Hi there,
As you know, I am a hope peddler who lives “on the windy side of” optimism. But in this moment, the wheels slow for a new destination. I cannot hide from the truth of Jim’s journey. The picture of hope shifts to different panoramas.
At the last meeting with our med team, the MRI revealed tumor growth, not swelling. We are out of treatment options: Jim was given six months to live. I’m sorry if that came out too fast. I’m processing this in real time.
I have also kept Rachel in the loop about her father’s delicate situation. She knows what is happening, and she certainly doesn’t like the truth any more than I do. I have relayed to family and friends that I feel like the worst mom sometimes, but I feel as though sugarcoating this reality would do more damage.
Currently, Jim is sleeping. Sometimes he has days when he’s more awake, but this morning, he asked for a dose of morphine. This was my first time giving it. Our hospice care nurse, James, (?!) said that I did everything right when I shared that I was nervous I made a huge mistake. As a result, my guy sleeps more than sits in his ez-chair today.
He has had good days. Ones in which he eats a bit more. He smiles and nods his head a bit. Or he watches the news and responds with a WOW when Fox News gets handed a big bill and a spanking for lying.
Or, he has days when he cannot form full thoughts into sentences. He tries, and then I try to help, and then he gets frustrated, and then we continue this merry-go-round in a melody that’s offkey.
But then, he surprises me by trying to get up and shift Rachel in the middle of the night. Even in his weakness, he is still trying to be The Provider.
He sure doesn’t love giving up the nightly duty of making sure the doors and windows are locked at night. I have to repeatedly tell him that I have done it already. Even as he shuffles close to the kitchen door, latching and relatching the lock. “You have to trust me,” I tell him, firmly, gently.
I will need a wheelchair soon as his unsteadiness increases. Corner Medical Supply brought one out that didn’t fit through the front door. Nurse James from Allina Hospice is on it.
The plan to move remains in place. I have Pastor Loren and a team of good men from Good Shepherd working on a drop ceiling for the basement, and with that, he summoned an electrician to assist with lights and anything else that needs attention. Once the flooring is done thanks to Dylan, and the ceiling and lights are in, the square footage can be counted as finished space. Thus, it adds value to our home.
I would love to see Jim in the new home, even if for a small while. I would love to stretch this out for one more Christmas/Hanukkah. I would love celebrate his birthday and Rachel’s one more time.
But when he holds my hand to steady his gait, I wonder how long he will last. And when lets his own thoughts wander around in the stale air of our bedroom, asking, “Where’s my mom?” The picture shifts to a new reality, one where Jim no longer suffers, where I brave the financial frontier of home ownership solo, and where Rachel is graduating from high school, with an eye toward training for special needs students. No Jim to grill the burgers. Someone else will (have to) take Chef Jim’s place.
Life will roll on, but one of the main drivers will have hung up his hat.
That’s all I have for you now. It’s a lot. I know. I have the salt upon my cheeks to prove it.
Please continue to pray and send positive energy towards this family and the incredible support system around us. Even with this diagnosis, the only gear we got is drive.
Oh BOH, I love you!
Melissa