October 22, 2010
A doctor flat-out told him to stop the chemo. An infectious disease doctor, there to discuss the team's inability to 100% identify whatever mysterious infection he has this time, with a side of brutal bluntness. "You need to stop this."
He's not going to stop. He refuses.
A nurse told him it was time for a hospital bed in the living room. An at-home nurse, one he's known and trusted since his heart surgery, and her opinion was echoed by just about everyone at the hospital. "You cannot climb the stairs anymore."
He's not getting a hospital bed in the living room. Also refuses.
A transfusion brought his platelets up, a little. They are still lower than where they were after his LAST hospitalization and his LAST transfusion, and it's not like that was a good number either. They are trying to stop an ocean with a cork.
He's going back for more chemo on Tuesday.
I'm trying so hard to understand. It's not my body or my life or my fight. I'm trying to let go of anger at the toll this is taking on him, on my mom, on their relationship, on the entire family. Since he lost most of his voice to a different cancer over a decade ago, my mom is the one who schedules the chemo appointments she doesn't want him to go through, the one who struggles to get him up and down the stairs, and the one who is either the full-time caregiver...or alone in the house while he spends night after night in the hospital, knowing that she probably isn't going to get those nights back.
I know he wants to be here when their house sells, for when my mom is settled in an affordable apartment, for every possible month where he can collect benefits that won't transfer to her. I know he has just as many reasons as anybody who has ever said, hell no, not yet, I'm not ready.
I know he wants to be here in June. And that's the thing: I want him here too.
But I don't want this either.
Wow, and I also don't want to end the week with an entry this depressing. It's like I whacked the keys with a sock full of bricks instead of typing with my fingers. So maybe for anyone who feels like skipping the previous bit (FLAWED PLAN IS FLAWED), here are some pictures from Ezra's birthday.
Peter doll from The Snowy Day, aka Our Latest Effort To Reinforce To Ezra That His Name Really Isn't THAT WEIRD WE SWEAR.
Don't let the WTF expression fool you. Kid's been begging for his own toddler-sized broom and dustpan FOR MONTHS. He was thrilled with this one.
A very long, gradual process...
Followed by open-mouthed, shocked realization...
And fist-clenching excitement...
DUPLO FARM DUPLO FARM DUPLO FARM
In background: Extremely jealous brother banished to "go play with your Leapster or one of the bajillion birthday presents YOU JUST GOT FIVE MINUTES AGO or something."
In foreground: Portrait in smugness, ohhhhh yeah.
(I do not have any pictures from his cake celebration, because we had ice cream instead. Also while I was setting up the camera he decided to put the candle out with his ringers instead. That too.)