(Posting of this pic is long overdue—it was taken during Bob's last hospital stay, a few weeks ago. Bob and our newest nephew, li'l Otto. Jill, Jade and Amelia's li'l boy . . . Bob's not normally prone to kissing babies, which is why I just love this pic, all the more . . .)

Sorry it's been a while since I last posted . . . mostly because all's quiet on the eastern front and there's not a lot to report, which is a blessing we're embracing fully, believe you me . . . It's been 2 whole weeks since Bob was last discharged after his GI bleed and he's holding steady. Not one ER run, or hospital stay—heck, not even a doctor's visit in this time. For the most part, since he's been home, Bob has been sleeping well, eating well, and moving about fairly well (a relative phrase in our world), just kind of tired throughout the day, low energy levels. . .

It's been such a long time since we've had a stretch where there hasn't been some crisis or another rear up, that I guess we're just basking in the quiet of it all, in spite of living in this bizarre in-between world . . . to interrupt the gentle flow that has become our daily routine up here on Walton's Mountain with something as a mundane blog entry seems kind of like a startling, unnecessary interruption. So selfish, I know, especially considering all you wonderful people who have been steadily holding us dear to your hearts for so long. . . Because of that, I do feel I owe at least a quickie here, to all who have been endless in your love and support in following Bob's story . . . right now, Bob's sleeping soundly, I'm still awake, as usual . . . I'll try to make this brief. (Yeah, I know. Whatev, peeps.)

The whole point of this blog has experienced a seismic shift in focus the past several weeks. Plate tectonics hard at work. . . when all this began, over a year ago, it was simply meant as a way to keep friends and family filled in on what's going on with Bob, a place to let off steam, to process events . . . but in the past months (or so, give or take), we've been violently shaken off our foundation, literally and figuratively . . . making time and effort to write, as a result, has become a daunting endeavor. Every time I sit down to try to write a "quick" update, I end up simply walking away from my laptop. "Quick" doesn't do it justice, yet anything longer—I fear I won't be able to shut up . . .

It's been months (over a year, but who's counting . . .) since I've had this kind of alone-time with Bob. Just the two of us, in our own little home—he, clear of mind and as close to my "old" Bob as he's been in far too long. Not overly-drugged up on narcotics, no crises, no endless back-and-forth hospital trips, no constant stream of doctor appointments or ER trips . . . as close to bliss as we can be, in the midst of the hell we've been through, but still as far from bliss as we could possibly be, if that is at all possible. Tell me to shut the hell up at any time . . . Mostly, we're just "hanging out" at home, not doing a whole lot of anything (it's cold as all get out—who's doing anything but trying desperately to keep warm at the moment, is what I want to know!?!!). It's almost sacrilege, to spare even a second writing about, to share with anyone the mundane yet insanely intense world that has become our lives . . . this "in-between world" in which we're living is like nothing I could ever describe or hope anyone to understand, as such, to try to write about it does it huge injustice, to the point of being a big waste of time, as my grasp of my native language desperately fails, hence, the lack of posts lately . . .

But, at the same time, I want to sit here and write till my fingers bleed, till my eyes are bleary with tears and I fall onto my laptop with exhaustion, till I make everyone understand, myself included, what this time in our lives means—what this in-between world is like, what it means and what it does not. And I know there are not enough days or words or emotions available, in a lifetime, to accomplish this lofty feat. . .

There are times, countless snippets throughout a day, when it feels as though life is almost back to what our old life was like—Bob will crack a crude joke (okay, truth be told: it's likely moi cracking the crude joke, with Bob rolling his eyes. But sometimes he is the crude one and when it happens, it's a good one . . .) or, I'll be cooking like a madwoman in the kitchen while Bob rests on the couch (as if that ever happened before. . .more like the reverse: Bob cooking, I'm lounging—I said "almost back to the old life" didn't I??!!). . . all those lovely scenes, interspersed with countless events that harshly remind us that we're so very far from the "old" life we used to live, not even close to a shadow of it. Pill bottles lined up on the dining table. Rubbermaid tote next to the bed, housing bandages and other wound care items. A walker parked next to the sofa. The shower chair sitting in the corner of our bathroom . . . all day, every day, yanked back and forth, back and forth, between the worlds of "used to be" and "how things are now . . " and how to make the two blend, play well together, an exhausting, never-ending feat. . .

