Another year, another animal

It's been five years now. I'm so glad I have this on line journal to look back on. Even if I only write once or twice a year, it's perspective. Looking back on last year's sharing, it was very heavy. 

Thanks to this little guy, this year feels a lot lighter.

We'll be celebrating the one year anniversary of his unexpected arrival in a couple weeks. He showed up one night hungry and scruffy. I looked for his owners. I looked for a new home for him. Lots of people said he was meant to be mine, but financially, even just a cat is a frivolity. But, potential owners didn't work out, (I made a new friend though!), and I just could not bring myself to give him up to a place where he'd be in a cage or a small room until adopted. He'd been living on his own outside and that just seemed cruel.

So, Houdini the little escape artist became a part of our family. I'd shared about him on social media. The first night we noticed him, he was so hungry, and I'd later discover injured. It was dusk and he scampered by me as I was walking up the trail and sat down a few feet away. He just sat there lifting his head to smell the breeze. He seemed completely unbothered by his hunger or his wound. He just enjoyed the night air. He made his way down to the barn and stayed the night there. He lived in the barn for a while and it took a bit of maneuvering to make the barn secure. He was so independent, he would push his way through the doors we'd barricaded to keep him safe at night and dig his way out. He wanted out. And he wanted in. I can really relate to that. We want what we want. 

My working class Brit teased about him getting his boots planted firmly under the table. This is true. He charmed his way right into our hearts. Over time, his wound healed and his coat became soft and glossy. And he makes us laugh and smile all the time. He's bright, friendly, and curious; he wants to know everyone. I guess, in some ways, he reminds me of Dom. Life has been pretty precarious for Dom, but he'll still walk outside, lift his head into the breeze, and just take it all in. He too is healing from his wounds, and he's been taken in by all of you. You've fed him and cared for him. You've made it possible to get treatment he needs and continue to cheer him on as he faces the lifelong disease of gvhd. 

Sometimes, we're hanging on by a thread.

But we are hanging on.

Last year, I was so exhausted. I had actually found myself crying uncontrollably the entire month of June. I felt alone and in some pretty deep despair.

July was a game changer. I shared here that Dominic was able to be fitted for contacts that protect his eyes. He was going blind and in constant pain. We had to get them, and if you remember, a group of artists had decided to give him the remainder of some funds they had which amounted to almost the exact amount necessary for the contacts. We still live on that divine grace.

The pandemic shifted things for us and for me. It made it easier to let go of some things. It is the strangest thing to be on the cusp of normalcy only to have the whole world shut down and then try to find a new normal and actually there is no such thing. I realized, what we all crave is not normalcy, but comfort and adventure. 

Our adventures remain our trips to Sacramento. We go every 2-3 weeks for Dom's treatment. He's kind of at a stand still where we still hope for forward progress. He's still on large doses of anti rejection medication, which should have been over by now. He continues to suffer a laundry list of ailments that we treat like whack a mole. Oh that some wet cat food and a safe home could cure him. We balance hope for progress with cheerful resignation. He is alive. He is able to help where he can. We have Houdini. All is well.

Thanks to the contacts, Dom is also able to drive a little. It was not a possibility last year at this time. We make a stop on the way home from Sacramento to pick up paperwork for my job and he drives the final leg home. It's been so good for him to be behind the wheel and taking back more of his autonomy. He's also been on the tractor as we have acres of fields to mow. This year, he's been able to help me more. This is good for both of us! We spend lots of time outside. This is one of the gifts of Covid, I think. Since we knew we'd be spending a lot of time at home, we've done what we can to make it a happy place. We don't own our home or the property, so everything we do is mindful of that detail. We're also mindful of fire danger. But, in between all that, we've planted a garden again this year and to plant a garden is to hope! We did a re-haul of the chicken coop, hopefully protecting them from bobcats and foxes, and started a new flock. (Thanks to my anonymous helper and Charlie G and Bob for their help on the coop.) And just to add to the poultry farm, we have a resident Tom. We call him Turkey Lurkey, and since I started feeding him leftover grains, he's not going anywhere. He has a damaged leg and limps around grazing on the last bit of field we've left untouched for him. We eagerly look for him in the mornings.

These things all give us life. Just being and helping in small ways where we can and breathing in the air.

No one can ever convey the intricacies of their life to another. My own mother who I speak with every day is continuing to learn and understand how we are situated, so I realize our own odyssey can be difficult to wrap one's mind around. Life as we knew it has changed irrevocably. Our goals and dreams have changed. But the one thing that remains is love. I shared a book page of the The Boy, the mole, the fox and the Horse by Charlie Mackesy yesterday, I'll leave you with it:

"We don't know about tomorrow," said the horse, "all we need to know is that we love each other."

 

 

 

 
 

 One of my guilty pleasures is a Hallmark Channel tv show where things always seem to turn out just right. When the town needed a new something and the money wasn't in the budget, magically, a young intern decided to go through some old dusty accounting ledgers in the attic and an old bank account was discovered containing just the amount of money needed. It's like magic. I loved the idea of money turning up just when it was needed.

Last month, I was being really raw and honest. It was important to me that people understand our journey is not over.

But along the journey, there's always room for sweetness and light.

Some people say we must make room for good things. I don't think that's true. There's always room for goodness. You just need eyes to see.

The next step for Dominic's eyes was special contact lenses. The theory is they protect his own lenses from damage that his own system can no longer accomplish due to his new immune system attacking them. This prognosis was not made lightly. He climbed the ranks of specialists and tried numerous treatments before landing here. Insurance denied coverage for this. We decided to pay out of pocket because this is so important to Dom's quality of life. It is more than an artist keeping his vision, which alone is tremendous, it is also a pain management solution.  He went in for a fitting and just having contacts in for a short while brought immediate relief. He was really looking forward to acquiring his new lenses and being able to see, and more importantly, see with less discomfort.

In the interim of the fitting and his contacts being made, a dear friend of ours asked if she could bring something to us. We thought she'd be bringing a homemade meal or pastries. We sat outside and she told us this story. 

She's a part of a group of talented women artists, the 428 Collective. They've been together for years and support one another and their work. Somewhere along the line, they'd opened a bank account for their endeavors. Over time, especially Covid time, the account was forgotten, the world shut down and art shows were on hold for a while. The bank called one of the account holders and instructed that if the account remained inactive, the money would be turned over to the state. So they talked amongst themselves about this forgotten cache and decided to have a dinner with the proceeds. What a gorgeous dinner it looks like. After the year we have all had, how delightful it must have been to gather and connect. This alone makes me happy. Where lovely, strong women gather, beautiful things happen.

