admitted for pain management, just call (maybe because I just couldn't stop asking questions and expressing concerns about the surgery and all that's involved, and that I fear Bob's going down the same path we did over two months ago, with the increase in pain prior to surgery) . . . and 3.) another phone call tonight (Sunday), from the colorectal surgeon, just checking in, first to see why Bob wasn't already in the hospital, because he was going to stop in and see him but didn't see him in the admission records. I told him about the change in admission plans, and he said he's swing by on Wednesday, to talk to Bob. Does all this surprise me?

Part of me says "yes, I am surprised." These are busy doctors, with tight schedules and vacations to take and conferences to attend, patients to see and families of their own, yet took the time to call us personally, at home, to check in, ask questions, take a few minutes to listen . . . and a part of me says, "no, I'm not surprised." They're good doctors, doing their jobs. Either that, or their nurses have told them about Bob's raving lunatic wife who's been relentlessly calling the office all week. "Will you just call her, so she stops calling us?" I can hear them saying . . . maybe that's it . . .

So, Sunday night (1 a.m.), Bob's made it through another night, once again, with the help of this deep reserve of internal strength I've witnessed in him time and time again, for months on end, the likes of which I'll never know. He's toughed it out, as he wanted to, to be at home for these days prior to the hospitalization, to be in his house, with his things around, being able to putter around a bit here as he can, instead of having to go in early due to pain. One more day at home, and then it's back to Hotel U of M.

Such a gorgeous night tonight, past few nights, really . . . I might sleep on the screened deck again, finally, after what has seemed like an eternity of heat and humidity. Not that I'm complaining, mind you, because our summers are gone too quickly and this has been a wonderfully, good-ol'-fashioned hotter 'n' hell summer, the way I remember 'em as a kid. It's just that I don't like being cooped up, with windows closed tight, AC on day and night. I'd much rather have the windows wide open, crickets singing their lullaby to me from all around . . .

Things have been pretty low-key over out here in the boonies, which is good and bad, but makes for very dull writing material . . . still holding steady, no emergency room visits, no hospital stays, nothing to write home about, a blissful reprieve from the first six and a half months of this year. Days get kind of long when we're playing the waiting game, though. . . some moments are blissfully peaceful, like I could live like this forever . . . when I'm dancing to the radio while cooking, or walking the dogs in the morning, or getting Bob's meds together throughout the day, along with his meals, or just lying next to him in bed, talking about nothing and everything . . . but they're punctuated by sharp doses of reality when I say things like, "Is there anything else I can get you, hon?" and Bob responds, in the midst of a wave of pain, "Yeah . . . my old life back . . . "

So yes, uneventful, but no, not without the heaviness that is the reason for the uneventfulness hanging over us, every second, every minute, every hour of every day that passes. . . even my cooking efforts (i.e. "experiments") have suffered . . . I did make a wonderful vegetarian lasagna a few nights back, stuffed green peppers (brown rice, black beans, tons of veggies—tomatoes, corn, onion, garlic—and a sprinkling of mozzarella cheese) last night . . . tomorrow is parmesan tilapia and who knows what else . . . but the fun isn't in it right now. It feels forced, a drudgery rather than the joyful event I've looked forward to every day for the past several weeks. {{{big sigh}}} then again, maybe it's just pms . . .

Uneventful leaves me not much to write about, except for Bob's pain. The pain seems to have shifted, he said, from the back of his leg to up deep in the right side of his butt, and it's intensified, too, to the point where he's been in bed all day yesterday and today, barely able to get up, except to go to the bathroom. If it's this bad tomorrow, we may have to take drastic measures again—I don't know. Up the meds to the scary zombie-doses? (no, no, no, noooooooooo . . .) Hospitalize him early, to work on the pain management? Been there, done that . . .Bob doesn't remember the time, back in May, when his pain got so bad we had to have him hospitalized to get it under control. That was when the PCA pump came into the picture, the zombie-state, an awful, awful time. . . tonight, I read for him the blog entries of that time, and he has no recollection of any of it, can't believe he went through all of that and has no memory of any of it. I said it's probably better he didn't. There's enough that he does remember, that he is still experiencing, than to have to remember those dark, awful days . . .

