Somehow I knew this day would come —as it will for everyone. Yesterday was spent taking care of my patient. We wobbled to the shower and sat him in the tub with his new chair. A chair my Dad had sat in only a few months ago. Warmth streams down and refreshes H. I am bathing him, taking care of him, helping him to brush his teeth. But I remember him only as my extremely handsome bridegroom and consider it a privilege to care for him. They want me to call hospice to wash and bathe him, but I refuse. It is my honor as long as I am able. Together we are able. He slips back into his jamies and feels "wonderful" again. Soon he is eating soup and I know he will feel stronger because of it. The soup is a gift from Julianne who besides taking care of three children has also made homemade soup and rice. She is gone when I get here, but the kids are watching TV quietly. There is a great deal of peace in the house.
As soon as H's ritual is finished, he resumes his daily reading of JFB...where the print is very very small. I can't believe it. He has found an interesting nugget of truth and is tracing it down. A piece of work that guy is.
The doctors report from the bone scan could have been worse. His 9th and 10th rib have been eaten away by the cancer. But it is no where else. Mysteriously the pain from the rib cage and neck have disappeared in the last few days. No explanation. It has been a steady companion for three weeks but now it's gone. They have given him new meds for new symptoms, dizziness, hunger, meds for the yeast infection in his mouth brought on by the steroids. When I ask him how he is, he raises two thumbs. During the worst times it's only one thumb.
He says he feels pathetic. But he is grateful for everything. His true personality is showing through the sickness. His new self, his identity in Christ, is being firmly established in these last days. The doctor can't tell us if he will recover and go back to the way he was before whole brain radiation. Time will tell. Our radiologist wants to see him in three months. Three months? Three months? I say nothing.
My face looks pale today, I am emotionally spent but peaceful. Restless but calm. How can both be true? But they are. The exhaustion from grief is slow and covered by God's grace. The weather here is amazingly clear, cool and sunny all at the same time. The sun's warmth is broken only by the cool breeze and feels like a paradox on the skin. First warm then cool. That's a good metaphor for our situation...the human response to death and disease and God's intravenous grace.
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