Stop treatment

One yr ago today we made the decision to stop treatment. It was an excruciating decision based on excruciating pain. My husband NEVER gave up. He was NOT going to let the cancer get the upper hand. So, this decision terrified me.

3/16 was Jim's last day at work. Dr. Hart (hematological oncologist) had given us her personal cell phone for emergencies. She stayed on the phone with us throughout that night into the next day helping us with his pain. Numerous phone calls for help.
3/22 Dr. Wall (radiation oncologist) made a house call. I shared my concerns with Dr. and he came to check on Jim personally.

I'm not sure how many other oncologist make this much of a personal commitment to a patient but I can tell you that these two cared so deeply, so personally for Jim. Not just as a patient but as the amazing man he was. They could see Jim was unique. They got to know us personally. I cannot say enough about the care we received from the doctors, nurses and technicians at St. Luke's Cancer Center.

Still struggling with my sadness. Still angry. No closer to understanding, "Why Jim?"
God, please explain to me why you find it best that James not be here with us?
How is the world a better place without him here? Don't you see how badly we need him?
Don't you see how badly I need him?

Last day at BRB&T Co.

One yr ago today James worked his last day at Blue Ridge Bank.

I watched him get ready. Moving so slowly and deliberately. Asking me to help with his always pressed slacks and shirt. He could still tie his own tie but I helped with his socks and shoes. The stocking cap covering his bald head. The crutches. Finally, his always present smile to mask his pain. I can still see his back as he moved away from me.

By the time he came home there was no smile. Radiation and pain took every ounce of energy out of him. He was exhausted. Pain. Relentless pain.

So vivid. So clear. How can it be a year ago when it seems just yesterday? I still expect him to come home. Why won't he just come home? Enough already. Just come home.

Last trip to STL

One yr ago today we made our last trip to St. Louis.

We got the expected news but we had been wishing our team in STL had thought of something our KC team had not. It was another bad day.

I vividly remember Jim's demeanor, his voice, the look in his eyes; our fear and sadness. I could not stop crying. He was silent.

The flight home: I watched his face as he kept his eyes closed. He was tired and worn out. We held hands. Silent.

By the time we landed Jim composed himself enough to exit the aircraft with a smile on his face; confident. I could not contain my tears. I was not so composed.

My brave husband. The ultimate warrior.

Got the news

1 yr ago today my husband met me in the kitchen as I came home from the office.

I could tell by the look on his face and the fact that he hadn't call me during the day what he had to tell me was not good news.

The stem cell transplant did not work. The pain in his voice. The fear on his face. I lost it. For the first time, I screamed & yelled. I cussed like a sailor. Then, he wrapped me in his arms, held me tight and we cried and cried. We grew quiet. Silent.

I continue to feel every bit of it over and over. Today especially. But I do not have his arms to comfort me this time. There is no comfort in the silence this time.

I read his entry of 2/28/10 below and continue to be amazed by him. Knowing how we felt that day and seeing how he was able to collect himself enough to post something reassuring for those that love him leaves me speechless.

Discovered

Two years ago today we discovered the source of Jim's pain.
STUPID TUMOR !! STUPID CANCER !!

So much for being eloquent or humorous. I'm angry.

Nine months

Well … I don’t know where or really even how to begin.
It’s been nine months since my James lost his battle with Multiple Myeloma.

During these nine months I have reached depths of darkness I never knew existed. The weight of overwhelming sadness has left me panicking to breath. I know I’m taking in air. I see my chest rising and falling. Yet, I believe I’m going to drown.

There are times I still expect him to walk through the door. I still expect to see him standing next to me when I’m looking in the mirror getting ready for work.

I still instinctively reach for him when awakened by thunder and lightning; or when I’m cold and need his warmth. I still seek his presence.

I want to feel the warmth of his hand in mine. I want to wrap my arms around him at the end of a long day. I want to smell him, kiss him. I want to hear his laugh. I want to talk with him. Tell him, “I’m sorry.” Tell him, “I miss him.” Tell him, “I love you.”
And hear him tell me he loves me, too.

I’ve been told numerous times to write in a journal. Honestly, I’ve had no desire to do so. No strength to sit in a chair long enough to accomplish the task. I still have difficulty concentrating. Until recently, I’ve had no energy to care about anything.

I found myself laying in the dark wishing the world would stop.
FOR ONE MINUTE CAN EVERYONE JUST STOP ?!?!?!?!?
DON’T YOU REALIZE WHAT HAS HAPPENED ?!?!?!?!?
The tears - uncontrollable. The sobs – all consuming. The silence - deafening.
Why, Lord? I don’t understand!

The harsh reality is life waits for no one. Time waits for no one. You can join in or get left behind. It’s up to you. James and I spoke of that a few times during his stem cell transplant in St. Louis. I would stand at the hospital room window watching all the people coming and going. Then, I’d look over my shoulder to see my husband laying on the bed literally fighting for his life. Even then, I was screaming on the inside for everyone to just stop for one minute.

Well … I thank God for my family, for my grief counselor, my friends. In tiny ways, I am gaining more control of myself. I am able to look away from myself more often and see the life that continues around me; to begin reaching out to others for help and to recognize when it’s a chance for me to give help, again.

I have wanted to post something eloquent, profound on James’ blog. He was always so positive; so uplifting. He found humor in almost everything. I’m trying to follow in his footsteps. I hope that as I continue working through my grief those attributes will become evident. For now, please forgive me. I am trying. I really am.

Tida

My last post was March 11^th and there’s been a lot going on since then. The evening of Tuesday the 16^th I was introduced to some excruciating pain. We had my doctor on the phone and added pain med patches throughout the night and into Wednesday to try to get it under control. A lot of this I don’t remember any more so you’ll probably be getting highlights. I had radiation treatments Thursday and Friday, so by scooting down the stairs and the use of a wheelchair I was able to complete those, but not without a good deal of pain. We had discussions with the doctors about the pain and specifically the pain associated with the radiation and decided to discontinue the radiation treatments, my body just wasn’t able to tolerate it. Throughout this time my world had been reduced to a reclining chair in the bedroom, which is also my bed because of the pain involved getting into and out of bed, and the bathroom.

My doctor had wanted to start chemo after radiation was complete, but we determined that my body was probably too weak to withstand the high dose chemo they’d suggested. So my options are pretty limited. We’ve signed up for Hospice services with the intention of getting me stronger so we have options. Don’t confuse Hospice with giving up, we’re not giving up.

One of the side effects of the pain meds is loss of clarity of thought (which is probably pretty evident as you read this!). The time it takes me to put this posting together is almost embarrassing, not to mention how exhausted I am afterwards.

I’ll try to keep you updated, but bear with me.