The expenditure for the dinner did not exhaust all the money in the account. As they sat around under the twinkling lights they discussed how to spend the rest of this unearthed treasure. Some of the ladies know Dominic, and he had come up in conversation for updates on his health. It was decided then, that the remainder of the money should go to Dominic. It was almost exactly enough to cover the lenses, with a little more leftover to buy the solutions to go with the lenses.

I will leave each of you to name this goodness what you will. For me, I am ever so grateful we are seen and cared for, and our needs are covered from the most unexpected places. 

Thank you 428 Collective for your generosity. Thank Goodness for generosity and kindness and love and compassion.

Post Script: The contacts are in and they are providing relief and protection. Dom is beyond happy.

Feeling like Pavlov's Dog

As I've shared already, I did something I'm proud of this past week. I gave blood. I've wanted to for many years, but I always let fear hold me back. Not fear of the needle, though I don't like them, rather fear of finding out I'm anemic and my blood isn't good enough.Once I saw bag after bag of blood being gifted to Dominic in the hospital, I knew I'd have to become the boss of my fears and get poked.
I also knew caring for Dominic has been all consuming, and I told myself not to worry until I felt comfortable in his recovery and our progress.

There was no check off list. Nothing like when we watched his white count and knew when he could stop wearing a mask. I didn't have any concrete dates in mind. Like a lot of our more recent milestones for me, they've been more gut driven. An ironic turn of phrase given Dominic's plight.

But the day came where I felt like I had something to give. No bells or whistles. Just, it's time. Kind of like when I went back to yoga. It was just time. I definitely walk in the world more intuitively than with any sort of concrete calendar plan.

What I hadn't anticipated was how much our experience is imprinted on me, how much our experiences are like a bell going off in my head.
When I walked into the donor center, I had the usual experience of being in a new place, doing a new thing. I'm one of those people that takes in everything in a room. But there was a little dissonance in my taking in.
For the past nearly two years, when I entered a room with people in hospital reclining chairs with tubes going into their arms and machines making noise, I was in a room of illness. The woman I checked in with was describing the different donations: blood, platelets and so on. She waved her arm toward a row of people reclining with hospital blankets and whirring machines. I felt like an intruder. I felt like my wellness was an insult. Like I should walk softly and speak quietly.
The realization that I had projected our infusion center experience on to this experience was a little unsettling. It took me too long to realize. I think it also took me too long to decide to donate blood. The young bubbly woman next to me made me realize all was well in this room, and that I wished I'd began donating decades ago. But it's never too late, and I will continue to give of myself in this way.

And speaking of the infusion center, we were just there today and we're headed back in another week. Dom needs another infusion of immunoglobulin. (Part of the blood/immune system). All the other numbers look good.
This was our first doctor visit in a month. It's the longest break we've had since this whole saga began 20 months ago. If it weren't for the need of Igg, we'd get another month off. But needs must.

We went back to the 4th floor after our visit with the doctor.
The 4th floor is the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit in the hospital.

Dominic has not been eager to revisit the place of so much pain. He also has not been eager to return until he's back to 100%.
But our friend, who had a transplant the same week as Dominic, has been readmitted. Her cancer came back.
She sent us a text.
We had to go and see her, to tell her we love her and support her.
We had to face her.
Because our biggest fear has happened to her, our friend.

And when she told us how happy she was to see us, how just to know we'd trek to her and say hello when there is nothing else we can do for her, I knew what she meant. I knew just the feeling of being seen and being loved.

And I'm so proud of Dominic for conquering his own fear. For facing the hallways that housed him in his lowest time. I'm so proud of him for owning that cane and realizing though he's not making a triumphant entrance walking easily with his original shock of hair, he's leaps and bounds ahead of the guy who was wheeled out and barely able to sit up. The triumph is in his strength to face this place again, for love of a friend. And I'm so proud of him for facing the fear that our friend now embodies.

Life is strange. We want to remain positive. We want to trust better days are ahead.
We know that picking up the worry is like picking up leaches that would suck the life out of us. We know it's toxic. We are living in the tension of knowing our fears may be realized, but what a waste of life worrying.
We learn to put it down. Again and again.
We learn not to be Pavlovian in our experience. We learn not to associate things in ways that will cause us pain or worry or fretting. We learn that worry doesn't add anything, but it can often diminish.
We're learning to see through different lenses daily. We're learning, and relearning, and learning again how to live with peace and joy. We're learning that everything in life is both meaningless and meaningful. We're choosing to focus on the meaningful. We're learning that a bell doesn't always mean what we think it means. We are learning to tailor our reactions, that we can at the very least choose, and choose love.

Christmas is here again!

Merry Christmas to you all!

I'm sitting here this Christmas morning, full of thoughts of gratefulness.
I'm thinking about our wonderful friends and family who have carried us this far. I'm also thinking of friends who are celebrating the kind of first Christmas you don't want to celebrate. The ones without a loved one.

Dominic and I went to our other family for dinner last night. Our other family is the one we're lucky enough to have in addition to the ones we were born into!

I volunteered to bring cookies. I figured I could put Dom to work again. I couldn't bring just one kind though. I had to make a couple. And some chocolate nut treats also. And then I had to bake a cake. I really wanted to bake a buche de Noel, but I chickened out and just made a gingerbread sheet cake cut in the shape of a tree. Complete with meringue mushrooms though. And as it was baking, I remarked to Dom that houses should smell of gingerbread at Christmas time.

As tray after tray of cookies and sweets were laid out, (the hostess had also made delicious cookies), someone commented on all the different things I brought and couldn't believe how many different things I'd made.  Here's the thing: Aside of the fact that my Grandmother whom I adore made several different cookies every year, I was home and I could! And I didn't realize what a big deal that was to me until last night I was washing up the last minute hustle of dishes I couldn't wash before we left for the party. I had a flash back of that dark little kitchen in Sacramento with the metal sink that made such a racket no matter how gently you set an item in the sink. I then could not for the life of me remember what we had for Christmas dinner. I remember it getting really hot once we started cooking. And we sat around the coffee table eating, in a daze in an unfamiliar place surrounded by Christmas cards we were so grateful to receive and a tinsel tree I'd snagged for fifty cents the Christmas before.

All those thoughts came tumbling out as I wiped down the counters and breathed a sigh of relief to be home. Last night's dinner was Dominic's first social outing as well. He managed the steps with the help of our family and it's another milestone for him. Perhaps the highlight for him was when one of the toddlers at the gathering just sat down next to him and looked up at him with her sweet face and watched a little cartoon with him.

