And it Begins

Mood:  scared, sad



On Friday Jeff finished his first week of chemotherapy. We got to the hospital at 5am on Wednesday for his port insertion surgery. We left the hospital at 4pm after his 4.5 hours of chemo. 11 hours at the hospital, no matter how pleasant the staff (they are incredible) or how great it is to have your own room with a bed for the chemo (seriously that is sooooooo nice), sucks. 11 hours at the hospital sucks.

Thursday and Friday were, time wise, much easier. Only about 2.5 hours per day at the hospital and Jeff was able to sleep through the majority of his treatments.

We saw his oncologist on Friday and he gave us some good news; if Jeff hadn't gotten physically ill from the chemo yet, he probably would be spared the violent vomiting.

We got pretty excited as Jeff hates vomiting and historically I have a tendency to be a sympathetic puker. If I don't  get sick I spend a few hours feeling nauseous at the very least.

We knew going into the weekend that these days would be when Jeff would most likely be at his most fatigued. And that's been very true. My husband can barely take a 5 minute shower without passing out from exhaustion. He cannot hold the comics he bought in anticipation of a ton of bed rest for more than 3 minutes and can't focus on the words or pictures for that long. He can't sit up. It is so painful to watch as he lies lifeless on the couch, this man who usually has a problem sitting still. It is painful to watch tears fall down his face when he can't hold a toy to play with his son. And it is most painful to be 100% helpless to make him any better. All I can do is watch and take care of him the best I am able.

Today, I managed to sleep in after a sleepless night. I got up, checked on Jeff and drank some coffee. He got in the shower and I thought about going for a walk with Zooey. I decided it would be best to wait and make sure he had everything he might need before I left the house, so I chose to go after he was out of the shower.

He got out and could not walk. He fell to the couch and asked for one of his anti-nausea pills, but it was too late.

As he ran to the bathroom I lost hope once again. I rubbed his back as he got sick and grabbed his special mouthwash, a pill and his Sprite. I massaged his shoulders while he could barely manage to hold his head up as he was sick. And my soul was ripped apart.

That's the thing about cancer. It takes away all happiness and hope at the very sneakiest of times. I knew that we had a long road ahead of us. And I knew that things would likely get worse than they had been this week. But I had faith that Jeff might escape with some shred of dignity. And that I might escape with hope.

Cancer strips the humanity of those who deal directly with the disease. Jeff is reduced to a person that I no longer know. His sense of humor and laugh, his energetic demeanor....they are hidden within, forced to take a backseat to this illness. My outgoing personality has retreated, and now I live in fear. Fear that this disease could win. Fear that Malcolm will have to watch this happen to his daddy and fear that I can do NOTHING to help. I have zero control and power and I am afraid.

I have become, in sorts, a robot. Waking each morning at 1am to check on Jeff and getting up later to take care of Jeff, the dogs and Malcolm. Then we go to chemo and I sit and watch as medicine pours into Jeff, draining him of all the life I am used to.

I know we are far from alone in this, and I am very aware that we are lucky. We have an excellent prognosis and only 3 months of this to deal with. I get that. I think that prior to treatment I told myself how lucky we were and I expected that to help with all of the negative side effects. The fact is, this sucks. While we are lucky, it does not change the fact that Jeff is sick. Very sick. And I cannot help. We are wading out way through this hell and hopefully, we will see a light at the end that helps keep us going.

To those who are offering support, financial, religious, spiritual, physical....whatever....we thank you. From the very bottom of our hearts and souls there is nothing we could do to ever repay the kindness and gratitude we have been shown. The John Stoddard Cancer center is amazing and our families have been a constant source of support in every sense of the word.

As we face the next few months, unsure of what will happen financially or physically, we know we have each other. And that we have an amazing group of family and friends that have reached out to let us know just how loved and cared for we are. Thank you. It seems like hardly enough to say, but it is all we have for now.

I'm watching Jeff sleep now. The dogs are curled on him as if their presence might protect him for future pain and sickness. Zooey sits in my lap, my constant companion. I sit here, praying for hope and some sense of peace, even if it is fleeting. I pray for an answer to our financial situation. And I pray, most of all, for the health of my husband. That he not suffer and that he returns to himself as quickly as possible. 

And to my husband, who I am sure will read this when he wakes....Do not feel guilty or badly because you are not able to function as you once could. Do not feel uneasy that you need help and to be taken care of now. We all love you. And we all support you in this fight. And if I could, I would fight this for you. But as I cannot...I will sit by your side and bring you water and pills and rub your back when you are sick. And I will watch you sleep with a smile on my face knowing that one day, we will look back on this and remember just how fortunate we are to have our lives and our health for many, many years to come.