They tell us there will be good and bad days. The good ones will be temporary, but embrace them.
Yesterday was a good day. We talked, laughed and she resembled herself, she resembled who we want to remember her as, and it was the first time in months. She asked questions and was engaged in conversation – we had so much to talk about, so much I wanted her to hear about. It was a great day and I held onto those hours spent with her all night long.
As I got home last night, I cried. I cried because she was herself. I cried because I was angry. I cried because I don’t know what tomorrow would bring. I cried because I was thankful for my moments with her. I love the good days, I loved yesterday. But, it brings me so much pain. Especially today. I’m hurt, we all are.
Today is a bad day. She is 100% a different person than yesterday. She’s in pain, she doesn’t feel good and she can’t keep her eyes open. She hasn’t said much and here we are; we’re back to the yes’s, no’s, I don’t know’s and mhm’s. She puts on a brave face with visitors and engages in conversation as much as possible. But it takes everything out of her. And, when they leave she sleeps next to us.
As she lays next to us, I look at her. I still cannot believe we are in this place. We’re asked what to do if something were to happen, do we leave it to God’s hands? We said yes, and a bracelet was put on her. This was the first time it was real. I look at that bracelet now and pray that God grants us some kind of miracle. Or that we wake up from this terrible dream.
Is this the kind of life I want to live? I don’t want to be like this. I get weaker each day. I get worse and worse. The thoughts she says outloud are the hardest. My dad and I, we try to be brave, we try to hold back the tears, but they fall and we break.
They gave her a blood transfusion yesterday and today I swear they took it all back. Vial and vial and vial were taken from her. Test after test being done. For nearly two hours all they did was poke and pry. She was uncomfortable. But, my “big brother” (long story and too hard to explain) was there holding her hand and telling her it was almost over. As I hovered over the nurses, telling them how to put the dressings on her tumor. A half hour of taking adhesive off of her and pulling her skin, to finally getting the new foley bag to stick – it was done.
Strong Sue. That’s who she is, that’s what she is. And the cancer isn’t taking that away from her. The cancer, it’s making us all stronger, even though we feel weak.