I got up early this morning to let our neighbor's goats out. I walked to the end of the drive and in a big circle just to enjoy the cold quiet of the morning. The sun is out and the air is crisp. And we're home. And Dominic is cancer free and getting better every day.

Christmas has many layers of meaning for us. Celebrating being home also has many layers. And as we peel through all the layers together today, we send all our love to you and wish you the merriest of days.

Christmas Lights Hope Lights

I think we're going to drive through and see the Christmas lights on the Fab 40's in Sacramento tonight. We have a very early appointment for a pulmonary function test and decided to drive in tonight and stay in a hotel. Not the place we stayed that terrible week straight out of the hospital. Not a glamorous hotel either. Just a nice place where I got a nice discount with a special code for transplant patients. We have lovely friends we can stay with, but we're setting out almost with a little holiday in mind, and a hotel for just one night on my terms sounds a little dreamy.
 
And this day, this is Dominic's birthday. Not his actual birthday, his second chance birthday. The feelings all pulsing through my heart are palpable. One year ago, we watched the bright coral colored stem cells flow into Dom's body, and we went to bed that night in the glow of my battery operated Christmas lights with the knowledge that he'd made it through that first big hurdle of accepting the cells. We fell asleep feeling like our whole lives were before us.

It really felt like an actual shift. All the chemo is behind us. All the anticipation.

Well. Not all the anticipation. We still anticipate what is next. But the donor had been found, and the job was done. So now, we hope. We persevere.

After almost exactly a month in the hospital, we were free to move into our temporary place. After a month of being in an enormous room with people peeking in the door out of curiosity, people walking through the door to work, and the lights and beeps, we were released, and though where we moved was not literally quiet, in my heart it felt like the quietness you feel in a snow fall when sound is muffled by snow flakes falling and collecting all around.

With Christmas just days away, and our newfound freedom, we bundled up and set out to see the Christmas lights.

Which is the same place we're heading later tonight. I'm also jumping out of my skin because after the appointment  in the morning, we're meeting with one of our most favorite nurses to catch up. It's been too long and we're delighted to finally try and meet up. Well....we tried before, but timing thus
far has been off. Fingers crossed, because we really miss her. And there's some synchronicity both in seeing the Christmas lights and seeing our nurse.

We'd see this nurse throughout the months of chemo, waiting in agonizing anticipation for a donor. In the middle of the night she'd come in to make the beeping stop, but she was never our nurse. We immediately liked her, and I'd wonder out loud when she'd actually be assigned to us. I later realized she only works with patients after transplant. So finally, after months of visits to the hospital, she would actually be the one to carry Dom through the night. And tomorrow again, after months of agony we will get to connect with her. Even though she was our nurse again during the very difficult time, I don't think about that. I associate her with being part of the other side, the other side of transplant, the other side of gvhd. We are being ushered beyond these milestones.

And the lights. Last year, we drove through feeling a deep kinship with Christmas and new life and the wonder of it all. Tonight, we'll have this whole year behind us. And though the whole year is behind us, it almost felt like a wrinkle in time, where the past 6 months of the horror of gvhd are in that fold, and we can meet again the feelings of hopefulness we had a year ago, the feelings of being in a cocoon in the hospital and in our apartment in Sacramento. While we always longed to be home, we also felt so safe being in the hospital or so near the hospital. And while I greeted that old feeling of security again, that I associate with that time in anticipation of driving through a twinkly wonderland, I also feel like we're truly being deposited on the other side. I finally have a sense of relief that this time, Dominic's new immune system is going to kick into gear and do what it is supposed to do. What better bookend to this year than sparkling lights and sparkling friends? Dominic is getting his sparkle back every day. Our ground zero now is a little more ground zero than last year, but we're more resilient, more tenacious, and more experienced. 2018 threw us a sharper curve ball than 2017. As I think about all these comforting things on Dominic's first birthday, I am convinced that 2019 will lob an easy home-run to us and we'll look back on his second birthday with even more joy and life to celebrate.

Boot straps

I have a funny little observation.
It's about the two posts I shared at the same time. One was sweet, one was salty.
I can see how many times the posts have been clicked, and ya'll should know: you prefer salty.

The next post was difficult to write, I'm sure difficult to read and definitely difficult to live! I've been working on this post, for over a week now, as a sort of antidote.

So, I'm going to dream a little today. Dominic is getting hours worth of infusions, he's comfortably bundled in a bed, and peering over his shoulder, I see he's looking at football stats. (Soccer for all of us Yanks.) That's a wonderfully encouraging thing to see.

A friend of ours is in Finland right now. (Well, was...I began writing a week ago!) It reminds me that something on my bucket list is to see the Northern Lights. Dominic dreamed of taking me to Paris all through the last year, and I wouldn't say no. But my heart leans toward the celestial just now. Or toward nature. Mountains and stars. The universe is vast and beautiful and bigger than this thing we're fighting right now.

You know I have boot straps. And you know I'm not afraid to use them. Again and again. Some days are hard. Lately very hard. But I can't live there!

So I'm working on picking up where we left off. Dominic and I looked at photos the other day. We talked about who he is, and how who he is today is not who he is. This is just an aberration for now. The nurse this morning got a little teary eyed as she remarked he is still just the sweetest man, even as he endures more than most will ever in their life have to. That speaks volumes.

I remind myself that this too shall pass. Not quickly enough, but just as nothing gold can stay, nothing this grueling can stay either.

But just because I haven't lost my sense of humor, I have to laugh. When we arrived this morning, the nurse said, "I hope you don't have any plans today." She must be joking...surely she must be joking! Our plans for the next several, several days are to get Dominic strong again. This is not a vacation. (Though I'm still dreaming of room service!)

And for all you salty folk, I need people to stop being so helpful. Just stop already! Does that make me the worst person ever?
Our first trip into the infusion center without Mom's help, I was just getting the hang of wheelchair, walker, bags etc...he and I negotiate between the two, because walking is ideal.  He'd just transferred into the chair, and it I felt kind of chaotic. So this helpful guy wants to hold the elevator for us, and I'm trying to get in with bags and an open walker and the wheel chair and I know I should have just waved him on while I pulled it together. But he insisted and I stepped in and found I couldn't move or fold up the walker because he stood right on top of me verbally giving me helpful tips about backing into elevators etc...So helpful. Maybe next time, just move?