We're trying to live with—or defying, or fighting, or come to terms with, depending on the day, the minute, the second, the point of view—what's essentially a death sentence hanging above Bob's head, handed to him from his oncologist, and all that's bundled in with that, and how to move forward. Believe me, there's nothing beautiful or precious or romantic in it any of it, at all, and it's something that never takes a break, never lets up . . . with the effort that goes into trying to live life as "normally" as one can, without thinking about all that hangs heavy on that, is a super-human act, so far, beyond anything I'm capable of . . . It's only precious or sacred or dear to an outsider, who may romanticize the scenario that's going on behind closed doors. . . how do you romanticize a life ripped right out from under your feet, never to return, all the things you shoulda woulda coulda, done . . . never will happen . . . how do you romanticize feeling completely normal—that for a split nanosecond, our old life is back!—only to be abruptly, harshly, sometimes violently reminded again and again, that this is not our old life and will never be. Ever.

I have such grandiose ideas of getting Bob out of the house, to go grocery shopping with me, maybe take in a movie one day, or visit his old colleagues. "We'll make it work, hon! I've got it all figured out!" I say, "It'll be so good for your spirits, to get out of the house, to see someone other than my boring ol' mug!" Then, the day begins, and I am again reminded how much of an effort everything is for Bob, I see how very tired he gets, quickly, how he falls asleep sitting up on the sofa in front of a rerun of American Pickers playing softly from the tv. . . I see how much energy it takes simply to get from sofa to bathroom and back again. I see his appetite waxing and waning . . . he tells me he fell on the deck as he shuffled his way from the house to the Jeep when we were leaving for a house showing. I didn't even see it happen; I had run back into the house, for just a minute or two, when he fell. Thankfully, he didn't hurt himself, but said he felt like a helpless, struggling to get back on his feet . . . this getting out and embracing "The Wide Wonderful World!" isn't as easy as my little fantasies want it to be. . .

House is still for sale; we're averaging at least one showing a week or so—had three over the weekend. The upside to having the house for sale is that it forces me to keep it clean. The downside to having the house for sale is that it forces me to keep it clean. . . that whole thing—selling the house—comes with a whole bag of mixed feelings and issues, as well . . . to me, it's just a thing. It's not a life, a living being, but it has been Bob's haven, his escape, his "Wrenwood," for six years . . . it's too much house and property for me to maintain alone, and despite the generous offers and efforts of our beautiful neighbors, I can't expect that to go on indefinitely, nor do I want it to. Our reality is that we can't afford the joint any longer, and I want to get out while the gettin's good, to simplify our lives, to bring us close to doctors, caregivers, hospitals . . .

I've told our realtor's office that we need at least a 24 hour notice before showings, but I don't want to miss an opportunity, so there have been times that we've had to scramble, to skedaddle with just a few hours' notice . . . so far, the only outings Bob's had since discharge are when we need to high-tail it out of the joint for a showing. I just bought a portable wheelchair on e-bay, which should arrive within the week. With that, it'll be much easier to go beyond the confines of the Jeep, to the grocery or Target shopping with Bob. . . every day, every week, presents a new challenge that forces us to work around, figure out. . .

My mom and baby sis, Gretch, surprised us with bringing brunch to us Sunday. What an awesome meal, and wonderful guests to accompany it—baby quiches from Trader Jose's, fresh fruit, a lovely spinach salad . . . (Subtext: come one, come all, to visit! With tasty, nourishing grub! ;) In the midst of cleaning up after the deelish meal, my mom opened a little drawer in the kitchen and let out a little gasp, her face frozen in horror. She turned to me, carefully choosing her words: "You might not want to open that drawer, Jen. . ." Of course I did, and defying her warning, I yanked the drawer open and found myself staring at scatterings of mouse shit, co-mingling with my rolling pin, mixer-beaters, cookie cutters . . . I could feel my stomach lurching upward toward my throat . . .

"I hate to tell you this, but the drawer over there also has some in it . . . " Mom said, pointing to the little drawer on the other side of the sink. "I was just putting things away, and when I opened the drawers, I saw it . . ."