Lots of phone calls over the past few days, trying to figure out the hospitalization thing. Don't even remember the order, just figured I'd call everyone involved, cover all bases: orthopedic surgeon, colorectal surgeon, cardiologist, primary care, endocrinology (not related directly to the surgery, but Bob has an appointment with them tomorrow, and I had a few questions for them, as well . . .). Then sat back and waited. Got a few calls back yesterday, late afternoon, got the run-around, back-n-forth kind of shit that we dealt with last time . . . few more phone calls this morning, to a few more people, again to Primary Care, "Isn't this why you guys are supposed to be involved??? To be the ones doing all this, not me???" shit, shit, shit . . .

Finally, today, we got official word that Bob will be hospitalized next Tuesday. His cardiologist said he only needs to be on the IV blood thinner three days prior to surgery, not a whole week, as was originally planned. At first, I thought that sounded good, so he didn't have to be in the hospital twiddling his thumbs for a week (and me cooking every day and bringing his food for him the whole time—yes, I'd already planned to bring his meals for him—as if you're surprised! I will not allow all the hard work of these past few months unravel thanks to the shit they try to pass off as "food" in a hospital. The Big Irony of a hospital, I'm tellin' ya. Big ugly irony: sick people being fed sick food.). Actually, I had planned to put a meal sign-up sheet on the blog here, asking y'all to sign up to bring in a meal to bring to Bob every day he was to be in, before and after surgery. Good, healthy meals (didn't even have to be home-made, just not like the overly-processed, sodium-sugar-preservative-soaked crap they serve at the U . . . sorry, I just can't let that one go . . .) but since he'll only be there a few days, I think I can manage (maybe with the help of a family member or two . . .) But then that means he'll be home for a week, dealing with this increased, debilitating pain. A few days is one thing. Another whole week . . .

But back to the food, because I am so damn passionate about this . . .I will get on this soapbox again and again, because it's so critical for everyone, but particularly for someone as ill as Bob—to realize you are what you eat. Period. And for someone like Bob, who has so many strikes against him already—childhood cancer, effects of horrific treatments 30 years ago resulting in heart attacks, secondary cancer, countless other crises along the way—I firmly, wholeheartedly believe that eating well is half (more than half, really) the battle. Eliminating chemically-laden, processed food, easing up on animal-based foods, heavy on the fruits, veggies, grains, nuts, beans (organic, if possible) . . . we're all so quick to take a magic pill (with horrid side effects) or subject ourselves to monstrous treatments, without question, but when presented with the choice of changing our diet, our lifestyle? Something that won't hurt us, and can only help us, yet is so hard for so many to do . . . definitely not saying give up on modern medicine, as miracles abound in the hospitals, at the hands of doctors, every day. But supplementing that with nutrition, good, wholesome nutrition, ups the ante. I guarantee it will help what ails you . . . I've seen it with my own eyes, felt it in my own body, with my own health issues, have seen what it's done for Bob . . . sorry, sorry, sorry, don't mean to be preachy . . . you're lucky, I don't have a lot of fight in me tonight, so I'll step down for now . . .

And, it's late, we've got to get up early for his appointments in the a.m., so I'm going to wrap it up here. Sorry for not having a lot to say ("gee, for not having a lot to say, you sure had a lot to say, Jen." I can read your minds, y'know . . .) Hopefully in the next few days, we'll be at a better place. LOVE! to all . . .xxoo

Happy Anniversary, my dear Sofa King

There are things you do because they feel right & they may make no sense & they may make no money & it may be the real reason we are here: to love each other & to eat each other's cooking & to say it was good . . . brian andreas (author of StoryPeople)

Tomorrow, August 12, is our 15th wedding anniversary. Happy anniversary to the reason I love, the reason I write, the reason I cook, the reason I may make no money. . . even though, right now, nothing in our world makes any sense, at this moment, right this moment, it all feels right. . . Love you, Bobby. xxoo

Vice cream!

My latest hobby (does trying something once make it a "hobby?") is making vegan ice cream, aka "Vice Cream," from a recipe book by the same name. Since Bob needs his daily ice cream fix or he'll wither, delicate orchid that he is, I thought at least I'd try to give him stuff that's totally natural, no preservatives, chemicals, or full of any other nasty ingredients . . . my first try was raspberry vice cream. The recipe calls for five ingredients. Yup, I said five. Count 'em: cashews, water (or fresh fruit juice), maple syrup, non-alcohol vanilla flavoring (alcohol interferes with the freezing process) and raspberries. There ya go. Blend 'em all in a blender till silky-smooth, chill mixture in the freezer for about an hour, then add to ice cream maker and hit the "on" button . . . 40 minutes later, sweet, creamy, fruity goodness that makes about a quart of frozen delight and earned a 94 from the Official Bob Rating System!