And the nurses. God bless the nurses. How do they think Dom gets to and from his appointments? Because every day, they're full of nervous energy about whether the brakes are on (the brakes they are immovably standing in front of), or if I'm lifting with my legs, or if Dom can actually stand up. (He can). What would I ever do without them? There is constantly someone so worried I can't manage that they are just.in.my.way.

And the kids in valet parking. I'm so exhausted, my gracious plate is running low! They stand at the driver door waiting for me to get in and buckle up, and meanwhile, I'm unloading bags and folding chairs and walkers and I just need a moment. I don't need someone who means well staring at me. And I really don't need someone standing right at Dom's door staring at us. I told a guy the other day who was just hovering uselessly and I had just had bad news and he was breathing down my neck, I told him I just need to be, and I don't know, I drew an aura around me or something. Lots of hand gestures were involved because I really needed a moment. He shuffled away. I felt like a crabby old lemon, but I'm so tired. I don't need someone handing me things that I'm perfectly capable of picking up when I am ready, but that I just need to set down 3 inches over because I'm not ready for that thing yet. I don't want that right now. Do you not see me actually doing what I need to do? Is it not obvious I left the trunk open because I am not done yet? Can you not see I got this? I got this. I feel like a server with a tray full of dishes and glasses and some well meaning person puts a glass on to "help out" but the server has to gracefully hold that heavy tray and not drop it even though the careful balance has been broken.

I got this. Barely. But I got it. I'm going to keep on keeping on until there's no more chairs or walkers or appointments or drugs. Just Dom and I hopping in the car to actually drive somewhere fun.
Meanwhile, don't stop helping us with your love and encouragement. We can always do with the cheer team.  And there's a lot of big things I don't have. I'm grateful for the big things. And really, I am grateful for the small things too.

And speaking of the big and small....We  are being sneaky! We went home last night! Kim is an amazing friend, and her home is so very peaceful. She and I would sit in her back yard and even in the extreme heat, it was just so comfortable. And the plants in her yard were so soothing to me. Such a great soft landing.

But, there's no place like home. I could unpack our bags, and stop hauling the beanie and leather gloves that somehow made it to the hospital in the middle of summer. I could sort through the piles of things I had for all the different living situations. I didn't need plastic storage containers or paper plates at Kim's, but I didn't want to leave piles of things in the car. Now it's all sorted and at home!

Home. Our neighbor/most amazing friend found someone who opened their garage full of items we would need, including a ramp for our entry. We hope this time on wheels is short, but it is our current reality. She wheeled around the house in our big wheel chair and did an incredible job making sure the re-entry would be smooth. It was. Dom fell almost right into bed. And I ran down to the garden and picked some ripe tomatoes!

The cats curled right up against Dom's legs and the weather was perfect. Dom said to me on the way in this morning that home feels really healing. It is. That was my plan all along.

There was a package containing many different chocolates shipped from a dear friend waiting there for me. The chocolates included words of encouragement and love, and offers of support that I know are truly meant.
My Grandma would always say I can do all things through Him who strengthens me. (She was a powerhouse, that woman. She did do amazing things.) Sometimes, I think I can do all things through chocolate.
But the reality is, I am held up by so many. So much encouragement, support, prayers, visioning, love, practical gifts and service. I can do all things. I cannot do them alone.

Sometimes, I may want someone to get out of my way, but really, we are ever so grateful for all of those who have stood with us on this way.

The low low down

 

We like this journey to Tahoe much better than the journey we are currently on.

This morning, we decided together that we'll put it out there, a more clear picture of how Dominic is doing. You couldn't support us more than you already have, we've been so blessed. And I hate to weigh other people down, especially with family being so far away and feeling a bit helpless. We've struggled to know how much to share and how much to hold back. But, this is where we are. And NOT where we're staying. 😉 We== W

The combination of steroids and pain has ravaged Dom's body. He has lost over 40 pounds since May. He has also lost mobility due to such extreme weight loss and fatigue as well as muscle wasting that is a side effect of the steroids. We left the hospital in a wheel chair that one of our friend nurses found and gave to us. I think someone left it behind as it was missing the foot rests. The day we left, an aide jerry rigged a blanket to hold his feet up. This is in part why my mother's help was so tremendous. Me learning to open and fold a wheel chair and help him out of the car, with a jerry rigged foot rest. Wow! What an adventure I never would have signed up for, but since we're here...I'm all in.

We were given the impression we'd be given a wheel chair when it became apparent he'd need one, and didn't find out until the day we left that insurance wouldn't cover it. I bought one on line that was delivered to our hotel yesterday. So. Now we have 2! The foot rests on the new one fits both chairs, so we can choose whichever is more appropriate. (Different wheels on each). He's talking about taking the big wheeled one outside so he can get an upper body work out.

He also left with a walker, so picture me looking a bit like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins with his one man band set up. I'm totally channeling that chaos energy as we make our visits to the infusion center. (How I wish I had Mary Poppins' bottomless carpet bag. That would solve a lot of problems.) As it is, I pack a bag with all our electronics and things we can't leave in a hotel in addition to files from work. I also pack a bag of necessities for him. I've got bags poking out on all sides and I'm carrying his walker while pushing him in his chair. We bring his walker so he can choose to walk or ride. He usually manages a bit of walking, but it's important to have a fall back. I made quite the entrance to the infusion center this morning with the new foot rest that I promptly rammed into the door jam. Thankfully, no damage done to Dom....but....extra length of chair, noted. I also laugh when I'm embarrassed/shocked/overwhelmed/worried/all of the above. Lots of necks jerked as I nervously giggled my way through the waiting room, literally hearing Bert's flat two note horn punctuate my shame

.

This is how crazy this whole thing is....before I left the week before to go home and pack, he was being discharged with a cane and a walker just as a precaution. In just one week, he slid back so far as to necessitate the wheel chair and hotel stay. I can't decide if I feel like a frog in slowly heating water, or if I'm shocked from jumping into an ice cold lake. I'm both?

He's very low, as anyone would be who has been through what he has been through. And, of course, the World Cup is over, so I just don't know how to entertain him right now. I'm so glad we're out of the hospital though. I think the anticipation of leaving was giving him anxiety, and bringing him even lower. As I mentioned before, I was also fighting against the nurses compassionately letting him not get up and walk. The prospect of leaving was definitely scary for both of us, as we'd only have ourselves to rely on. He did have a moment in the hospital where he had to be helped up. He couldn't clear a step in the shower and crumbled. We won't have that kind of help in a hotel. I still felt totally ready to get him out of there. I just know that the true healing won't begin until we're home, but being out of the hospital is the first giant step. 

