I've been waiting all day for more updates -- something more substantial than what I have pieced together right now -- so I could post something...well, MORE. But there's no nice narrative today.
The first text message I received from my mother after day two of chemo was a good one. No bad reactions. One more day of treatment and then three weeks off. He's amazing. He's a Miracle Man.
I put the phone down and walked away from it. When it rang during dinner I didn't even get up to check the caller ID. Shut up, telemarketers, we're all having a nice time over here.
Of course, it was my mom. The bad reaction just came later this time. Fever, shakes, a trip to the ER and another infection. Looks like pneumonia again. White blood cells and platelets have cratered. Chemo was canceled for today. Instead, a blood transfusion, perhaps. He's on a floor that's not quite the ICU and not quite the general garden-variety sick-level population. Maybe he'll go home tomorrow, or the next day.
And I don't know anything more than that. I don't think this is nearly as serious of a reaction as last time, but I don't know if it will meet his hypothetical bar of "bad enough to call it quits on chemo" that he set for himself. I don't know what I think he should do anymore. I don't know how I feel about any of it anymore, except for an oppressive and weary numbness. I don't know how many times I'll tell this same story without ever typing "The End."
I don't want that, but nobody wants this, either. Fuck you, cancer, for taking away every good option.