We had a good, nay, a GREAT day, yesterday.
Today, not so much.
But that’s the roller coaster of this mess. Up and down, down and up. It’s difficult to access how each day affects his overall prognosis. Especially when you have a day that seems to set you back 2.
At 4am his hemoglobin, platelets, and blood pressure were stable. At 10am, they weren’t. In the short period of 6 hours, the world turned upside down. He needs blood, he needs platelets. After several interventions (i.e. albumin boluses) his blood pressures are still low. Initially they thought his blood pressure was low because they pushed too much trying to get his kidney’s to flush out all the excess fluid. Maybe now he is too ‘dry’.
Maybe he’s just getting sicker.
Maybe today is the day he tips over the edge of the black hole and can’t be brought back, maybe in those 6 hours the universe shifts.
It’s the emotional roller coaster that take’s it toll. Well-meaning folks ask how I’m doing. They express disbelief at my mental fortitude. They offer up suggestions, that well, I’m uncertain about. Sedatives? Anti-depressants? Sleeping-pills? *gasp* A therapist? Alright, alright, settle down – I am not opposed to any of these things. But right now, in this moment, I don’t want drugs – I don’t want to not feel what’s going on here. Someday, the time will come when I won’t want to feel anything.
I’m pretty sure at that point, a good bottle of wine will do the trick.
As for the therapist, I was not really given the option to say no to that one. She appeared at my door a few weeks ago, sent from the team as a resource and a way, I’m sure, to confirm that I wasn’t headed to the padded room reserved for 1. We talked. She asked questions, I answered truthfully. She acknowledged that I didn’t need her. I was coping well with it all, the highs, the lows, the very lows. It is my strength, she says. The ability to be focused and in the moment and not fall to pieces. Yippy Skippy. Maybe if I didn’t have to use the skill so damn much – I wouldn’t be so damn good at it.
So here I sit, the air knocked out of me, watching David sleep. Every now and then we rouses and opens his eyes. Today more than any other in recent memory, he has spent a great deal of time with his eyes open. But his eyes are unfocused. They no longer move together as eyes should. Nor, do they track, either to my voice or to an object in front of him. In fact, the doctor stood and flicked her fingers directly at him, almost touching his eyes.
He. Never. Once. Blinked.
Now comes the realization that he may not be able to see. It may be swelling, it may be weakness, it may be permanent.
Life and death, darkness and light.
As of right now, his blood-work is stable. He appears to be comfortable. I’ll know what tomorrow brings when it comes. As for now, I’ll recite my mantra:
Every. Damn. Day. Just. Do. IT.