Hello to all of you that have sent all of the amazing notes and to the ones that left me a Tweet or note here every day, I owe you big-time.
You have no idea how these notes got me thru these last months. I got where I actually looked forward to them. They were a tiny bright spot in an otherwise very dark time.
A thin thread to a different place.
When I was approached to write a book during my husbands treatments, I told the publisher that I wouldn't write about his passing but instead go back. All the way back to my life as a child.
It was a compromise.
I totally dropped the ball on my writings the last 4 - 5 months. My hands were full with caring for the love of my life. Who can write when their heart is being crushed. I stopped everything and devoted every second to my husband.
He is gone.
I cry just thinking of him.
I miss him so much it hurts like a physical pain.
I seem to hang at the cemetery.
I rake and clean and preen and decorate his gravesite.
Somehow it gives me comfort. I had to stop telling family and friends that I go there 3 times a day. Now they look at me funny as if I am loco.
Maybe I am.
It's like going to his place. It's all I have.
Someday soon I will write about it all. The
last months, the beautiful love we had, and his passing.
Right now, I am so raw inside it would come out as rambling jibberish.
Writing clears my thoughts. It's all I have.
Henry died the way he lived... His way.
If someone can die beautifully, he did.
I held him in my arms. He was all I have...
Showing posts with label blog about cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blog about cancer. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Take This Cancer and Shove It!
Thursday
*sigh*
Not much happening here in this
cancer-rabbit-hole we fell into.
I like it like that.
My husband still can't sip water... Very well anyway.
Food? Forget about it. Can you imagine not eating even ONE bite of food for FOUR whole months? I can't.
(Food is my Friend)
He says water goes down but he's not sure if it stays there or if it's simply spit. So... I gave him a small amount of orange Gatorade to drink.
It went down and mostly 50% stayed down. Being orange-colored helped to sort out what it was he was spitting out.
He says he still feels something back there gagging him if/when he does swallow. Hmmm.
Is it a tumor?
Is it dead cancer?
Is it scar tissue?
Who knows, but he refuses to go see the Ear Nose and Throat doctor and I can see his point... to a point. All of my nudging and nagging get me no where.
(I've even threatened to use the Company Credit Card and go on an extravagant Shopping Spree again... Still nope.)
He says "Why test what you won't treat."
He just simply does not LOOK like a man with cancer any longer.
The dull grey coloring is gone. He has those pretty flushed cheeks and ruddy complexion back that made me fall in love with him.
He is no longer losing weight. I feed him every 3 hours 6 times a day. 6 cans of Isosourse canned liquid a day via his feeding tube.
He no longer coughs up blood.
He no longer has that raspy "hot potato" voice.
He is no longer so fatigued he can't move one step in front of another.
He has even been going to the office 2-3 hours a day.
You tell me.
Does that all sound like a sick and dying man?
No symptoms~~ no cancer, right?
So, we wait.
The PET Scan is scheduled for the end of November. That will tell the true story.
The truth, The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
It's still too early to do the PET Scan now as the radiation is still inside his body and he would light up like a nuclear reactor.
So... As I said, we wait.
Waiting has never been my strongpoint but we are learning to cope.
Life goes on and time waits for no man... or woman.
(Where did I put that Credit Card anyway?)
PS. I noted that Steve Jobs passed away.
RIP Steve Jobs.
He had the same rare Neuroendocrine cancer my husband has....
I feel a Scarlett O'Hara moment coming on again......
*sigh*
Not much happening here in this
cancer-rabbit-hole we fell into.
I like it like that.
My husband still can't sip water... Very well anyway.
Food? Forget about it. Can you imagine not eating even ONE bite of food for FOUR whole months? I can't.
(Food is my Friend)
He says water goes down but he's not sure if it stays there or if it's simply spit. So... I gave him a small amount of orange Gatorade to drink.
It went down and mostly 50% stayed down. Being orange-colored helped to sort out what it was he was spitting out.
He says he still feels something back there gagging him if/when he does swallow. Hmmm.
Is it a tumor?
Is it dead cancer?
Is it scar tissue?
Who knows, but he refuses to go see the Ear Nose and Throat doctor and I can see his point... to a point. All of my nudging and nagging get me no where.
(I've even threatened to use the Company Credit Card and go on an extravagant Shopping Spree again... Still nope.)
He says "Why test what you won't treat."
He just simply does not LOOK like a man with cancer any longer.