Bob suggested raspberry as the maiden voyage for the ice cream maker, since we had about a pint and a half of the berries hangin' out in the fridge, threatening to go all fuzzy on us if not used soon. Next time, I'll try the plain ol' vanilla recipe, as that's been Bob's go-to flavor, next to Neapolitan. Doesn't he look great in this pic, by the way?! Filling out, even a little bit of muscle definition in those arms! He's been really good about doing his workouts, and has graduated to using hand weights! It wasn't that long ago that he could barely make it through a round of exercises without any weights. Progress!

I picked up a cheap ice cream maker at Target the other day, (though I had bought the "Vice Cream" book well over a month ago), on clearance for $20-$25, Sunbeam brand, and despite the el cheapo price tag, it seems to work just groovy! The cashews are what give the "vice cream" its ice-cream-like texture; when blended with the other ingredients and then frozen, the nut-flavor is barely discernible, but adds a lovely subtle touch. I followed the recipe as written (for once), but next time, I may tweak the sweetener, as a whole cup of maple syrup sweetener makes it very, very sweet. Like me. Maybe try agave syrup next time, or just cutting back on the syrup and use more fruit . . .

(A quick aside . . . a few months back, I'd bought some cheap vanilla shit thinly disguised as ice cream from I-don't-even-know-where—Holiday gas station down the road, maybe?—on a desperate late-night run to feed Bob's out-of-control habit. Sooooo, can anyone telll me what's wrong with this picture (and it's not "valu pak," wrong as that is, in and of itself)? Llllook very clllose . . . man, if they can't even get the lllabelll right, god only knows what's in the ice cream . . .)

I also bought a juicer, incidentally, a beginner's brand/model. I did some research on the brand—a Waring Pro—saw that it earned a healthy 4 out of 5 stars on several websites. Again, in time, if I get totally into the juicing thing (which I may, as I loooooooves me them green smoothies already . . .), maybe for Christmas, I'll ask Santa for the Rolls Royce of juicers. No, not Jack LaLane's (though I did see that his earned respectable ratings as well, and I know our friend, Paulie, has had great success with it). Perhaps a GreenStar. Or, as my friend, Lisa, suggested, a Hurom slow-juicer. But that seems light-years away. . . baby steps, Jen, baby steps . . .

Beautiful day at the farmer's market yesterday, despite being hotter 'n' hades, and humidity that simply dripped from the atmosphere . . . had to go it alone, as Bob wasn't feeling up to it and both sisters were out of town this weekend, but it made for a quick trip—in and out in record time when there is no balloon artist, or ice cream vendor or lemonade stand to distract! I picked up a few things—bouquet of flowers, handmade soaps, couple of sweet treats—to bring to a client-friend of mine who is in a transitional care facility in St. Paul . . . she was in a horrific motorcycle accident back in June, hospitalized for 40 days, ended up having to amputate part of her right leg, it was so mangled it was beyond saving. Discharged from the hospital to transitional care on her 40th birthday. Now, after just a week in TC, they're threatening to kick her out, because her insurance

But she had her helmet on, which she said saved her life, saved her from brain injury . . . still in transitional care, and a long road to recovery ahead for her. She will have to learn to do everything with a prosthetic leg, which won't happen for another few months, as the injury site still has more healing to do. She also ended up with a broken clavicle, a shattered knee (on the leg that survived) and broken foot.

Anyone care to tell her that everything happens for a reason? That God threw the car in front of her to teach her some kind of lesson? That God doesn't give her anything more than she can handle? As though God is some sadistic entity who loooooves to throw shit our way, horrible, horrible shit, like cars and cancer, and earthquakes and wars, but just in front of some people, not everyone, a jacked-up lottery where you'll never know if or when your number will be called . . . a god as an entity that loves to pick and chose at random whom to subject the horrors, just to see how the lucky chosen one stands up to the challenge . . . and if you don't, well, then the right answer is, "Oh, it was her time to go, God wanted her . . . " No, no, no, that's not right. Not right at all. Sometimes, people, shit just happens. As in my friend's case, the driver simply didn't see her. Bad timing. Rotten luck. Wrong place, wrong time. The driver made a terrible error in judgment. Anything but God playing a game with her life. . .