Probably didn't help that Bob and I had watched a show called "Infested," on A&E or History channel or wherever—just the night before, an entire series devoted to horrific infestations: cockroaches, ants, spiders. Just adds to my Worstcasescenario Syndrome . . . as soon as Mom and Gretch left, I went t' town, pulling out every drawer, opening every cupboard in the kitchen and scrubbed them down, which lead to ripping out all the old Contact paper in each and every drawer and cabinet and replacing it with new (I had a few rolls on hand for this project, which should have been done when we had first put the house up for sale last year), which lead to grabbing a paint can to "touch up" a "few spots" on the cabinets, which lead to painting the entire interiors of all the cabinets (something I'd neglected to do over 4 years ago when I had painted the exteriors), which lead to organizing the spice rack in alphabetical order no less, which lead to purging anything and everything we haven't used in over a year, which lead to filling three bags of grub (GOOD grub, peeps! NOT mouse-fecal-infected or outdated grub!!!) which were donated to our local food shelf . . . if one didn't know me better, one would have thought this might be a meth-cocaine-alcohol-fueled frenzy . . . nope. Just an insane aversion to rodent-fecal-matter-induced-disease . . . and maybe a few other personal crises, to boot . . .

It was nearly 2 a.m. before I finally collapsed into bed, only to crawl back out again the next morning to finish the job. I was obsessed. Possessed. Whatever. I had seen evidence of mice under the sink this winter, had set traps and even caught a few, which I thought had solved the problem—I hope the rodent shit in the drawers is simply remnants of the recently deceased—the drawers in which the mouse poo was found are two drawers that are rarely used, except to stash quirky gadgets. They're very narrow and not practical for much else, so I'm hope, hope, hoping the problem is solved. I set a few more traps, for good measure. . . if I weren't already insane, this episode would definitely be the one to push me over the edge . . .

On a related note (insanity, that is), we've had several "nuisance" snowfalls lately—ones that don't warrant firing up the snowblower or calling in the plows, but enough that I do have to go out and shovel the walks and driveway, and clear the decks, for everyone's safety as well as for the aesthetics of the joint. Can't have the place looking abandoned if we're trying to sell it, fer cripes sakes, so it seems almost daily, I'm out shoveling the drive, the sidewalks, the deck . . .

Have had a steady stream of nurses, therapists, etc. visiting Bob—a regular nurse who pops in once a week, just to see how things are going; a lymphedema therapist, who started working on getting the swelling down in his right leg (due to the clot, as well as damage to lymph nodes from the surgery). BTW, this woman is working wonders! I spotted Bob's right kneecap last night—first time since November! And the beauty of it is that it involves no drugs; just a somewhat labor-intensive system of wrapping his legs with various ace-type bandages, to employ pressure which pushes the lymphatic fluid back up into the body, to be recycled through the circulatory system, then through the kidneys and out the bod. Already, his right leg has considerably decreased in size. A wound nurse also make semi-regular visits, as well as a social worker, and clergy, if we wish. All part of the full meal deal. . .

But after a couple weeks of all this, I finally had enough today, and cried, "UNCLE!!!" Truly, we considered installing a revolving door on the house to accommodate all the comings and goings of health care professionals who are part of the package deal of Fairview's TLC program (a "bridge" between home health care and hospice). Today, after talking to a social worker who had come for her first visit us and after patiently hearing our experiences of the past few weeks, suggested that perhaps all-out hospice care is the way to go. That way, we have control of who comes to visit and when, based on our needs, not what insurance/home-care dictates. . . hospice is a loaded word, with loaded connotations best left for another time, after we know more and that alone may be the reason we've skirted the issue (and please, don't respond with the stories of how "my uncle was on hospice, but after six months went off, because his cancer went into remission!" or whatever because we know all that, we've heard all that, we're more than aware. If YOU personally have had to come to grips with a "hospice" edict on your life, then come talk to me. Until then: "Pie hole. Shut it. Please.") In spite of all the emotional shit that comes with the deal, it sounds like it will give us more of the peace and quiet we're so yearning for at this time, so we'll see . .

I know this is all rather disjointed and probably hard to follow, but it's the best I can come up with right now. Love to all . . .

xxoo j