The dull grey coloring is gone. He has those pretty flushed cheeks and ruddy complexion back that made me fall in love with him.
He is no longer losing weight. I feed him every 3 hours 6 times a day. 6 cans of Isosourse canned liquid a day via his feeding tube.
He no longer coughs up blood.
He no longer has that raspy "hot potato" voice.
He is no longer so fatigued he can't move one step in front of another.
He has even been going to the office 2-3 hours a day.
You tell me.
Does that all sound like a sick and dying man?
No symptoms~~ no cancer, right?
So, we wait.
The PET Scan is scheduled for the end of November. That will tell the true story.
The truth, The whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
It's still too early to do the PET Scan now as the radiation is still inside his body and he would light up like a nuclear reactor.
So... As I said, we wait.
Waiting has never been my strongpoint but we are learning to cope.
Life goes on and time waits for no man... or woman.
(Where did I put that Credit Card anyway?)
PS. I noted that Steve Jobs passed away.
RIP Steve Jobs.
He had the same rare Neuroendocrine cancer my husband has....
I feel a Scarlett O'Hara moment coming on again......
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Today, I Am Scarlett O'Hara Again...
Today is the day.
We have been walking around this house these last few days as nervous as two long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs.
So scared.
So worried. Praying and asking God and the doctors to give good news.
All of you (my little heartbeats) have been so wonderful and diligent.
So kind and supportive. We are no longer strangers. How can we be?
You were here with us thru this fight.
Pushing. Reading my words.
Praying.
I love you.
We both do.
We arrive at the oncologists office 5 minutes ahead of time. As I exit the car and slam the door behind me, I tell my husband...
"When we return to this car, we will be two completely different people. Our lives are about to change directions. Remember that as we climb back in to go to go on our way."
His look says it all. Kind of a "Oh Crap" look.
We enter the building arm in arm much as we did as we walked down the aisle of our cathedral after saying "I Do" at our wedding.
Both of us have been waffling at what the results of the scan will be.
One second...
It's going to be All Clear.
The very next half second...
It's going to be devastating news.
We check in and sit in the waiting room.
Time clicks by.
My heart beat quickens each time a new patient is called in. We sit and memories of radiation and chemo slip thru my mind. OUT! Those days were so grim and cold. Today is for positive not memories of painful treatments.
We are finally called.
We pass the oncologist in the hall.
He hugs us both in a warm bear-hug.
Wait.
Is that a good sign or a bad sign?
We are put into a holding room to wait some more. We try to analyze everything.
"Did he hug us because he knows we need to go choose funeral attire or did he hug us because he is about to give us happy news?" My husband asks me.
"Good grief, stop that. He hugged us because he ...."
My mind goes off that cliff.
The door opens and the doctors smiling face enters.
We both move the very edge of our seats.
He begins to ask random, mundane health questions.
"Get to the point. The Bottom line! Enough with the chit chat." I want to get right in his face and yell.
We've been waiting 6 days for this.
Finally, his words.
I melt.
All looks Clear.
You are in Partial Remission.
Come back in a month for another CT Scan, a Flex Scope, and a PET Scan in 2 months and we will know more. We can then see if it has spread or if it is all dead. Most of the tumors are gone but some are there and I hope inactive."
Enough said!
We Gone.
In my mind, we are out the door and escaping this place like a 2nd grader when she hears the bell ring for recess. RUN! School's out!
Freedom! Escape.
Back to the safety of our car and away from this place!
Not so fast, lady.
What the heck is "Partial Remission?
Isn't that somewhat like saying you are Kind of Pregnant?
Just like Scarlett O'Hara would do, I pick up my handbag and practically skip out the door. Fiddle dee dee.
"We'll think about that tomorrow."
We have been walking around this house these last few days as nervous as two long-tailed cats in a room full of rocking chairs.
So scared.
So worried. Praying and asking God and the doctors to give good news.
All of you (my little heartbeats) have been so wonderful and diligent.
So kind and supportive. We are no longer strangers. How can we be?
You were here with us thru this fight.
Pushing. Reading my words.
Praying.
I love you.
We both do.
We arrive at the oncologists office 5 minutes ahead of time. As I exit the car and slam the door behind me, I tell my husband...
"When we return to this car, we will be two completely different people. Our lives are about to change directions. Remember that as we climb back in to go to go on our way."
