Happy Easter from Wrenwood . . .

Happy Easter, from the Andrzejek/Hildebrandt clan! What a gorgeous, sunny day for a holiday gathering—we have connections, see, and were able have this sun-shiny April day special-delivered—huge shout-out to Sam and his peeps! xxoo . . .

A beautiful/tough day it was, Sunday . . . beautiful in that we were tightly enveloped in the huge snuggly blanket of love from our immediate families, almost all of whom were in attendance (all except our two oldest nieces, whom we missed immensely, but were with us in spirit, I know. . .), as seen by the awesome pic here . . . and of course, in spirit from the rest of you, too . . . back atcha . . .

Bob has dropped another few "rungs" on the hospice ladder. . . over the past several days, I can't say how long for sure, the past few weeks are smeared into an endless blur, can't keep them straight any more, as if I've ever been able to . . . he's been steeped in deep, almost unresponsive sleep, punctuated by short bouts of waking—sometimes alert and lucid, but more often, confused and somewhat agitated, hallucinating at times . . . he hasn't eaten anything substantial in several days, maybe over a week—again, can't say for sure, though he did manage to muster up enough "appetite" to have a piece of his mom's Mexican lasagna the night Nancy and Co. came to town (last Thursday, I think it was. Must be Mom's home cookin' that did it . . . ) but that's been about it, for days on end . . .

All my secret begging and bartering, pleading and crying hasn't worked, not that I really expected it to, I know now that's not how life works . . . in my head, I know it, but the heart is nothing if not hopeful, desperate some may say . . . I'm pretty sure most everyone in a similar situation resorts to such tactics along the way, falls upon any number of things, really, to try and hold tight to what fragile threads remain . . . I barely leave Bob's side, haven't left the house in days, not even to walk the dogs, barely to shower . . . I don't want him to be alone, if anything should happen. . . Hospice doc and nurse say it could be a few days, maybe a few weeks, hard to pinpoint for sure. . . hence the reason for not replenishing the Etsy site, among other things . . .

I almost called off Easter (well okay, not the official holiday itself, omnipotent though I may be—in my head—just our own plans), as the night before, Saturday night, was especially alarming . . . I don't have the energy or ability to explain, believe that it just was—enough so, that I called the hospice on-call nurse Sunday a.m., crying for guidance, what if something happens when everyone is here—what if something happens before then?! Tell me, what's the "hospice protocol" again? Who do I call first?. . .

Collette (the week-end on-call nurse and I are on a first-name basis now, though we've never met, as I've called numerous times in the past months, usually at 2, 3 in the a.m., and she often seems to be the one on-call at those times) gently assured me that everyone reacts differently, that I'm doing a great job, to follow my heart. Some would rather not have a lot of people and commotion around, she tells me, others are okay with it . . . I want—no make that need—family around, and despite his acute lethargy, I truly felt Bob did, too and decided the best thing would be to keep the plans, let everyone know what's going on, so no one is taken off guard . . .

I was able to get Bob back to the bedroom on Sunday morning, tucked into our bed with the heated blanket on low, so nice and cozy . . . he had a quiet space to rest and we would let family members, one or two at a time, come in and visit with him for short periods . . . "business as usual. . ."

It ended up being a painfully beautiful day, in a million and one ways . . . beautiful in that both our families were able to be with us, beautiful weather, beautiful brunch with everyone contributing to the bountiful goodness, beautiful waves of love washing over the entire day, beautiful artwork from Claire, Grace, Amelia, adorning the fridge, beautiful sounds of kids (some of the adult variety . . .) laughing, shouting, running through the house, outside in the yard, out on the deck, beautiful various conversations entwining and drifting through the house, as though this holiday were no different from any other. . . .

Bob was pretty much out of it most of the day, sleeping a lot in the bedroom. He was visited by whomever wished to pop in and say "hi," to sit by his bedside for a few minutes; he sometimes woke up enough to say "hi" back and even chatted a bit . . . Occasionally, he'd wake up and asked to go out to the living room, so we'd help him slowly make his way out to the recliner to sit for a while, but spent more time in bed. Rocco was a complete and utter surprise. I thought for sure he'd be in the midst of the chaos—chasing kids, barking, stealing chocolate bunnies from baskets, loving every minute of it. But, either he was totally freaked out by the sheer number of people who had invaded the joint, or he could sense something was up with Bob . . . though Bob calls Rocco "my" dog, says his name should have been Elmer, the way he sticks like glue to my side, on Sunday, Rocco was Bob's dog, spent nearly the whole day in the bedroom with him, followed him to the bathroom, outside, back inside, rarely leaving Bob for any length of time all day. You can barely see him right next to Bob, in the family picture above . . .