There are so many logistics to this situation, sometimes I feel like a dog chasing its tail. For a while, it felt like an option to choose between renting a hotel room or going all the way back home. But, over the course of his last week at the hospital, it became clear that he can't handle the daily commute and a hotel was no longer an option but a necessity. I remembered all the endless searching on airbnb from before and just went straight to a hotel search. (I've since searched airbnb and nothing will work just now.) I am being budget conscious as well as mindful of our needs. We landed at an Extended Stay as it has a kitchenette and I was able to get a room right by a wheel chair ramp. Again...the dog chasing its tail. Things happened fast here and I was making decisions somewhat on the fly. When I made the decision to book at Extended Stay, there was still a possibility that Dominic could walk to and from the car with his walker, just not step over curbs. And I did not yet have an inkling of actually owning a wheel chair. (Let alone two!) Now that we have the chair, it frees me up a little as to where we'll stay. I would have possibly chosen something a little nicer if I was not concerned about long hallways and if he could eat from restaurants. I'd fantasized about room service and a hot tub while he recovered. Coffee in a styrofoam cup is about as luxurious as it gets. No room service, not even housekeeping.

And we are not staying here! I'm so glad I only reserved for 5 days because it is gross! So gross! It was good to land somewhere anonymous. But we've found our way to navigate this new life now. I'm a little bit panicking over germs and have my bleach wipes out all day long. I had some other hotels lined up, but my friend Kim is opening her door to us, and we're moving on Monday. I'm so grateful. I'd been concerned about several things bringing a nearly invalid person into someone's home, but she persuaded us. It will definitely be challenging to show up to someone's home with wheel chairs and walkers etc...but she's already cooking up some broth. So, we're in. And she might be an angel.

I was concerned also that the stomach pain is not going away. It's better, but still hurts. I worried that the treatment wasn't working, but was reassured yesterday that it will take some time before he's feeling better. I mean, that's not a reassurance, I hate that he's in pain, but I don't need to panic over everything right now. It seems by other signs that the ATGAM worked.

It's going to be a looooong road back. Gvhd is no joke. No joke. It's like we're experiencing a whole new disease and prognosis. And it's been the worst part of the whole experience. I guess we got a little too saucy after the transplant and he was walking miles every day. 

But we'll get back to that. Little did he know when he married me that I am a task master and there's no fetal position when our future is on the line. We are going to face this newest challenge head on. I have to dig real deep on this one. When I ran out for groceries while my mom stayed with him, I couldn't think straight at all. I was beyond exhausted from lack of sleep and the whole deal. I knew I wanted to make coffee in the room, and there wasn't a coffee maker. I have our aeropress with me, so all we'd need is hot water. I was so hitting a wall that I couldn't think about just boiling water in the microwave. I also didn't realize the hotel would provide a coffee maker. (Ew?) My friend offered to loan a tea kettle, and though she lives literally minutes from the grocery store, I could not even go pick it up. I spent $10 on a really ugly tea kettle because I was just that tired. That's what things are like right now. I'm trying to manage everything and meet our needs and anticipate our needs and it's like a moving goal post. Any extra decision I have to make or logistics can send me over the deep end. And yet, I must make them. I know people will have extra helpings of grace for me just now.

And yes, continue to pray for me!!! I know he's the one who needs all the healing energy. But. The couple across the hall from us was telling their nurse, (loudly enough that I could easily hear) that the wife had been bitten by a brown recluse spider. He was in the hospital receiving treatment, and she woke up in a hospital five days later after passing out from the bite. I guess there's still a huge open wound on her leg. Yikes! What an ordeal. Trying to stay healthy here!

I am getting abs of steel from helping Dom in and out of the car. Seeing as how I have gained approximately what he has lost, I'm happy to feel those muscles again. He doesn't recognize himself right now. I do. I still see him. I can't wait to have him back in all his fullness. I miss him not being in survival mode. Soon, this will be a distant memory. Until then, I am his lifeline. I will eat the chocolate and get things done. (Because I am also doing quarterly taxes for work in the midst of all this.) I will help him with his shoes, until he can do it again himself. I will lovingly prepare the smoothie, even if he just can't drink it all. I will carry the bags and the walker and measure out his prescriptions and do whatever it takes to get him back in the real world again; to get him back in his body and to get us back home, and celebrating with you. 

I can do all things.
But I could never claim to do them alone.

Drowning. Also. No one listend to Cassandra.

I am drowning.
People remark how strong I am, but I know the secret truth.
I am not. I am like a rear view mirror. Objects in mirror may appear closer.
Objects in stress may appear stronger.

I cried as I walked through a market picking up some microwavable rice for Dom's discharge and life with a hotel microwave. The store, World Market, sells both food and housewares. I had $10 to spend in rewards, so I decided to pop over and use it or lose it. Everywhere I looked were signs of summer. Grilling supplies, outdoor umbrellas, chairs and pillows. It hit me hard that this is the second summer we will spend in the hospital, or in the infusion center. Dreaming of summer and cookouts and balmy nights got me through last year. I'm not sure I have it in me to dream anymore.

I'm salty right now.

Really salty.

Worn out.

I'm an empathic introvert. People don't think I'm an introvert because I make eye contact and smile and say hello and am able to engage in conversation. I'm able (most of the time) to meet people where they are. It doesn't mean it's easy. It just means I highly value being met where I am. I value kindness. I value people.

It's a mixed bag here. On the one hand, I enjoy the community of nurses. Seeing familiar faces is comforting. The energy is always different, every day, depending on who is working. It's fascinating to me how much I reflect back that energy. It's interesting watching how people work together. There are nurses I really enjoy on a personal level.

On the other hand, a parade of faces peer into our room at all hours. I try and look straight ahead when walking the halls. Try. But those windows are just begging to be peered through. And I realize that, having the personality I have, I take it all in. All of it. There's no down time. None. If I need to use the restroom, it often entails meeting someone in the hall. Sometimes it includes a knock on the door. Want coffee before talking to anyone? Not a chance.

It's not just the nurses who color our day. It's the aides as well. While we love everyone; we have our preferences. There's one woman who just can't not be in here. She looks at us through her glasses and scrunches up her nose and asks me if I'm sure I don't want her help too much. Dom and I laugh that she just must really want to bathe him....and I playact how she'll approach him to do this. I know. I can't be nice 100% of the time. I'm sharing this because I'm mean and spiteful and she crept into our room in the middle of the night and moved my hospital supplies by the sink, throwing things and taking things away that I have left there with intention.

