Still Hoping...For Him

Last night, I cried so hard that it hurt. Violent spasms emanating from the center of my being sent quaking jolts of grief throughout my entire body. In a futile attempt to stifle my tears and silence my cries, I laid, face-down, on my bed with a pillow over my head. But, before long, the emotional and physical pressure proved far too powerful for me to hold in, and everything spilled out. My tears fell freely and my sobs broke loose with a force that left me shaking and weak and gasping for breath. When it was finally over, I laid, crumbled in a heap on top of my bed, bruised and broken, buried in an avalanche of sorrow and despair. Sick with grief, I cried out to God for help and waited for Him to free me from the fallen debris of my broken heart. Feeling alone, in a valley of sadness, all I could think of was a song I used to sing, based upon Psalm 121... “I lift up my eyes to the mountains; when will help come to me?”  When will help come to Anthony?

These last couple of weeks have been really, really hard. Two weeks ago, Anthony was discharged from the hospital after a four day stay. He was treated for dehydration and acute renal failure. A few days after he came home, I spent a day in the ER being treated for severe exhaustion and dehydration. (Seriously....Since then, I don’t go anywhere without a sports bottle filled with coconut water or Powerade.) 

Because Anthony became so ill and had to be hospitalized, any plans for further treatment had to be put on hold. In the meantime, Anthony did decide that he wants to give the chemo (Gemzar) a try. We actually went to the chemo teaching appointment on Tuesday, but the nurse practitioner sent us directly to the ER because his lab work from the day before indicated that he was very dehydrated again. He had a few liters of IV fluids pumped in and then I brought him home. The doctor thinks too much fluid is being tapped each time he has a paracentesis...This is dehydrating him and causing serious imbalances with his electrolytes. So, from now on, only three liters will be taken off at a time. Unfortunately, this also means that Anthony will have to contend with abdominal distention most of the time. 

So, now what? Well, Anthony has chosen to have Hospice come in and get him set up on their service since chemo, at this time, is not possible. In order for him to start the chemo, his labs will have to improve considerably... particularly his kidney function and his sodium level. In the meantime, Hospice will be able to provide care and services at home that will not only help Anthony, but will also give the kids and me some support. We were told that Anthony can still choose to have chemo in a couple weeks (hopefully, his labs will even out and he’ll feel a little stronger), at which point, Hospice will be put on hold. At least, with this option, he does not have to give up his hope...which, by the way, he refuses to do! And since he still has hope, so do I. Oh, it’s hard...Harder than anything I’ve ever done, but I’m holding on to hope with him. And for him.

But, I still cry. Every single day, at some point, I bury my head in my hands and I sob. Mostly alone. Once in a while, with a friend or with one of my kids...but mostly alone. Never with Anthony. I think that’s why it always hurts so damn much. Anthony has always, always been there for me. He has always held me and stroked my hair or rubbed my back. He has always told me that everything will be OK. And, no matter how big the problem, how confusing the issue, or how sad the feelings, I have always believed him. There’s never been a reason not to...because Anthony has always made everything OK. I know that might sound kind of hokey to you, but it’s true. Anthony used to make everything better than OK. He used to.

Now, I don’t expect Anthony to tell me everything will be OK. He can’t. He is too sick. He is weak and he sleeps a lot. He gets sick to his stomach often and has trouble keeping his food down. Sometimes, he’s confused and he forgets. He needs help walking, even with his walker. I shower him and dress him. I’m pretty good at shaving him, too. I brush his hair and trim his nails. I feed him when he’s too tired to hold his fork or spoon. He’s been spilling his drinks lately...His glass gets too heavy for him to hold...so I put a straw up to his lips so he can sip on fluids throughout the day.  I stay with him, right next to him, in case he needs anything. And, I tell Anthony everything will be OK. I say the words and smile my very best smile as I hold his face the way he used to caress mine. And I think he believes me. I wish I did.

So now, when I cry so hard that it hurts, it just keeps hurting...long after the tears have run dry and my cries are silenced...It just keeps hurting. All the time. I try telling myself everything will be OK...I try to imagine Anthony telling me everything will be OK...but it’s not the same. And it doesn’t work. I don’t feel better. I just feel empty and lonely and sad. Even so, I keep holding on to hope...sometimes, only by a thread, but I keep holding on to any little shred of hope I can find. I do it for me. But mostly, I do it for him.