Last week ended just like I knew it would. Tough.
He became sicker and sicker as the week came to a close. On Wednesday the bloated feeling started, soon turning to complete outright, yuck.
Friday morning my sister is the first to get to the hospital. She lives close by, and it's her routine.
She stops by to bring food, gatorade, pickles, and whatever else he's mentioned during the day before.
On Friday, it wasn't good. He was flat out sick. Dry heaving into his bucket. His last chemo round on Thursday would inevitably stretch his body to the limit, and the sight to see was what we knew.
Sick.
I scurried around my house as I do when things get yucky. It's kind of like when they are sick and little, and you start organizing everything and kind of walking in circles. If you don't or never did, pardon me.
I do.
I arrived at 7:30am, and the look he gave me was just what any mama doesn't want to see.
Bloated face, white and bucket in his hands. "Mom, this is horrible"-
I know honey, I know. This went on every ten minutes for hours.
He did prescribe something to help him "relax"-
As I helped him shower, he held on to the bar letting the water run down his face. Telling me "so crazy we are going through this Mom"-
I handed him wash cloth after wash cloth. Loaded with soap. Stuffed into that little bathroom with the door closed--- Getting towels ready to help dry him off to step out into his room we set at 80. I was a frothy sweaty mess. Nothing like that matters though.
Once I got him back in bed. With his bucket, the nurse gave him the pill, and I pleaded to try hard to let it dissolve and get into his system. I sat there in that chair next to his bed without moving a single muscle. Mama's and Papa's out there know the feeling when they were babies, and would finally fall asleep you'd rather chew your arm off than wake them....
The show on the tv set at Dr. Oz (whom bugs me...sorry, not sorry, it's his voice I think..?...)
He slept for another hour before sitting up in a daze. I'd ask him if he had to pee, or offering some gatorade.
He couldn't speak. He just stared at me and laid back down. This went on until Saturday morning. When Jen arrived at the hospital switching spots, she said the same thing. He was out.of.it.
Saturday morning he seemed better in spirit, but a body still wiped out.
By Saturday evening, he wanted to go home. But his parents were scared. Jen is quite the nurse, but as a mama, you just worry. I know, roll your eyes people that think I am over worry-ish. Get over it.
This shit is scary. He couldn't even keep his eyes open. Let alone walk.
Saturday late afternoon, he'd get the release paperwork. Too weak to walk out of the hospital, and so our favorite little nurse Vanessa wheeled him out. He loved the warm fresh air as he got into Jen's car. All the meds. His favorite blankie. And home bound he went.
I always turn to Bill when scared. I stood looking at their car drive off, thinking......why. WHY?!
I still can't stand to see him so sick. It makes my body break down too. Only in a different way.
The feeling of helplessness, when all the years I've been able to help him.
Sunday our group texts' back and forth were "did ya eat anything yet"- Sipping on your gatorade...- Make sure to take your two shots in your belly at 11am, to keep with hospital schedule- and so on, and so on...you get it.
Monday morning, we text again at sunrise. As we always do. His note to me that his appointment for blood draw at 12:30, and spinal chemo after, two different locations. I made his cozy bed in my car, drove to work, back to him. A long day at a place we've become to know all too well. Faces are familiar, people are kind. Things get wiped down. Talks get deep. Hugs get a little more meaningful. Smiles are deep. Love is deep.
We'll watch his counts drop within the next couple of days. Precautionary things we do sometimes help. Sometimes they don't. I've made a plan with the doctor that if by Friday his counts are super low, and a fever becomes present, we'll just email a pass for admission, rather than a re-admit through ER, which just grosses me out. We'd rather just head back up to the 4th Floor. Wait on X-Rays, blood work, hydration. Meds. Doctors. I panic in ER. He mostly the same. The familiar first night of this bad dream.
Last night it was all I could do to stop at the store to buy coffee I was out of. Home to wash dishes I left in my sink, and I CANT STAND A DIRTY SINK. My hair so dirty and piled so high like a rats nest on the top of my head. I jumped in the hottest shower, washing my hair, putting on my favorite black holey sweats, and crawling into my precious bed. Glancing at the 20 plus text messages from friends and family. The only ones I could return was to my babies.
He sent me one silly text right before bed. And my soul was at ease.
He also told me how he reads through instagram of various people fighting through cancers, and chemo. How it makes him cry to see the faces of many on their last round. He knows this fight.
He will get through this. It's a mess. Some days are brighter and more hopeful than others.
Today, his migraine is squeezing itself back into his head. We go back on Friday morning. More chemo. More blood work.
Pray for my baby. My fuzzy head little but tall bird. He's gonna win this.
HE. Is gonna win this!
For those I wasn't able to reach back out to last night. I'm sorry.
Some days the simplest tasks seem easy.
While others it's a fete to call, or text someone back.
One. Day. At. A. Time.
Love to you all,
This Warrior Mama Lisa
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