I want to share funny stories, but they would be too crass perhaps. Too off color. You'd have to be as far deep in the rabbit hole as I am to even find them humorous, because an outsider would probably just be freaked out. Or scold me for one reason or another. The last thing in the world I need right now is someone policing my feelings. But that's what we seem to be wired to do. We feel the need to make everything okay, it feels better to feel like we've contributed by offering up another way to look at things. But trust me now. A person knee deep in this kind of situation has had the time to look in all the different directions. Some days I look in the right direction. Some days, I don't.

I find humor in so many places. I need all the humor I can find. But, to retell would mean throwing a nurse under the bus, or even Dominic. I guess I'm okay throwing a night aide under the bus.
I sensor myself on the blog a lot, and think maybe I need to write some private posts just to myself. I would probably swear. A lot.

I wish I felt more free to share, but again, my personality is to protect everyone. So, I won't tell you what I took a picture of last night. I'll just leave it at that.

I waffle in this in between land of wanting people to know just how very desperate this situation is, and not wanting people to know. Every time I think someone close to me has grasped what is going on, I may say basically the same thing in a slightly different way and then they're shocked. It doesn't irritate me, it reminds me that I have a unique view of what's going on, and it's my curse and my gift.

And speaking of that unique view.....I have written about this before....the name I was given...Cassandra. In Greek mythology, Cassandra told the people what would happen, but they wouldn't listen. I don't feel like you, dear blog reader are the people. Sometimes, I feel like the doctor is the people. From the start of this gvhd journey, I feel like I've expressed concerns, and it's taken too long to have them addressed. All along, I've tried to be a strong advocate, but sometimes, hindsight is 20/20. I've begged for help time and again because sometimes old information becomes new information and I need to start over and get the nurses on board with pain management. The nurses tell me I have to get him to walk, and I nag him to walk and the nurses come in and see him and tell him it's okay if he doesn't feel like he can walk. And I gnash my teeth and gouge my eyes out because this is not sustainable....

And so I eat chocolate. And some times, I'm really salty.
You didn't think I was perfect did you?

As one of the housekeeper's just said when I shared my opinion of a hard truth; thank you for keeping it real.

 Cassandra in front of the burning city of Troy at the peak of her insanity.

By Evelyn De Morgan - Flickr, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=65892

4

Here and There or There and Back Again

It feels like I've been writing the same chapter, and I am really antsy to move on to the next chapter. We started to live it, and then got knocked into some other odd and unanticipated place.

I lie.

We knew going into all of this that there were very real possibilities of complications in this. But, we chose to not factor them in. Because who wants to plan on bad things happening? Who wants to plan their life around the possibility of bad things happening? We just spoke positively throughout, and hoped we could buck statistics. But, that nine out of ten match caught up and no matter how positive we were and are, there's realities that move on a different plain than the power of positive thinking.

I have no idea at this juncture how much longer his stay in the hospital will be. It could be weeks yet. It even could stretch to months. There's really no telling in this situation. The thing is, he's being cared for and, given our experience at home, he's happily here until it's time to go home. There's no looking at the time and pushing to go home. And in that regard, he's been so strong.

We've treated this stay a little differently. I've gone home periodically, because this is more a marathon rather than a sprint than any other time. I can't bring myself to share all the lows we've experienced. Suffice to say, we've scraped the bottom, and then gone a little lower. He and I are on the same page that I need to nestle in at home on occasion just to regroup and gird myself up for the next battle. Flexibility is key, as I've already shared the story of evacuation, and there's been times I've been home less than 24 hours because things have come up, and I just need to be by his side.

That said, home is such a beautiful respite for me. I miss him terribly and sleep on his side of the bed. I look forward to the day he can sleep there again. But I also see the gift of being home.

Home is a bit of a blur. I want to do everything at once and sometimes do nothing at all.

I've kind of fallen into a rhythm where I get all the dirty work done right away. I started mowing some more tall weeds that sprung up at 7 am on Saturday morning. I continue to cut branches up to at least 3 feet off the ground, if not higher for fire safety. Raking is a never-ending task, and I actually had an urge to rake which was stronger than my urge to chat with my mom. If you know anything about my mom, you should know she is a saint at being on the phone with me endlessly. For me to cut a conversation short because I've picked up a rake means I may be compulsive. I just want to get as much done outside as I possibly can, and then clean up and putter a little.

I've managed to keep my garden going this summer. You would laugh at my MacGyvered sprinkler system. I've scrounged up hoses that have seen better days, and I've lined up the holes to hit random plants. I hand watered everything before this situation. This year, I have a cherry tomato that survived through the winter and is bearing again now. I have an early girl bowed low with tomatoes that I can't wait to try. I have another cherry tomato plant in a large container that I kind of haphazardly placed somewhere meaning to move it to a better place. I never moved it because I think it was a happy accident. It's massive and loaded with green tomatoes that I hope will ripen up perfectly. The pumpkin patch is full of mystery squash and the lettuce has shot up. I ate a salad of lettuce and cherry tomatoes from the garden last week, and it was gratifying.

I have a patch in my back yard for my hoarding tendencies. If I think there may be a spark of life, I can't get rid of it. Dominic used to work for a company that would give away or raffle off plants that had been used as props. A great deal of my plants are from that exciting time. He brought home some tired Easter Lilies 2 years ago, and I just turned them out of the pots onto a patch of ground. *I did not even dig a hole and bury them.* Sometimes, I just want to see how badly a plant wants to live.  I enjoyed one bloom in the house over the weekend, and there are several more to follow. They really wanted to live.
If those Easter lilies dumped on the ground and largely ignored can bloom, I am sure Dominic, lavished with love and careful medical attention will bloom with even more beauty and tenacity.

In some ways, it's been an incredibly lonely time. In other ways, I've had people meet me right where I am so unexpectedly. I realized the the other day, I tend to cry on the phone, and then not in person. It was odd to me, that whenever a particular friend called to check on me, I'd break down, but when I get to visit with her, no tears. I think, and I'm not sure, because this whole experience is crazy, but I think that my time with people face to face is so precious to me that I fill it talking about things that matter deeply to me. It feeds me to talk about the great mysteries of life. It also feeds me to hear about what my friends are up to, how they're doing and what challenges they may face.

I so very much appreciate my friends that have reached out to me. Here's some more heart on sleeve raw honesty....I sometimes wonder what kind of a person I am that some people have so easily walked away from me. Over analytical people like me are prone to those kinds of thoughts. There are people I thought would be more present. There are people I thought would actively reach out to me and move heaven and earth to come sit with me. To physically sit with me and just be. There are people I thought would at least check in once in a while given similar circumstances. And if I'm really tired, these thoughts get me down.

