A week later post transplant, and he feels worse today than the others. When you talk to people who've gone through this process and or nurses here...."He will get much sicker than better". And that is no joke kids.
And so this morning after my tossing and turning night I woke at 5. Started my coffee and checked the schedule of the full moon. Guess what kids? It's this weekend.
When you have major responsibilities at your work place, and your son is fighting for life, you are more torn than you've ever been your entire life. I stood staring at myself in the bathroom mirror. Work? Hospital? I began to cry...to which I can thank "Shark Week" for making its debut this weekend as well. I am drinking every natural supplement short of vodka to avoid a dynamite Lisa. I am fighting it. I packed my bag. Told Kris I would work a little and then head to him. To start thinking of foods. To which he responded everything sounds good, he just can't swallow.
I went to work. Answering questions. Sorting my world there. Prioritizing what's super urgent and what can wait until maybe tomorrow. Paid bills so employees have jobs and answered emails and voicemails for the same category. Sales. Even though my mind is just as scrambled as the first days of diagnosis. I try and fight it. I have the most amazing girlfriends that want to scoop me up for dinner and a glass of wine, and I can't. I won't. Three places until my boy has stems that are beginning to grow. Here. Work. Home.
I feel safest with Bill and Kali because I don't have to talk. I don't have to discuss counts. Next steps. Fevers. I can cry. I can be a bitch. Jk, but you get my drill.
These days are hard. Just like today when I walked in and even though he's glued to his phone and laptop he stops to share with me how the pain and itching feels like he can't go on. He begins to cry. I begin to cry. And soon Kali brings up something about Bucksie.
I clean his little side table, reorganizing each tube for itch. Each mouthwash gets wiped. Tissues thrown away. Dirty clothes put in my to-go bag. Soon sitting in my famous little chair here by the window (in which he lets us open today).
He looks swollen, red, and red bumps cover his cheeks. The thing about not having counts, is any little follicle becomes infected. Inside and out.
So...my soul is tainted. My body is tired. Not physical, but mental.
These critical days are no joke. A spirit gets broken down harder and more intense than I've ever imagined. Cancer is a fucker. It tackles a family amd wrestles them to the ground. It's made my son be so incredibly rude to helpers. To people he loves.
It warms my heart that he has his social media to keep his spirit going. Those pictures he's taken this past fall out on the ocean. The days where he layered up and jumped back out on the ocean.
The many pictures he's captured of his girlfriend and their dogs. Their smiles.
The parks. The life out there.
We are holding together as strong as we can. We are trying to work together with schedules.
Everyone is pulled tight yet we know why we are exhausted and do what we have to.
When you are a mother, your heart will never be anywhere else, than in theirs.
Send good vibes my way as I embark through shark week and full moon mania.
Pray for yourselves as you cross paths with assholes.
Pray for my boy.
These. Are. The. Darkest days...
Counts:
WBC- 0.1
Hgb 7.9
Platelets 10
Cr. .49
Love and peace,
This Warrior Mama Lisa
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