It’s late and I’m tired. Although things have settled down a bit, the worry never leaves. Today, he was very, very tired and lightheaded. He ended up going down on his knees in the hallway because he was “woozy”. No harm done, but there’s always the what ifs that linger. We are officially at the lowest immune level which mean the highest potential risk for catching infection. So although the nausea is gone, the invisible fears are still all around us. These things bring me back to our painful reality.
When my husband was diagnosed with this no one in the medical field offered us any hope. A simple visit to the emergency room at the hospital ended up with a diagnosis of inoperable lung and bone cancer. The man had been playing tennis the week before and in one day, 24 hours, our world was devastated. The resulting visits to the specialists didn’t give us much to go on. They wanted us to understand that this was a terminal illness. There would be no operations or miracles to come our way. Any treatment would be to gain quality of life, not longevity. The prognosis was given to us in months, not years.
So sometimes, like tonight, when he’s sleeping, I have my moments I cry, even though it doesn’t solve anything, I cry. It doesn’t mean I’ve given up hope, if anything it makes me more determined to prove them wrong. I am painfully aware that somewhere there is a giant clock ticking down the weeks, days and hours, but many people have been given the same “months to live” prognosis and are still alive and kicking years later. What did they do to stop that clock from counting down in real time? That’s what drives us on, the fact that many people have defied the odds and become members of an elite group of survivors. If ever there was a group that we want to get him into it is that one, the true survivors club.