Briefly, my husband's condition has deteriorated a bit, but ever-so-slowly. The home's nurse practioner thinks he may have pneumonia, though I have some doubts about that - I'm not sure how she could determine it without a chest x-ray, since his lungs are full of mets and he runs a tumor fever periodically anyway, how the hell could you tell just by looking, and what difference would it make, anyway? That's the weird thing about having him in a nursing home rather than a true hospice - I'm dealing with staff that is trained to think in terms of restorative care, no matter what, so there is a certain amount of "puffery" that goes on with the nurses trying to put a good face on his condition. Last night I called for an update before I went to sleep, and the night nurse said he had responded to her when she called his name. I was there all damn day and into the evening, and never saw what I would call a "response" - a brief flicker of an blank staring eye isn't a response in my book - but whatever. They are doing a good job with his physical care, and that's what matters now. I'll head on over there shortly, but, odd as it sounds at a time like this, normal things still have to be done, like laundry and trash and cleaning catboxes, and I like doing them. Friends have offered to come in and take care of the animals for me, but honestly, I need and crave the break in the middle of the day. I really need to make time to bathe the Bossy One, because he has gotten wet in the daily rain and smells amazingly bad, like a mildewed old carpet - it's incredible that such a tiny body can put off such powerful body odor, but he's really stinking up the place.


I'm tired and crabby and resentful as hell, and I want this to END. I'm wearing down from the sheer ugly grind of it. Week after week of big seizures and small tremors, changes in respiration, fevers that come and go, skin tears, potential pressure sores, new skin mets every day, awake and restless all the time one day, basically comatose the next, eating a wee bit, not eating at all, every day some other shitty new development, seesawing back and forth, inching a little lower every day in this nightmarishly slow deterioration, this has been a hell of unimaginable proportions, and I am exhausted and honestly running on the adrenaline of anger and resentment. His death will be a relief, not only for him, but for me.


I've had so many people say something like, "Oh, I could never do what you are doing!" and I just shake my head - does anybody think I was specially selected for this because I'm particularly suited to it? Anybody could be facing this someday, nobody knows what is in their future. My husband was the healthiest person on earth until this rare, particularly virulent cancer came out of nowhere - no family history, no bad health habits, no logical reason for it at ALL - that's why it has taken so long to kill him, his heart is still strong and he's a young man. You just never know what's around the corner for your life - we kid ourselves that we have some sort of control, but we really don't. And if you find yourself in this situation, you just put one foot in front of the other every damn day and just fucking deal with it. There is no alternative.

The kids are on Orange Alert and are prepared to pack a bag and come home when summoned, but there is no reason for them to sit around here now, they need to be with their friends, keep on going to work, and try to be as normal as possible. No point in them sitting here twiddling their thumbs with me.


Sitcom Chic is coming right along - I finished the body up to the underarms and about 4 inches of sleeve 1. I'm enjoying the pattern a LOT, and will definitely make another one. I'll probably get sleeve 1 done today, and maybe even get into sleeve 2.