His look says it all. Kind of a "Oh Crap" look.
We enter the building arm in arm much as we did as we walked down the aisle of our cathedral after saying "I Do" at our wedding.
Both of us have been waffling at what the results of the scan will be.
One second...
It's going to be All Clear.
The very next half second...
It's going to be devastating news.
We check in and sit in the waiting room.
Time clicks by.
My heart beat quickens each time a new patient is called in. We sit and memories of radiation and chemo slip thru my mind. OUT! Those days were so grim and cold. Today is for positive not memories of painful treatments.
We are finally called.
We pass the oncologist in the hall.
He hugs us both in a warm bear-hug.
Wait.
Is that a good sign or a bad sign?
We are put into a holding room to wait some more. We try to analyze everything.
"Did he hug us because he knows we need to go choose funeral attire or did he hug us because he is about to give us happy news?" My husband asks me.
"Good grief, stop that. He hugged us because he ...."
My mind goes off that cliff.
The door opens and the doctors smiling face enters.
We both move the very edge of our seats.
He begins to ask random, mundane health questions.
"Get to the point. The Bottom line! Enough with the chit chat." I want to get right in his face and yell.
We've been waiting 6 days for this.
Finally, his words.
I melt.
All looks Clear.
You are in Partial Remission.
Come back in a month for another CT Scan, a Flex Scope, and a PET Scan in 2 months and we will know more. We can then see if it has spread or if it is all dead. Most of the tumors are gone but some are there and I hope inactive."
Enough said!
We Gone.
In my mind, we are out the door and escaping this place like a 2nd grader when she hears the bell ring for recess. RUN! School's out!
Freedom! Escape.
Back to the safety of our car and away from this place!
Not so fast, lady.
What the heck is "Partial Remission?
Isn't that somewhat like saying you are Kind of Pregnant?
Just like Scarlett O'Hara would do, I pick up my handbag and practically skip out the door. Fiddle dee dee.
"We'll think about that tomorrow."
Monday, September 26, 2011
The Countdown
Monday Evening
Friday it began.
The countdown to Thursday.
To me, it's criminal to make a person wait 6 days to find out the results of the CT Scan taken on Friday.
This weekend was brutal. We did everything to keep our minds off it.
Gin Rummy.
A race to see who could complete the USA Today Crossword first. Watched old movies curled up together on the couch.
It didn't help at all. It's always there.
Haunting your mind.
Taking your breath away. One minute convinced the outcome will be perfect. Then in the next instant, dashed to depths of despair that it won't be.
Our appointment on Thursday is at 10:00 and I may not have any eyelashes left by then from stress and worry.
You see, this test will show if the cancer is gone or not. Did the treatments work? All of the pain and trauma? Will it be good news?
So, basically, we will get a
"You will live" or a "You will not live"
verdict.
Sometimes I can't even wrap my mind around that.
To look at dying so close and personal?
Someone asked me in the comments about Henry's anti-nausea medicine. Is the dose strong enough?
It's not that sadly.
It's when he tries to swallow. Tries to brush his teeth, sip water.
He says he gags.
The tiniest sip of water goes down then comes right back up.
(He hasn't drank water or eaten by mouth in over 3 months)
He says he feels something back there and it chokes him.
(I cringe just writing these words down)
My hope is that it's dead cancer stuck back there. Cancer that was killed by the radiation. Cancer just stuck there doing nothing but being dead.
Please be DEAD! Please don't show up on a CT Scan as alive!
The doctor's words are our future.
I wonder if I will whoop in glee or melt into a puddle of crying blubber on the floor of the office.
If this is this hard for ME... Imagine how it must feel to be Henry?
I can't even.
So... We wait.
We continue to play cards, do the crossword and watch movies with Thursday, 10:00 on our minds.....
Friday it began.
The countdown to Thursday.
To me, it's criminal to make a person wait 6 days to find out the results of the CT Scan taken on Friday.
This weekend was brutal. We did everything to keep our minds off it.
Gin Rummy.
A race to see who could complete the USA Today Crossword first. Watched old movies curled up together on the couch.
It didn't help at all. It's always there.
Haunting your mind.
Taking your breath away. One minute convinced the outcome will be perfect. Then in the next instant, dashed to depths of despair that it won't be.
Our appointment on Thursday is at 10:00 and I may not have any eyelashes left by then from stress and worry.
