Please, Just One More Night

 I was looking at my blog posts from a last year.  I wrote about somehow living in two worlds at once - partly in 2020, partly in 2021.

I'm still doing that, now that things are, once again, drawing to a close.

My life now is normal, at least for me.  Today I am dealing with the fact that another one of the goldfish is dying.  Has spent the whole day being almost but not quite dead.  I suppose I could do something like put him in the freezer to finish him off, or even just bury him, but I'll let him stay in the tank.  A year ago, I thought that the fish tank would be another thing to let go - as the fish died off, I could empty it and put it away.  But now I realize that I would miss the light and the gurgle of the water, so tomorrow I'll go and rescue a few more feeder goldfish.

Some FB exchanges with Ebaida.  Smokey is still alive, the vet still wants to try a few more things.  She is exhausted. Another few messages with another member of our erstwhile reading group (we're reading "Rebecca" together).  Adrianne was nice enough to give me a public shout-out on FB for the fibery care package I took her yesterday.   I had breakfast, cleaned the litter boxes, tidied up the kitchen, then put on the Ramin/Hadley concert and pulled some more wool locks.

Despite the fact that I went to the food truck on Friday, then ate out yesterday, I returned to the food truck today for lunch.  Because Friday, when I got Rhonda's special of the day (roast turkey, gravy, green beans, cornbread) she asked "aren't you the one who's asked about grits before?"  I nodded.  "Well, if you come back Sunday, I'll have you some grits.  Do you like them with cheese?"

And there was something about that gesture, remembering me.  The now "regular" customer who wanted grits.  Somehow I felt a little more solid, a little less invisible.  I went to get my shrimp and grits and she threw on an extra for me, grilled grapefruit with a soy honey glaze.  I do not like grapefruit.  These were delicious.

It's a beautiful day, an explosion of spring.  The azaelas are in full bloom, the air filled with the fat carpenter bees, mosquitoes.

Some of me is here.  A lot of me is in Gainesville, at Shands, February 27, 2020.  We were still living in the hotel, but spending our days in the clinic.  The week before I had stood in the clinic by Bob's bed, my hand on his arm as he lay face down while the intern drilled a hole in his hip to get a bone marrow sample.  He couldn't get any on the first try; on the second he got the dark red matter.  By the next day we got the result: the transplant had utterly failed.  They would have to try again.  Della was called to reschedule.  They debated whether or not to repeat the chemo.  We prayed the answer would be no.  Our 5 or 6 or 7 doctors consulted, also consulted with doctors at Johns Hopkins.  The answer was yes. They had to be positive that the cancer was completely dead.  He was scheduled to start on February 28.

Living in the hotel had been so terrifying.  But we didn't have windows looking into the room, he wasn't hooked up to monitors, there weren't people coming in every hour or two.  And I wasn't sleeping on a narrow couch.  He was sick and uncomfortable and would toss and turn, so I would start the night in my own bed.  Then, when he finally fell asleep, I would quietly slide in beside him, feel his warmth, the reassurance that he was still there.  And if he woke up in the night, he would feel me there, and smile.

So, today, on the 27th, we're in the clinic.  He's getting another transfusion.  We talk to Dr. Goggle, one of my favorites.  I can't quite place his accent.  He is shockingly slender and walks with a noticeable limp.  I wonder if he had childhood polio.  He has warm brown eyes and is good at explaining things.  He talks with us, looks at Bob's report, looks at Bob.  And says, "We are going to readmit you today."

I sit, stunned.  Ever since Bob had been diagnosed, I had been the star heath advocate/caregiver.  I had read every bit of information given (Bob didn't want to read or know any of it).  I had followed every diet restriction.  I kept notes.  After he was in the hospital, I could tell the nutritionist everything he had eaten.  I knew all of his vital signs and blood counts, written in my daily notebook.  I thought if I did everything exactly as I was told, did everything right, then things would work out.  I never questioned doctor's orders (ask questions, yes, a lot of them.  But did as I was told.

But not today.  Not on the 27th.  He was supposed to go back in on the 28th.  I look at Bob.  He has shut his eyes, trying not to hear what has just been said.  Dr. Goggle looks at me.  "But he doesn't start his chemo until tomorrow," I say.  "We're only a mile away.  I can have him here as early as you want."  He shook his head slightly.  I'm trying not to let the tears show.  I can hear the pleading in my voice.  "I'll do anything.  Let us have one more night.  Just one more night.  Please."

He's gentle, but he says that it's getting too dangerous now.  He needs to be back in the hospital.

The ward is just across the hall from the clinic.  Leaning on his cane on one side, and me on the other, he slowly crosses the hall, going to our assigned room.  We walk past the staff and nurses that we know so well.  They all liked Bob - he was funny and nice and as undemanding as possible.  Their faces are somehow blank.  Three weeks ago they had applauded when we left the ward, saying they were happy for him, that they would miss him, wishing him luck and a speedy recovery.  How could they say "welcome back" when they knew what it meant?  He started to enter the room, then stopped.  The nurse looked at him.  He stared ahead.  "Annie - I'm having a panic attack."  I hugged him.  "You can do this."

I'm home.  I'm typing this with Dingo out of his cage and running around.  Soon, I will record the Ramin/Hadley concert for when Ebaida feels like listening to it.  I'll comb some wool.  Maybe watch a movie later.

But my heart hurts.  Please.  Let us have just one more night.  Just one more.  Please.