At one point, I asked Bob if he'd like to go out to the deck and sit in the sunshine for a while because it was so nice outside. At first, he resisted (I think he thought it would be too much effort on his part, being so groggy and weak), then Nancy suggested bringing his wheelchair right into the bedroom so we could help Bob into it, and then carry him, chair and all, out to the deck, since we had so many willing and able bodies to help. A little aside: we have this groovy 70's rambler, with a sunken living room and sunken bedroom—absolutely, utterly un-handicap accessible, though Bob, amazingly, has thus far been able to maneuver the few steps, with a very clever "system" he worked out, months ago, using his walker and the railing as supports. Kind of unnerving to watch, to the untrained observer, though these days, I'm always at his side when he does this . . .

Shortly after Nancy's suggestion, Bob's wheelchair appeared in the bedroom, along with 4-5 strapping young lads, his dad included . . . Bob climbed into the chair and was hoisted up the three steps, wheeled down the hall, lowered down another three steps, then rolled out onto the deck. Immediately, he turned his face up toward the shining sun and closed his eyes . . . he was able to get outside a few times throughout the day in that manner, and each time, though he didn't talk much, he simply drank up the sun, the breeze, the voices, the sights and smells, chirps of birds singing around us. . .

Jim wheeled Bob up to the end of the driveway and they went for a little walk down the road a bit, then back. I fought the urge to join them, and just watched them from my perch on the front steps. I could tell they were talking as they rolled. . . they stopped to watch the ?th Annual Raw Egg Toss playing out in the road in front of our house (little FYI: Bob and I held the most recent Reigning Champs title, having won not one but BOTH rounds last time the Toss was held, back in '09 {'10 didn't happen as Easter was around the time Bob had his first chemo-induced heart attack} Our record hasn't been beat; needless to say, but I will: Kurt and Katie won this year, only because the competition was pretty lame) . . . we pointed out to Bob the colorful evidence of the Annual Silly String wars sprayed all over the lawn, bushes, sidewalk, driveway (another explanation is in order: Bob and I have hosted Easter as long as we've been home-owners—15 years or so, maybe?—and started these goofy traditions back when we lived in Roseville, much to the annoyance of our neighbors and city clean-up crews, I'm sure . . .) before wheeling him back to the deck again. . .

Eventually, Bob needed to go back inside to lie down, but was still receptive to whomever wished to pop in and say "hi . . ." sometimes, he'd actually sit up at the edge of the bed, to talk a bit, stretch, change positions. It was during one of these times, I went in and sat by him, to see how things were going. He turned to me, put one arm around my shoulders and held my face in his hand and gently kissed me, over and over. "You're so beautiful," he kept saying. "I love you . . . thank you . . ." I can't even begin say how much this means to me, for a million and one reasons, some obvious, some not as much . . . I held him as tightly as I could, sitting side-by-side at the edge of the bed, the walker between us for support . . . later that night, I told him it was my absolute favorite part of the day, and in true Bob fashion, he asked, "That was? Why?" Sentimentality has never been one of his strong points . . .

Shortly after, the families departed, one by one till just Nancy and Co., and Jim and Penny were left . . . funny how quiet it is, when my family leaves . . . Bob slept for a good hour, maybe more and eventually woke up and wanted to come out to the living room to sit. When he joined us, it was as if our "Old Bob" was back . . . for a good hour and a half maybe, he was alert, conversational, joking and laughing with us, everything that he said made sense, chatting away like old times. . . eventually, Nancy, Brian and the girls had to leave to catch their flight back to Billings, and Penny and Jim left at the same time. "Old Bob" stayed with me for a while longer, and we talked about everything and nothing, until it was time to take his nightly meds. Lately, he's been so resistant to taking them, insisting he had already and I have to gently but firmly convince him that he hadn't and then give each pill to him, one by one. Sunday night, however, he sat up at the edge of the recliner, counted out his pills, tossed back a shot of each of his liquid meds and gave himself his Lovenox shot. Then, "Old Bob" left me. Almost immediately, he mentally and physically dropped back into the lethargy and confusion that's taken over his mind and body.

Now, for the past few days, it's been quiet, oh-so-quiet. Bob is sleeping all day and most of the night, very weak, not especially responsive . . . though, funny thing is, he still likes getting his shower in and I just wait till he says the word, till he's ready and able to get up and make his way to the bathroom . . . the hardest part is the confusion, and the agitation and anger that comes with the confusion . . . I keep replaying those moments on the edge of the bed, over and over in my mind, trying to burn them forever. . . reminding myself that that was my Bob, if only for a few short moments . . . this confused, angry Bob is a disease taking over . . .

I'm so sorry that this is so long and dragged out . . . if I don't write these things down, I forget everything, under the immense weight of it all, it all fades from me . . . much is probably disjointed and likely doesn't make much sense to most of you, but it helps me to remember other things that I don't write about, sometimes intentionally, sometimes just because it gets to be too much . . . and this past Sunday is one day I simply do not want to forget . . .