Fading

Amazed. Moved. Humbled. There are at least another dozen adjectives to describe how I felt after reading all of your overwhelming and heartfelt comments, but I will stick to these three. I had no idea so many people read this blog, follow our story, or care about us. I feel so blessed to have so much support from near and far. To our friends who I know follow the blog but were too lazy to post a comment, please be advised that I am withholding your engagement, wedding and/or baby shower gifts as appropriate punishment!

Every day over the last two weeks, I sat in bed with Mike and read him each and every comment posted that day. I will fess up that I summarized some of the longer posts because Mike’s attention span is about 36 seconds these days. Your posts encouraged him, put a smile on his face, and some even made him burst with much-needed laughter. Thank you!

I wish I was ending this post here. I contemplated doing just that, but some of you hang on for updates, and I owe you that. We have been in the hospital since Saturday. I am not exactly sure what prompted me to bring Mike to the ER, but I guess it was a combination of a few things. There is a lot wrong with Mike, and none of it seems fixable. Even the simplest problems are without an explanation or a fix. Mike is barely hanging on. He sleeps about 21 hours a day. He is weak and has no energy to even talk for more than five minutes at a time. I am not sure Mike really appreciates or understands what is going on, but then again, maybe he does know but will not verbalize. Knowing Mike, he is trying to protect the rest of us from the pain of talking about the unthinkable.

Mike’s body and mind are tortured and battered from the disease, the treatments, and the long battle in general. The once vibrant, energetic, strong, muscular, funny, talkative, charming and charismatic Mike is now just a quiet, frail body that lays in a hospital bed with his eyes closed all day. He does have brief moments of clarity and energy when he talks for a few minutes, and for those short-lived moments, Mike is back to his old self — making jokes, poking fun at friends, or being incredibly gentle and sweet. I spend 24 hours a day sitting in the hospital so that I do not miss one of these precious moments.

We expect that we will go home within the next couple of days. I will admit that I am petrified about bringing Mike back home. Taking care of Mike is SO much harder than I ever imagined. But just as we have done every step of the way, we will find a way to manage. We are still planning to start Mike on a chemo pill (waiting for the f’in — yes, f’in — insurance company to clear the exorbitantly costly drug) to see if it helps. I continue to keep fingers crossed, but am being realistic at the same time.

I am sorry if this post is a downer. It has just been one of those days. Hell, it has been one of those months. Know that I have not lost all hope. I still believe in miracles, and I still do hope. But with each passing day, and each time I look at my poor sweet Mike, my hope fades a bit more. I promise, however, to hang on to the remaining glimmers.