Kind of unrelated, but not really . . . I don't know if I've ever said this before on the blog, but I am absolutely blessed to have the opportunity to be home with Bob during this time, to help him heal and become stronger for his upcoming surgery. I wish it had had happened earlier in the game, that maybe we could have avoided much of the awful shit he was dragged through, but there goes that 20/20 hindsight again . . . not only do I truly, in my heart, feel that it has helped keep Bob stable and out of the hospital, but it's been so good for his mental health and overall well-being. And mine, too . . . he hasn't had an anxiety attack since, oh man, I can't even tell you when. Hasn't taken Ativan in at least as long, either. His appetite has increased ten-fold, his mental state is astoundingly sharp and clear. If only it weren't for that damn pain in his leg that just doesn't go away. The constant reminder.

Oh, don't get me wrong. Not saying everything is all puppies and rainbows over here, peeps, just grateful beyond words that things are stable and have been for several weeks now. All I can do is live here and now. Right now. Once in a while, I try to peek into the future and have to yank myself back, because there's no way I can possibly maybe begin to try to see what it holds . . .the surgery is the only "curative" treatment, we're told, Bob's only hope, yet it still scares the living daylights out of me. To the point where I have to push it out of my head whenever thoughts of it appear. And, that's just my perspective. The one without the cancer.

Every day, we are blessed, feel so very blessed, to have all the wonderful people in our lives who have done so much and continue to do so much, for us. Blows the mind, it really does . . . and that's where the miracles happen for me. Through all of you. Deep inside of me. All around me. Through your prayers, sweet e-mails, phone calls, text messages, blueberry pies, generous gifts, recipe ideas, visits, cards in the mail, offers to do "whatever you need, just call," in the gorgeous pre-storm clouds piling up in the west as I walked Rocco tonight and the brilliant orange-pink sunset that followed. . . within me, in us, being open and receptive to all the goodness that comes our way, thorugh Bob, with his wicked sense of humor still intact, his determined spirit. . . choosing to say, this is life, life happens, man, and sometimes it can be so beautiful it takes your breath away and other times, damn, sometimes it's all you can do to get through the day. . .

Despite the shit, in spite of the shit we trudge through, I like to think that I'm "learning and growing" along the way . . . with the cooking and nutrition, the care-taking role I've embraced and trying my best to navigate the hell that is our health care system, the connections and re-connections we've made with friends and family, old and new . . . all the good and the bad and the constant reminders of how the human spirit moves us, within us, throughout us, between us . . . but don't anyone come and tell me, "See, everything does happen for a reason, Jen!" because I'll slap you into next week faster than the words come out of your mouth . . . I'd trade all that back and more, in a heartbeat, to have our old life back, any day, any way, and I'd venture to guess Bob would, too. God doesn't "make" this kind of shit happen to people. It's just life, plain and simple. What we do have, though, is the ability to chose how we respond to the shit that's dealt us. That's what God has given us. A brain, a heart and soul with which to respond, react, feel, process, hope, dream, do. It comes from us, people, from us acting, doing, feeling, not just sitting around, waiting for God to clean up the mess . . .

If God "makes" this crap happen in our lives to teach us some kind of lesson, then that's not the kind of God I want in my life. We'll go crazy trying to figure out the "reason," because there is none. I believe in the God who says, "Here you go, peeps. I created this big wide wonderful world, with all kinds of miraculous things in it. Now it's your chance to see what you do with it . . ." In all it's beautiful, ugly, generous, stingy, fabulous, horrific, humorous, horrific glory . . . I've said it before, I'll say it again, horrible things happen to really wonderful people, and wonderful things happen to really horrible people. All the time. Over and over and over again. Many, many things we have control over, but there are other things we simply don't. Our job is to figure out how to get through the shit the best we can. Whatever gets us through the night, 's all right, 's all right . . . and don't read too much into all this, because God knows my mind changes on a daily basis, what I think, what I feel, what I believe. . .

