Home is wherever I'm with you. . .

Finally, at long last, my Bobby is home with me. Sleeping in our bed with me, sitting at the dining room table eating dinner with me. Sitting on the couch, watching the morning news with me, as the sun fills the dark eastern sky with glowing lava . . . after four long, sad and lonely months in a hospital setting, he was released from the U of M on Friday, with the harsh, heavy pronouncement from his oncologist, The Lump, that there is nothing more he can do for Bob. That the sarcoma has returned, aggressively, has spread through much of his pelvis, is in operable—too much of his pelvis is now involved—there are no chemotherapy or radiation options left. We ask, what are we to do now? He said, go home, prepare for hospice. . . I look at him wildly, I swear it's all I can do to not fly across the room and attack this man. Instead, I squeeze and twist the kleenex in my hands and ask with a choking voice, "Has there ever been anyone who's overcome such a situation? Who has survived the odds? Anyone?!"

Well, I suppose, in theory, it's possible, The Lump says, almost with ridicule. But not to my knowledge. "So, you're saying there is a chance," I say. He looks at me with distain or pity, I'm not sure which. "That was a joke," I tell him. "Sort of."

My fingers numb, fumble, trying to type all of this, and once again, tears flow like they'll never stop, I don't think they will . . . chest so heavy with the weight of my heart, I can hardly breathe . . . who knew one could cry so much, for so long. . . don't tear ducts just dry up after a while . . .

Driving home Friday afternoon, with Bob beside me, things were almost like "old times." Almost. I drive, Bob sits in the passenger seat (which was usually the reverse, in the "olden days," in the Jeep, anyhow). It strikes me that this is the first time, in over a year, that Bob's been able to sit in a car, upright, with no pain . . . immediately, he turns into his best back-seat-driver-in-the-passenger-seat role, instructing me with the quickest route to get to the bank then home, as though I haven't done this drive a gagillion times over the past year: "take a right here," and "get into the carpool lane—there's two of us, we can bypass the ramp lights"—he should know, he's maneuvered the arterial mess of highways in the Metro for years, in his sales position—his hand outstretched toward the dashboard as we fly along 94, as though preparing for a rear-end accident at any minute. This drive, with just the two of us, one of an endless list of things I've missed deeply this past year . . . one second things are "normal" between us, the next, the reality of the day crashes down and I'm sobbing, all over again, and again . . .

Our drive home, I cry almost the whole way, cursing Bob's doctor, telling him that The Lump is just one doctor, not the only sarcoma specialist, and we won't give up just because that heartless bastard has . . . that I hate the U of M and The Lump, with every cell of my being, for what he—they—have dragged Bob through all year, only to toss him aside in the end, once they were done experimenting on him . . . I hope we never set foot back in that little shop of horrors disguised as the U of M Medical Center . . . that sending Bob home is the single good thing The Lump has done for Bob the entire year he's controlled Bob's destiny . . .

At home, finally, I know we will eventually find our way to a sense of peace and dignity, maybe even some semblance of clarity and knowledge . . . we will regroup, rebuild a routine of living life enveloped in love, good food, friends, family . . . that right now, driving home in the Jeep, in spite of the raging storm of anger, sadness, helplessness, desperation, I feel like I've won the biggest lottery in the world, bringing my grand prize, my Bob, home . . .

Bob's sister, Nancy, flew into MN from Montana Saturday afternoon; Penny and Jim have been here since at least Tuesday or Wednesday. We've all been kind of cocooned out here on Walton's Mountain, getting settled, getting home nursing care set up, cooking up a storm with lots of good, healthy meals . . . trying to figure out what to do next, how to live in this in-between world, where once again, for the 11-teenth time, the rules have changed. Wednesday, Bob was coming to terms with life with a bum leg and loss of other functions. Tough, but hopeful. Friday, he's told to go home and prepare to die . . .

For me to even try to interpret what Bob must be feeling at this point is beyond arrogant, beyond anything anyone will ever comprehend in our lifetime, as much as I wish so badly that I could know . . . all I can do is continue to be with him, to help care for him, to love him, to help him along this newest, most frightening part of the journey yet, and try not to let my heart break so far beyond repair that I'm useless . . . how that'll happen is beyond me . . .

The song from the video above is one that's played in my head for months, nearly every time I've gone to see Bob in the hospital. . .

Home, let me come home

Home is whenever I'm with you

Home, yes I am home

Home is wherever I'm with you

—Home, by Edward Sharp and the Magnetic Zeros