December 29, 2024
We saw numerous doctors and consultants and heads of departments. David was poked and prodded and drained and filled with fluids. We survived may sleepless nights and days. Three Emory oncologists reviewed his entire record including digging into the initial and subsequent genetic testing. David’s liver is failing with “enumerable tumors”. I grabbed his hand. “With the progression, there is nothing more that can be done.” I asked how long. “Weeks but hard to know”. When they said the words I lost my footing. The NP that was with them and one of the oncologists held on to me and to David’s shoulder. When they left, I vomited so violently I could not control my bladder. My nose began to bleed. He looked numb. I sobbed and we held on to each other and as weak as he is, he held me tight. I asked if we had done the right things. If we had done what we should have. They said we did all the things as they would have instructed. Still, second guessing tries to creep in. Even with this recent bout of illness, Emory did the exact same things our primary Dr. W did here in town. The exact same way. We had hoped someone would have different experience and be able to make him feel more like himself before going into this phase. After the scan in November, we knew the liver would start to struggle. The g-force acceleration at which this happened is head spinning.
I brought him home last night where he wants to be. Hospice started today.
He is the bravest fighter I have ever known. He will continue to fight until his last breath but seems ready to be at peace also. He slept good last night in our bed. He got himself up and down to the bathroom all during the night. I didn’t try to do too much to help unless he clearly needed it.
I know people are out there praying and thinking of us all. We just don’t seem to have the favor we wished we had. We don’t have the time we wished we had. We realize that we do have time many others don’t have and are grateful for that as much as we can be right now.
He has been my person since we were 14 years old. We are supposed to turn 50 together in the next couple of months. We wanted to take a big trip out west just stopping where we wanted to stop seeing animals at Yellowstone and landscapes across the Great Plains moving down to canyons so grand. I cannot think now about what it will look like after. Of all the little things and the big, huge monumental things that are starting to creep into my mind that I will no longer experience or do or see or feel. I will take this next part moment by moment. But, already, nothing matters to me anymore. Life already feels empty, and it is dimming with every stumble. With every glazed-over look. With every struggle to answer or respond. With every sigh of pain. With every grimace and every non-verbal cue that he is agitated with how he feels. With every struggle to walk on legs and feet so horribly swollen with pitted edema that even the great Emory doctors couldn’t help. With the distended abdomen so full of fluid even after a paracentesis that he cannot lay comfortably and constantly keeps me at a distance from getting any of those great big bear hugs that says nothing in the world can hurt me as long as he is here.
He is the best dad to the best daughter struggling with her ability to no longer mask her emotions as she always has because of the enormity of this horrible, unfair, unexplainable, unacceptable thing. He is a good son. He is a good everything. He is sweet and kind and funny and oh so damn intelligent. He is my best friend. On some level, we share the same soul.
I continue to struggle with being consumed with anger and bitterness but there will be time to deal with that later. He wants the Christmas Tree left up. He wants to be in his bed and not a hospital bed right now at home. He doesn’t want a lot of hospice help right now. So, right now, is for him and only him. For as long as that is. For as long as I can manage. He is worth every ounce of excruciating pain I am selfishly feeling when he is the one who has hurt with this for so long, for us. To sacrifice his body for a chance to have more time for us. He has given me every ounce of happiness and belongingness and unconditional love. I am the one that will need to remember his meds now and how much pain medication I can give him and to do it when he cannot ask and remember when I gave it last. I am the one to help him up and down and make sure he eats and drinks until he cannot eat or drink.
It should be me. He is stronger. He would know what to do right now. He would know how to do the things I needed. He would know the right things to say. He would know how to carry on.