It's here.
Breathing has become difficult for Terry, and he cannot change from a vertical to a horizontal position without help anymore. A huge lump appeared in his neck and now it's visible to anyone who looks at him. His 'muscle pain from coughing' is more likely the ache of his pelvis, spine and ribs riddled with tumors. That cough? It is now deeper, throatier and very difficult to stop once he gets started. We do all we can to prevent him from coughing, as soon it will bring up blood - and it could bring up large quantities of it. It is here. The end is approaching and now we both know it.
This morning, just now, I buried my face in his armpit and breathed him in for all I was worth. I cannot imagine waking up every morning without that warm scent and feeling of completeness as his arms envelop me. I've recorded an hour of him snoring. I've made a thousand mental snapshots over these sleepless nights, and hope I remember every one so that I may replay my internal movie whenever I like. I am not angry or determined anymore. I am not even hysterically sobbing-kind-of-sad. This is a whole new kind of sadness. It is a quiet and heavy ache from somewhere deep, making each moment exquisite. I miss him so much already.
Take a bow...
Saturday night we went to a steakhouse to eat and enjoy the music of Harry McGraw and his band. Terry took two bites of plain chicken breast and pushed it aside. We had the food boxed up and made a hasty retreat. We had planned to check out the final show of our friends - and Terry's former band - the Switch, but he grew strangely distant when we got in the truck. We sat for awhile, then he turned to me with tearful eyes, saying, 'I'm suddenly just so sad.'. We cried together and I eventually decided we needed to bid the band goodbye before they go their separate ways. We drove there, clutching each others' hand solemnly. . Many of our close friends and fellow musicians were at the bar, and it hit me that this was Terry's farewell. We hugged and spent a few minutes with each friend, then danced to Journey's 'Don't Stop Believin' before waving goodbye. You never know when it'll be the last time you do something, but we knew. Unplanned and unspoken, we both realized on the ride home that it had been Terry's curtain call.
For public consumption
I'm getting ready to post what will probably be the last of the 'sunshine and lollipops' entries on Terry''s status blog , and I don' t want to. Goddammit. I don't want to hit publish and turn to full time acknowledgement that he is nearing the end of his young life. I don't want to take this step, Lord. Please tell me that I don't have to. Tell me that you'll spare him and I'll give up every single vice... anything. Whatever you want me to be, I'll be it. I have been listening with all my might, searching every corner for some kind of sign. Talk to me, creator. Speak, universal energy; I've got my ears on.
He wants me to make a doctors appointment, as he suspects there is fluid in his lungs. Really? Yes, love. There is fluid in your lungs. Soon there will be fluid around your heart if it's not there already. That isn't muscle pain from your constant cough.. it's probably a crop of bone lesions that are busily invading your rib cage. And speaking of that cough, you can blame that on the tumors in your neck and throat. Shortness of breath is a direct results of your lungs' inability to store the air you are trying so hard to draw, thanks to a host of tumors that took up residence over a year ago. I'm sure they are healthy and pleased to be surrounded by their own prolific offspring.
Yes, your appetite is healthy, dear. Really means, honey, you can't get enough to eat because you are eating for two... hundred. Thousand? I don't know, but cancer is hungry and every bite you take feeds it. I have found another cancer expert with the University of Arizona, and managed to get us in tomorrow morning. I know it will be as fruitless an effort as all our other consultations, but I cannot sit idly by. I'm afraid he's going to be caught up in my need to do something.. anything.
Please Lord, hear me. Yes, I am angry with you. No, I don't understand why you haven't heard my prayers or his - why you have chosen not to answer us in any way. Why there hasn't been one single solitary bit of positive news or reason to hope...You have our complete attention. Where the hell ARE YOU??
He wants me to make a doctors appointment, as he suspects there is fluid in his lungs. Really? Yes, love. There is fluid in your lungs. Soon there will be fluid around your heart if it's not there already. That isn't muscle pain from your constant cough.. it's probably a crop of bone lesions that are busily invading your rib cage. And speaking of that cough, you can blame that on the tumors in your neck and throat. Shortness of breath is a direct results of your lungs' inability to store the air you are trying so hard to draw, thanks to a host of tumors that took up residence over a year ago. I'm sure they are healthy and pleased to be surrounded by their own prolific offspring.
Yes, your appetite is healthy, dear. Really means, honey, you can't get enough to eat because you are eating for two... hundred. Thousand? I don't know, but cancer is hungry and every bite you take feeds it. I have found another cancer expert with the University of Arizona, and managed to get us in tomorrow morning. I know it will be as fruitless an effort as all our other consultations, but I cannot sit idly by. I'm afraid he's going to be caught up in my need to do something.. anything.
I hope he can enjoy one more Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's eve before he begins to fail. I hope he can begin to accept and acknowledge what is happening in his body so that we can maneuver him into a calm, peaceful state of mind. I hope he will give himself time and find the courage to say his goodbyes before it's too late. Most of all, I pray to God almighty that he will have mercy and minimize his suffering.