See, that's the trouble with this waiting game. Too much time to think, dammit.

Save the date . . .

Had visitors yesterday afternoon, two old friends of mine from way back when, Ronda and Corey, who live in Kansas now, but are in MN for the week, for a family wedding down near Rochester. Ronda and her family were next-door neighbors of ours back in Mt. Lake; we spent countless hours of our childhoods, playing house, monsters, kick-the-can, sleeping over at each other's houses . . . Corey and I were in speech and theater together in h.s. . . . Ronda's parents were two of the most wonderful people I knew growing up, such kind, gentle, generous souls. . . Ronda, Corey and I reconnected on the time-sucking vampire that is facebook; a week or so ago, they told me they'll be up for the week for the wedding and was wondering if we were up for visitors.

Corey is a 7 year cancer survivor—brain tumor—and incidentally, just celebrated his 7-year anniversary of his surgery. He was the one who made the shockingly accurate analogy I'd mentioned a while back, of getting the phone call for his surgery and feeling like someone had called to let him know his car crash had just been scheduled . . . he had a helluva ride—whole family did, actually; Ronda was caring for both an ill husband and their son, who was just a babe when Corey was diagnosed—but he's here, seven years later, doing so well, enjoying life, a wonderful living inspiration . . . Their visit was a great surprise, as I haven't seen them in over five years, at least. Thankfully, the weather was gorgeous, so we all sat out on the deck and shot the breeze for a few hours.

Of course, the conversation turned to cancer, treatments, etc. now and then—so many familiar stories to share, along with new details to learn—the frustrations as well as the miracles of the medical world, the awful side-effects of medications and infuriating crap-shoot method of finding ones that do the job and can be tolerated, the life on hold, the doctors—some great, some not so much (and all of them "practicing" medicine, as Ronda pointed out, which cracks me up! Can't believe I never thought of it that way before . . .{{{shaking head}}}) . . .and family, friends, strangers, even . . . the kindness, generosity, thoughtfulness and love of the countless people who swoop in to be by our side, to help support and carry us during the battle . . . but honestly, that was just a fraction of the day's visit; the conversation was really more delicious home-town gossip, family updates, and other things far removed from cancer. Bob even joined us for the duration of their visit, mostly just listening, but nice to have his presence with us, as I know it was a huge effort for him to be sitting with us as long as he did . . . Such a nice afternoon, catching up with old friends, lots of laughs, good company. . . and before we knew it, two hours were gone, and they were saying their goodbyes . . . for a while, life felt a little normal again . . .

No sooner had Ronda and Corey pulled out of the driveway, when my cellphone rang. I recognized the U of MN main #, wondering who could be calling about what. . . turned out to be the surgery scheduler. "This is Tanya calling to tell you that Robert's surgery is on for August 27 th, I'm told. What?!? I asked her to repeat what she just said—that the 27th is the date? Yes, that's correct. So. We're set. In stone. So many mixed feelings about it, I could go on and on, but I won't. The main one we have to focus on, and push everything else aside, is that this surgery is what will give Bob his life back, bring a semblance of normalcy to our lives again, let him move on, start to really live again . . . He'll be hospitalized the week before, likely going in on the 20th, to be put on the IV blood thinner and monitored all week. He's already told me to spread the word that he wants visitors, and lots of them, because he's going to be bored to death, waiting around all week . . .

After a day or so's hiatus from messin' in the kitchen, I was back at it last night; the recipe was a complete and utter experimental one (as if all the others haven't been, Jen?! hmmmm . . .). I mean that I kind of made it up, a collage of about 12 different recipes, because I couldn't find exactly the one I had in my head. (Again—how is that different from the others, Jen?!?) ANYhow, it was one of those recipes that I spent an inordinate amount of time on, lots of putzy work, dirtying up about every pot and pan in the joint, the deeper I got into it, the louder the voices got: "What the hell are you doing . . .nuh-uh—don't have a good feeling about this one . . . all this hard work and it's gonna taste like crapola and you'll end up tossing it over the side of the deck . . . " Despite the voices, I persevered.