But! Even as worn out as I am, I am looking on the bright side. The bright side is, a friendship has been restored that has carried me so far through this. I'm sure people are afraid to reach out to me, but when she called me after a particularly difficult update, she waited a day because she didn't want to bother me being sure my phone must have been ringing off the hook. It hadn't been. And I am so very grateful to this friend for being so sensitive to my needs both perceived and real. She's been able to meet me in my spiritual quest for answers, and some of the best advice was the same advice given to her 10 year old son also. Sometimes, there is beauty in suffering. I am seeking and finding the beauty.

I am so grateful for the friends who have rolled with my waves. The childhood friends who heard me say I need attention, and showed up. With chocolate. The ones I know will hold me up. I am so grateful for the cousin who calls me regularly and is more like a sister. The private messages checking in on me, giving me the space to bare my soul or just go to sleep. I'm so grateful for the nurse who has seen me as more than a caregiver, but as a person worthy of getting to know, and the wonderful conversations we've had along the way. She's been such a bright spot in a difficult time.

I mentioned above, it feeds me to talk about the mysteries of life. I've been thinking about a Nouwen quote I shared on social media. He talks about how it can be hard for people to be present for another if they can't do anything anyway. I realize what Dom and I are experiencing just seems like an abyss no one knows how to even approach. Coupled with our previous need for a bit of isolation for safety precautions, it has left people hard-pressed to know how to be present for us outside of facebook. If this brings any freedom, know this: There is nothing you can do. And, don't get me wrong, many people have done amazing things. We've been generously donated to since work has been impossible, we've been given the gift of house sitting by our neighbor, we've had fields mowed and treats given. We've been given a lot. But not one of those things take away the need for medical intervention. Not one of you has the power to physically heal him. And, I hope you can find freedom in the fact that the only thing you may have to give is yourself. You needn't change anything. You needn't have the magical answers. You needn't even worry about saying the wrong thing. Presence is everything. Real presence. The ones I know I can PM and I will shortly receive an engaging response from; that is an eternal gift to me. All of your encouragements, every heart and note of love gives me the strength I need to make it another day.

Practice makes perfect

Just as we had begun to reach some sort of normalcy, some hint of a little more freedom, it's back in to the hospital.
Dom's beep, beep, beeping through the night, and thanks for the reminder seestor, I'm shooting several panicked glances toward the lock in the public restroom that opens directly to the family room.

It's hard to believe, it's been nearly a year since this whole thing started. Just 3 weeks shy of. We haven't been in the hospital for 5 months and we've been home for 3. After 7 1/2 months of being back and forth between home and hospital and even fire refugees and another 2 months living in Sacramento, I realize we spent collectively nearly 5 months not in our home this past year. And adding days as I type.

I have so many mixed feelings. My strongest feeling is utter relief that professionals are taking care of Dominic. For two weeks I wondered what to do. Should I make him eat? Is eating bad? When do I call the doctor(again)? When will it stop? It was a grueling 2 weeks of sickness for Dom. Being already spent emotionally, having scraped my account over the past year, I was at my wit's end.

So, while we'd rather be home, we are both so grateful to be more directly under the doctor's care.

There's no sign on the door that declares chemo or transplant. The nurses no longer glove up to protect themselves from chemo poisons coming out of Dom's body, though they do still glove up for hygiene.

And I find that after nearly a year of this business, I'm also flowing a little more easily. I'm crying more easily as well, but of course. It's an entirely different thing to be admitted to the hospital with a diagnosis looming and the not knowing when he will have a transplant, and then will the transplant take, and then where will we live in another city....? This feels easier, but it is still excruciatingly difficult.

I spoke with the social worker just after our arrival, and she asked if our room was okay. She knows I prefer a cot over the slippery slidey couch bed. I thanked her for her concern, but told her it's fine. This is just a blip. It could be a long blip yet, but we're on the other side. There's so much relief being on this side of treatment. (I've also figured out that if I shove a couple pillows between the slippery layers of the bench of the couch and the fold out cushions on top, I am nestled in and prevented from being deposited on the floor.)

I don't totally understand the human mind and the plasticity of thoughts. Fears do creep in. We're on the other side, but that assumes there's "sides". It's not as simple as all that. There's still biopsies to be had, still the body adjusting to the new stem cells, still the body dealing with the aftermath of a chemical cocktail of chemo so strong it could kill. Still the stress even of recovery time. I still find myself worrying and whatiffing, and I have to actively banish any thought that only serves to panic or wear me down.

Tomorrow brings with it whatever it will bring and it is absolute hubris to think that any bit of my worrying will take away any challenging thing. And so, I try and dwell on what seems good. Of course, that's also an interesting balance. You see, I'd been been dwelling on the fact that his White Count finally went past that scary place it had been for months. I was dwelling on the fact that he could finally eat blueberries, (which he did) and we could maybe have some friends over for a meal, and I could finally visit my friend with all the kids or attend a yoga class, and maybe some friends could come and see how they began a cleanup that I would continue and we could marvel at all our hard work and enjoy a relaxing day. And so....it's a funny place to be, hopeful and yet not overly disappointed when I realize that all those things will be on the back burner again. It's a dance; building a future and holding it in my hand with open fingers so whatever needs to slip through can. And whatever does slip through, all in good time, I can pick it up again, if it's right and good and worth while.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, it's an art to be hopeful in the future, grateful and present in the now, and not too disappointed when things do not go as planned. It's an art I haven't mastered; but I suppose practice makes perfect.

I will be back and forth with a little more freedom this stay. I have to keep our life in a forward motion right now. I never wanted to leave him when everything was looming. I never wanted him to feel alone in the darkness of chemo and the mystery of transplant. And I could not leave him alone for long in the ensuing months of low WBC. It's no difficult thing to be so tethered to him, since he is my love and best friend and joy to be around. But he's in good hands. I'll look forward to us being back home together. We'll hopefully pick up where we left off, and continue to look forward.

jiggity jig

The news is out. We are home! We are officially home. After one hundred plus days, the temporary home story is over and the transition to home sweet home begins.

I wish I had taken the time to sit and write so many thoughts...but it has been a whirlwind!

We began the transition back in February. We talked about what to do as our commitment to the house in Sacramento was coming to an end and the neighbor's ability to not tromp across the floors at 3 am was not coming to an end.