You see, this test will show if the cancer is gone or not. Did the treatments work? All of the pain and trauma? Will it be good news?
So, basically, we will get a
"You will live" or a "You will not live"
verdict.
Sometimes I can't even wrap my mind around that.
To look at dying so close and personal?
Someone asked me in the comments about Henry's anti-nausea medicine. Is the dose strong enough?
It's not that sadly.
It's when he tries to swallow. Tries to brush his teeth, sip water.
He says he gags.
The tiniest sip of water goes down then comes right back up.
(He hasn't drank water or eaten by mouth in over 3 months)
He says he feels something back there and it chokes him.
(I cringe just writing these words down)
My hope is that it's dead cancer stuck back there. Cancer that was killed by the radiation. Cancer just stuck there doing nothing but being dead.
Please be DEAD! Please don't show up on a CT Scan as alive!
The doctor's words are our future.
I wonder if I will whoop in glee or melt into a puddle of crying blubber on the floor of the office.
If this is this hard for ME... Imagine how it must feel to be Henry?
I can't even.
So... We wait.
We continue to play cards, do the crossword and watch movies with Thursday, 10:00 on our minds.....
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Nothing Left Today
Sunday
Today, I am writing this because I have a break. Two minutes.
I have had so many notes and letters and calls wondering "Why no blog post?"
"Is everything ok?"
No. Not really. It's not.
My husband is better one day and then bottoms out the next. Two trips to the ER. IV fluids every Thursday and blood work.
Vomiting.
Diarrhea one day
Constipation the next.
Did I say vomiting?
Anti-nausea meds and Murilax.
Which is it today? Vomiting.
Blood results call for blood transfusions.Hemoglobin is as low as it gets.
6-8 hours in the Emergency Room.
New blood. Thank You to whoever donated this blood. Who are you?
My Mother in law is dying.
My heart is breaking.
Will I ever stop crying?
I can't go next door to see her. I have nothing left. Zero.
I feel so guilty. My mother in law is like the mom I never had to me and I can't see her like this. I can't spare one second of heartache to give her?
I feel so numb and empty today. Hopeless.
My son just called. His girlfriend left him. He told me he wants to starve himself to death.
I just hung up on him. My heart is wrung out to the last drop.
Tomorrow will be better, right?
Today, I am writing this because I have a break. Two minutes.
I have had so many notes and letters and calls wondering "Why no blog post?"
"Is everything ok?"
No. Not really. It's not.
My husband is better one day and then bottoms out the next. Two trips to the ER. IV fluids every Thursday and blood work.
Vomiting.
Diarrhea one day
Constipation the next.
Did I say vomiting?
Anti-nausea meds and Murilax.
Which is it today? Vomiting.
Blood results call for blood transfusions.Hemoglobin is as low as it gets.
6-8 hours in the Emergency Room.
New blood. Thank You to whoever donated this blood. Who are you?
My Mother in law is dying.
My heart is breaking.
Will I ever stop crying?
I can't go next door to see her. I have nothing left. Zero.
I feel so guilty. My mother in law is like the mom I never had to me and I can't see her like this. I can't spare one second of heartache to give her?
I feel so numb and empty today. Hopeless.
My son just called. His girlfriend left him. He told me he wants to starve himself to death.
I just hung up on him. My heart is wrung out to the last drop.
Tomorrow will be better, right?
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
The Report....
Today is Tuesday.
Tuesday.
Remember that ugly, vile, horrid report?
The Pathology Report?
Tuesday
Horrible Tuesday.
11:00 a.m. My husband had his very first Radiation treatment today. Time is NO longer our friend. No time to go to MD Anderson, Huston, TX although we going to IU Medical on Tuesday next week for a 2nd opinion.
The drug of choice today for the anxiety was Valium. Much better. He did it. He wore that mask and the treatment was over 20 minutes. I was so proud of him! He came out of the room grinning even tho he had black marks all over his neck resembling a road map route of the back streets of Istanbul.
Every week day for the next 8 weeks we are to be there to blast and sear his throat but if it works, it'll be worth it, right? Radiation shrinks the tumors. Chemo kills them.
Chemo begins after the PET tube and Port Tubes are surgically installed.
They give him a special toothbrush and toothpaste. Nothing even close to him can have any form of alcohol in it. Also, a special cup and a recipe of baking soda and salt to be gargled every time he thinks of it to cut down the thick mucous that is about to become the inside of his mouth.