Oh, what was it, you ask? Sorry! It was {{{drum roll. . . .}}} Zucchini boats! When my friend,

Karen, dropped off the load of veggies last week, from her hubby's garden, there were two ginormous zucchinis in the box. Gargantuan. Monumental. Elephantine. Titanic. Really, really big. Karen planted the seed about the boat idea back then (though calling them "boats" is really a disservice to those mammoth beasts. Ocean liners, really. . . ), and I've been obsessed with the idea of edible boats ever since. Unfortunately, Bob hasn't been "on board" (ha-ha—get it? Boats? On board? ummm, nevermind . . . ) with the idea, and has been threatening to have a TV dinner on stand-by . . . I shredded and froze one of the Chernobyl zukes for future use, then last night, I finally succumbed to the haunting call of the zuke-boat. I halved the colossal squash, scooped out the innards (chopped up and set aside). Then made 1 c. brown rice and 1/2 cup wild rice, cooked up 2 large chick breasts, then shredded/chopped it. I added onion, mushrooms, garlic and the chopped zuke innards to the cooked chicken, chicken, then mixed all that together with the rice. Seasonings were: couple tablespoons of tomato paste, fresh chopped basil, a splash of mushroom stock, sea salt and fresh ground pepper. Load boats up with bounty, sprinkle with a generous amount of grated cheese (I used my proprietary 3-cheese blend made from hard cheeses from Surdyk's. Bake 1/2 hour.

LOVED 'em, peeps! Absolutely LOVED 'em!! Even Bob, aka Mr. Naysayer, enjoyed them, though he wouldn't eat the boat for some reason—it's totally edible, gets nice and soft after cooking. The hard work was worth it. This recipe could be made totally vegan by skipping the chicken and add more 'shrooms, other veggies—some cubed squash would rock, beans, even—whatever you want, to give it a little more substance. I am not kidding when I say this one huge zucchini, with its contents, could easily feed 4-6 people, if you had a few other veggie sides (I had roasted beets, too). Doing my part to reduce the zucchini population this time of year . . .

btw, I seem to be getting the reputation of Ice Cream Nazi lately, as though I am absolutely forbidding Bob from the delicacy (and my suspicions are that he's the force behind the rumors, but I could be wrong . . .). I am simply scaling back on the treat, to normal serving sizes, and now to a few times a week, instead of a few times a day. For the longest time, it was basically two of his daily meals, and not much else. I'd conservatively estimate that he was consuming almost two cups of ice cream in a sitting—a serving of ice cream is 1/2 cup, at 250 calories, peeps. His ice cream consumption alone was haulin' in close to 1000 calories a "serving"—not to mention topping that off with least 1/2 an Ensure (another 175 calories), a big ol' hosin' down with Hershey's syrup and caramel topping (another 100+ calories) in one sitting. THAT, my peeps, is insane, and absolutely not healthy.

I am not a fan of the "calories, no matter what" philosophy of the medical community, in regard to the chronic, critically ill, but that's what's pushed, by doctors, nurses—so many in the medical field. Which is so crazy, especially when so much evidence strongly supports that nutritionally sound food, mainly from plant sources, is what helps heal the body, help build the immune system—hell, helps all the systems and defenses battle the demon, cancer. The ice cream can supplement, but should not be the main source of calories/nutrition. I know, I know, I know, I'm not the one with cancer, I'm not the one who's emaciated, who had debilitating nausea, severe loss of appetite, horrible mouth sores, but I honestly don't think we've been doing Bob any favors by letting him shovel ice cream at whim into his already critically ill body. This is a matter of tough love, doing something to help, not hinder, Bob's fight. Funny, how we have no problem choking down pills with horrific side effects, or subjecting ourselves to torturous treatments, but "forcing" us to eat well, even when very sick, hell, especially when very sick, is seen a bad thing . . . Sorry, but it's a soapbox upon which I'll step any time . . .

We've got his weight up dramatically, in a relatively short period of time, which rocks the house, man, and now we're on a maintenance program. And, now I'll step down from the soapbox for today . . . oh, and disregard any e-mails, texts, smoke signals or other messages Bob might be sending out, to anyone and everyone, asking to smuggle in extra "goods". . . he is not being held in a dungeon against his will, barred of all real food. He can serve himself up a bowl of ice cream whenever he wants. For the record, we had blueberry pie with ice cream for dessert this noon. Right now, in this moment of time, life is good. . .

Anyhoo, mark August 27th on your calendars . . . big, scary day ahead. . .