We made arrangements for friends to be with Dom while I spent a weekend getting our little cottage ready. I'd let the cats have free reign in our bedroom and after 3 months of their indoor/outdoor fur-bodies lounging on the bed, it was not pretty. Everything came off the bed and got a good wash. And, call me crazy, but I started spring cleaning from one corner of the room, all the way through the house. No, I'm not content to just vacuum, dust, and mop. I must go through every drawer and basket and cupboard and spring clean.

But I have to back up. You see, I was not the first person around here to spring clean. The tractor shed is attached to our home, and over the years, the shed became the final resting place for a lot of junk. (The homeowner's, not mine! I have plenty of junk myself, but perhaps not a garage door motor circa 1970.) Over the months we'd been gone, some special people had been weeding and cutting back bushes. And one day, a group of very special people spent love day cleaning out this space! No small feat. I parked, ready to tackle everything all at once, in the back of my mind knowing I would also tackle this space soon and.....it was already tackled! It was cleaned out! And, as I got closer to our porch, I saw pretty flowers fresh planted! My heart was swelling and racing. I felt so very loved.
It was like an Easter egg hunt, that's what I thought, as I walked around the house and found once empty flower pots and ceramics filled lovingly with flowers and succulents. And a young man had spent his day weed mowing until he ran out of string. I was so touched that the son of a friend would spend his day caring for us so tangibly. Our firewood was stacked neatly, and as I have stacked firewood myself, I know that was no small job. Everything looked so incredible. Our dear friends did what would take me weeks to do in one day. I still get a little verklempt thinking about it.

And they are dreaming of outdoor spaces with us. Dreaming of a summer spent outside in beauty, quite the opposite of this past summer. And I could not have better people in my life if I tried. I attribute it to Dom and his winning personality.

So, armed with all those good feelings, I set into the house. I covered the table in items that would be happier in other homes. I packed the last of Christmas away. I of course cuddled the kitties. And I vacillated between can this really be happening and we are coming home soon.

I spent the first day and a half doing the purge thing. There was an added layer of looking to replace things my Mom had lost in the fire and finding things I was so relieved were not lost. My heart still hurts when I think about the fire. It's crazy to me to think back to where we were that October. Dom was on round 6, the dreaded even round of chemo, and we still had not found a donor. There were possibilities, but no one clearly committed. I think we were as low as could be. And waking up to the terrible news that our city was on fire, our home was under threat, a beloved home lost already, and Dom not able to lift his head off the pillow, those were dark days. Those days, it was very difficult to imagine that someone would donate their stem cells and we'd find a place to live in Sacramento, and we'd make it through the 100 days.

And there I was. Preparing our nest that survived the fire, for my man who also survived his own fire. 100 days nearly complete and pretty little flowers to welcome us home.

And wouldn't you know, if I wasn't already emotional enough, my Aunt was doing some spring cleaning and purging of her own, and offered to send me some of my Grandma's things she'd been keeping. In figure, I am a carbon copy of her. My aunt sent me a couple pictures to see if I'd like the items or not. The black rain coat that was my Grandma's last coat I remember her wearing immediately brought tears to my eyes. There was just something about the cuffs that instead of buttons had little bows. The coat spoke to me also of the adventures my Grandma went on. She wore this coat to Switzerland and Chicago. She'd traveled Europe straight out of high school in 1938. Her steamer trunk with stickers from each country she visited sits in my house complete with much of her travel attire. She continued to travel as she could throughout her life. Somehow, that coat held so much Grandma, whom I love dearly. I'd already shared all this with my Mom, shared with her how I cried when the photo came, and cried again even as I shared this with her. I cried as I opened the box of treasures cleaning weekend, and shortly thereafter, Mom showed up. The coat fit her perfectly. It's raining even as I share this, and it makes me so happy that my Mom should have my Grandma's coat. (This Grandma is my Dad's mother.) But for my mom to have her coat just felt right in the midst of all that has happened.

And all of the above is to say, if you didn't already guess, this is an emotional time! But, I welcome the emotion. I welcome the connections and the history and the memories and the dreaming of better days and making new memories.

I scurried around for 2 nights and 3 days and with the help of Mom and friends, got it done. I feathered the nest and returned to Sacramento to scoop up Dominic. He'd had a great weekend with friends.

I packed up our little mini to the roof. (We'd arranged to pick up the rest, which also turned out to be to the roof, on our next doctor visit.) Dom stayed in the car as the first thing I packed up is his work computer. Once I could not shove a single other thing inside, we set off for home. I wondered how he'd feel heading home after 3 months of being away. We were mostly excited and relieved to be saying goodbye to the noisy house. No more elephants up stairs. No more metal kitchen with 20 pound flat ware clanging loudly every time we ate. And we were so longing for home. And, we were nervous as we weren't technically freed to go home. We just decided it was time. But, a part of us worried as we didn't want to jeopardize anything we'd worked so hard for.

Dom felt the same shock and awe I did as he walked up the path and saw all the work that had been done. He looked up at our green hills that were once brown from the fires. He scanned the tree line taking in the ones that burned down, and the ones that look like they'll make a comeback. He masked up and took a walk.

And now that we're "officially" home, the sweet relief can really settle in. Now that the doctor said it's "okay", we are sleeping like babies. He is extra fatigued right now, as the steroids he'd been on gave him energy. He's completely off steroids now, and the doctor cut out another medication yesterday. Each cut is a sign of moving forward. So, he's settling in slowly. I'd imagine it's bitter sweet to be home. Mostly sweet. But there's still limitations. We're still taking precautions as his White Blood Count is taking its sweet time rallying. It will be some time before he can integrate back in to work, and even more time before he can work in the garden or do things he'd normally do around here. But for now, he can wander around outside. He can set up his office and be inspired by tutorials and past images he's shot.

And I've already gotten my fingers in the soil. My neighbor took me on a surprise adventure and bought me a plant to put in the ground with all the fixings. She'd done some research and took me to just the spot for what was needed. We spent the next morning weeding out a spot that was once a jumble of pots, and carved out a plot for sweet peas and peonies.

Looking back, time did fly and move like molasses. I did not know what to expect, but I think things went better than expected. I bought Dominic a bell for Christmas, thinking he'd be an invalid barely able to move, and that was certainly not the case. He's been so strong, and has received so many compliments from the doctor and nurses for what a good patient he has been.

We still have many trips to Sacramento. There's still many tests and blood draws. But we're home! And the first tests returned very good results. Dom has just returned from a morning walk and our noisy black kitty is telling us what's what.