3:00 p.m. An appointment with the surgeon that did the biopsy and he has that dreaded
Report.
I am ready for him and his nasty pages of paper. I have a copy of that disgusting report in my fat little fingers that he doesn't know I have.
I have done what so many of you had told me so kindly NOT to do. I spent 6 hours on Sunday into the wee hours of the morning taking that report apart sentence by sentence. Piece by piece. Word by word.
Mitosis. Apoptosis. Tumor. Emboli. Immunohistochmical. Necrosois. Cell Stains. NeuroEndocrine.
I researched the report like a drug addict searching for a corner to sell crack.
I felt I knew what it was and what it said but, guess what?
I am no medical professional. I know how to extinguish a fire in a cabin. I know how to
inflate a life raft. I know about lipsticks and nail polishes and bleach blond hair.
Medicine, I am clueless about and probably know only enough to be scary.
When the doctor told us he was going to explain the "report" I sat up a little further forward in my chair. My palms sweaty and my heart beginning to quicken....
Words. Medical words. The worst medical words.
Fear. Gripping fear.
Large Cell Undifferentiated Neuroendocrine Carcinoma is one of the rarest forms of cancer. It has little to no information and success rates are completely unknown.
It is cancer of the Endocrine Glands and cancer of the Nervous System.
I have never seen my husband show fear EVER. I have seen him cry at a sad movie especially ones involving animals. "Milo and Otis" made him weep. "Old Yeller"? Forget about it!
I have seen him sad but never scared. Sadness is not fear.
From the corner of my eye I see that his hands are trembling. Tears in my eyes. I could feel the tears. Huge big stupid tears splashing onto my notes and my copy of the report.
The doctor is talking and the room spinning.
18 months. 18 months. 18 months?
For the seventh time the words "18 months" keep repeating from his mouth as if on a loop.
18 months. He won't say the words but gosh, we're not idiots.
He says to remain positive. To enjoy the time left on Earth. To look at the blue sky and the green grass.
18 months. Be happy he loves his wife. 18 months. Reflect how he ran a company that was in the family for over a hundred years and made it a success.
Enjoy the small things and love the big things.
My husband looks at me. Our eyes lock. We stand. My legs feel like lead in my pink Louboutin's. My knees buckle and I have to be helped back up to standing. I want to yell and hold my arms out and run down the halls knocking down everything in my path. Run thru the halls of the medical building and crash over carts, careen into patients and be a weapon of mass of destruction.
We head for the door. All I want to do is go home.
As we are walking out the exam room door the surgeon stops and tells us "Oh, we may have to do that tracheotomy if this treatment doesn't work so your airway isn't blocked and you can breathe. There are also alternatives. Cut off the tongue. Remove the voice box, thyroid and all of the salivary glands. A complete throat redisection. This is if the Chemo and Radiation don't work. It may buy a bit of time."
We are in complete shock. I see my husband almost quake at the thought. I feel that if I open my mouth a scream of sheer horror may be heard for miles. My teeth are biting into my lips to remind me to hold myself together.
Cut off his TONGUE??
Dissect his entire throat? To live for only 18 months?
All I am and all I want is to escape this nightmare and go back to our beautiful lives.
18 months? It's a death sentence.
We are going to fight this like I have never fought before. I am going to eat positive for breakfast lunch and dinner. I am going to spit it out and live it and give it back to my husband every day. 18 months is not acceptable.
Day 2 of treatment is tomorrow and my big girl panties are getting tighter by the second.
We HAVE to fight!
18 months will come and go and God willing my husband will be with me December 25, 2012.
18 months.
P. S. Your notes and letters keep us both going. We have spent so many hours in waiting rooms sitting in stiff chairs and hunched on exam tables.
I love to read each and every one of them to my husband. It makes me so proud to show him how wonderful this world is and that the people in it are angels. At least the ones that have touched our lives are. You.
Tuesday.
Remember that ugly, vile, horrid report?
The Pathology Report?
Tuesday
Horrible Tuesday.
11:00 a.m. My husband had his very first Radiation treatment today. Time is NO longer our friend. No time to go to MD Anderson, Huston, TX although we going to IU Medical on Tuesday next week for a 2nd opinion.
The drug of choice today for the anxiety was Valium. Much better. He did it. He wore that mask and the treatment was over 20 minutes. I was so proud of him! He came out of the room grinning even tho he had black marks all over his neck resembling a road map route of the back streets of Istanbul.
