Cancer: Hospice, Week 4

 (Warning: Language)

What a shitty week. 

Sonya wasn't too happy about us leaving Cathy behind at the Hospice Center. This is her as I was driving out of the parking lot. Her way of saying, "You left a man behind, dude!" 

Trust me, Sonya. I know. And I'm not happy about it, either. 

Cathy continues to hang on, her heart beating strong, her mind struggling to connect, to understand, her lungs working, her muscles flexing. She's willing. But her body is slowly killing her. It's the worst kind of torture to see her slipping in increments that could be measured in centimeters, and there's not a thing anyone can do about it. 

What makes this doubly galling is that Cathy's own body is cutting off her food supply. And Cathy has never been one of those people with hang ups about food or eating. She loves to eat, and she loves good food. She's always appreciative of anyone who cooks for her. Our first date, I made her chicken parmesan, and she was so impressed, she married me three years later. 

Cancer: Hospice Supplemental

 

Most long-time readers here will recognize the name of Sonya, our affable pit bull pooch with the winning personality and a bevvy of entertaining tricks. She's ten years old now, and she's lost a little bit of bounce, but only a little. We've been pretty lucky in terms of dog maintenance; she hasn't cost an arm nor a leg, and aside from the occasional itchy eye from high pollen days, she's reasonably healthy. 

Last year, we took her to a specialist in Wichita Falls because (and I didn't know this) apparently pit bulls have those big, fleshy mouths that continue to grow as they age. The teeth get covered up by the gums and that's what causes the stinky-mouth, and left untreated, can rot teeth, forcing an extraction. We didn't want that, but Sonya's mouth was definitely in bad shape. 

The process is straightforward; they use a laser to cut off the excess tissue and cauterize it. This was a little more than Cathy and I could pull off last year, so we made plans to do it in 2020. 

Fast Forward to August, with the world on fire and my life in turmoil. I've got a dog with a stinky mouth, and she's in the dumps because she can't find her human, Cathy, anywhere. I've also got Cathy, pining away for her sweet baby. I've squirreled some money away for Sonya's health needs, and I thought this would be a great way to kill two birds with one stone. 

Cancer: Hospice, Week 3

I'm running hot and cold. Some days, I've got full functionality and can do normal things and feel like an adult, and other days, I'm clutching my stomach and staggering around like I've been junk-punched by a silverback gorilla. The worst days are the ones that start out as normal and end up junk-punched. 

Cathy is still in hospice. I don't want the word "still" to have any undue emphasis, like I'm disappointed. Quite the contrary. Rather, the emphasis should be on "in hospice," meaning, she's not home yet. Yet. 

I'm still trying to find a scenario where she gets to come home. I don't have a solution yet, but I'm working on it. In the meantime, I find that a routine is settling in with us, almost like the schedule of a long-distance trucker. I'm on for three, off four four. But those three are 18 hour days a piece. This is exhausting, and the whole family has been rocked back and forth, up and down, and we are all frazzled. 

I don't want anyone to think that I am not grateful for the assistance; I am. It's been really nice having someone, anyone, in the house when I get home. But I want everyone to know that I am absolutely festooned with feminine energy right now. Covered up, even. I'm pretty sure I've started to ovulate. Everyone's cycle is all linked up, now. Mine, the dog's, everyone. 

I've been sitting on some short takes and little incidents that have stacked up in the last few weeks, and I want to share a few, if only to take my mind off of the grind of the days.