Every week day for the next 8 weeks we are to be there to blast and sear his throat but if it works, it'll be worth it, right? Radiation shrinks the tumors. Chemo kills them.
Chemo begins after the PET tube and Port Tubes are surgically installed.
They give him a special toothbrush and toothpaste. Nothing even close to him can have any form of alcohol in it. Also, a special cup and a recipe of baking soda and salt to be gargled every time he thinks of it to cut down the thick mucous that is about to become the inside of his mouth.
3:00 p.m. An appointment with the surgeon that did the biopsy and he has that dreaded
Report.
I am ready for him and his nasty pages of paper. I have a copy of that disgusting report in my fat little fingers that he doesn't know I have.
I have done what so many of you had told me so kindly NOT to do. I spent 6 hours on Sunday into the wee hours of the morning taking that report apart sentence by sentence. Piece by piece. Word by word.
Mitosis. Apoptosis. Tumor. Emboli. Immunohistochmical. Necrosois. Cell Stains. NeuroEndocrine.
I researched the report like a drug addict searching for a corner to sell crack.
I felt I knew what it was and what it said but, guess what?
I am no medical professional. I know how to extinguish a fire in a cabin. I know how to
inflate a life raft. I know about lipsticks and nail polishes and bleach blond hair.
Medicine, I am clueless about and probably know only enough to be scary.
When the doctor told us he was going to explain the "report" I sat up a little further forward in my chair. My palms sweaty and my heart beginning to quicken....
Words. Medical words. The worst medical words.
Fear. Gripping fear.
Large Cell Undifferentiated Neuroendocrine Carcinoma is one of the rarest forms of cancer. It has little to no information and success rates are completely unknown.
It is cancer of the Endocrine Glands and cancer of the Nervous System.
I have never seen my husband show fear EVER. I have seen him cry at a sad movie especially ones involving animals. "Milo and Otis" made him weep. "Old Yeller"? Forget about it!
I have seen him sad but never scared. Sadness is not fear.
From the corner of my eye I see that his hands are trembling. Tears in my eyes. I could feel the tears. Huge big stupid tears splashing onto my notes and my copy of the report.
The doctor is talking and the room spinning.
18 months. 18 months. 18 months?
For the seventh time the words "18 months" keep repeating from his mouth as if on a loop.
18 months. He won't say the words but gosh, we're not idiots.
He says to remain positive. To enjoy the time left on Earth. To look at the blue sky and the green grass.
18 months. Be happy he loves his wife. 18 months. Reflect how he ran a company that was in the family for over a hundred years and made it a success.
Enjoy the small things and love the big things.
My husband looks at me. Our eyes lock. We stand. My legs feel like lead in my pink Louboutin's. My knees buckle and I have to be helped back up to standing. I want to yell and hold my arms out and run down the halls knocking down everything in my path. Run thru the halls of the medical building and crash over carts, careen into patients and be a weapon of mass of destruction.
We head for the door. All I want to do is go home.
As we are walking out the exam room door the surgeon stops and tells us "Oh, we may have to do that tracheotomy if this treatment doesn't work so your airway isn't blocked and you can breathe. There are also alternatives. Cut off the tongue. Remove the voice box, thyroid and all of the salivary glands. A complete throat redisection. This is if the Chemo and Radiation don't work. It may buy a bit of time."
We are in complete shock. I see my husband almost quake at the thought. I feel that if I open my mouth a scream of sheer horror may be heard for miles. My teeth are biting into my lips to remind me to hold myself together.
Cut off his TONGUE??
Dissect his entire throat? To live for only 18 months?
All I am and all I want is to escape this nightmare and go back to our beautiful lives.
18 months? It's a death sentence.
We are going to fight this like I have never fought before. I am going to eat positive for breakfast lunch and dinner. I am going to spit it out and live it and give it back to my husband every day. 18 months is not acceptable.
Day 2 of treatment is tomorrow and my big girl panties are getting tighter by the second.
We HAVE to fight!
18 months will come and go and God willing my husband will be with me December 25, 2012.
18 months.
P. S. Your notes and letters keep us both going. We have spent so many hours in waiting rooms sitting in stiff chairs and hunched on exam tables.
I love to read each and every one of them to my husband. It makes me so proud to show him how wonderful this world is and that the people in it are angels. At least the ones that have touched our lives are. You.
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