Atomictumor

Theres hope again, not that it was really gone. The only chance I really have to read all of your comments and emails and blog posts, and really feel your love, is after I get G and Pigpen to bed, and crawl that way myself. Normally, GAC and I are those wierd parents who put their kids to bed at 8, and Pigpen’s been adhering to that, but MastaG is staying up.

MastaG. He’s always gotten the short end of the internet stick, because he’s not a goofy, amazingly cute, strange little four year old like Pigpen, but MastaG is the man of the day.

Saturday, when we were losing her, when we had to leave the room because her BP dropped very, very low, MastaG, Pigpen and I went to the little chapel. I was two days back into getting in good with God, maybe one, but the first place we went was to pray. All three of us kneeled down, with some family behind us and outside, and prayed. I’ve talked about that before, on Saturday.

I didn’t say (to my knowledge) here that I told MastaG that this is the kind of thing that makes a boy into the man he will become. I never had something like this in my childhood, but that he will, for all his days, and he’ll look back on it as a defining moment. Maybe the defining moment.

He’s very deep, but strong. Stronger than I am, which I wouldn’t have suspected. He has a humor (which gets out of control occasionally) that sustains me. I don’t want to rely on my son for support, and I don’t, but it feels better when he’s around. We talk. I have to wait for him to come to me for real talk. He’s afraid we wouldn’t be a family without BJ, and I told him it’d be like a hand, if it lost a finger. It’d still be able to hold a cup, and pet a child, it’d still be a hand. Our family is that way.

Who thinks they have to tell this stuff to a 9 year old? MastaG’s birthday is in 3 or 4 weeks (22nd). When I was that age… well, we all were 9. The words, and the wisdom, can’t come from me.

The fact that I see beauty everywhere… can’t come from me. Everywhere. Look around, you’ll see it. Its right next to you. Its under your feet, and over your head.

…

GAC, you were responsive tonight. I feel you crying, through your eye furrows. I could feel you squeeze my hand, and I was told that Mom could feel a pulse in your foot.

Sweet girl. I was prepared (again) to lose you today. How can I feel ready to lose you? Oh, my dear girl. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Tonight you were worried about everybody else, which is exactly what you do. You were overwhelmed with emotion. I’d talk about how MastaG is my hero, and you cried. I told you “nothing to fear, nothing to doubt” and you smoothed up. We’d talk more, and I’d tell you about all this, the ‘tumor crashing under the clicks of all these wonderful, beautiful, amazing people who have the strength to witness this.

She is very aware of your thoughts, your hopes, your tears, your prayers. We’ll say for every one of mine that drop on her porcelean doll skin, its 100s of yours.

Thank you. Even if you don’t comment, or email, or call, even if you read this and you’re not touched by this angel of a girl, this sweet, hurt, sick goddess of a woman, if you can just try to see that beauty thats there when you hurt, it’ll be almost worth it.

Especially if the hope is worth it.

Guys, I’m feeling ready to lose her, but I… oh, man… I love her. I don’t want her to hurt, or fear. I’ll walk through the gates of hell for another moment with her.

Thats another thing that overwhelmed her, when I told her that every single second I spend with her, stroking her sweet head, holding her puffy hand, is the best gift, kissing those eyebrows, the only part of her body thats hers right now, these are moments worth any pain.

You’re still so far away.

…

Damn, this is a long post. Chaulk it up to the server running. If you’ve noticed, we’ve been redirected to a new server. Johnny Dobbins performed herculean work today, and he doesn’t get paid to do it.

This thing is how I cope. When it went down today, I started shutting down. I don’t know if I can do this without letting the emotion out here. I’m going to need to read this stuff to get through later parts of this pain, whats coming around the horizon, because I think it will be worse than this.

How can it get worse?

Thats another one of those damn ‘how’ questions, and this is the objective part of my essay.

Gary was the nurse again this evening. I didn’t click well with Linda, and I told him that. Not to remove her, because I’m sure she was excellent, but she drained my hope. If GAC dies, if my hope is for naught, I’ll deal with that then. I don’t need my hope gone, because it is sustaing me.

I think people there see me, standing, asking questions, smiling as I talk to them, and think I don’t understand. Others think that I’m evading. No, its all there.

I don’t need nurses to tell me how critical it is, until she is at the final turn. Gary, Jack, Nate, they seemed to understand it.

Or maybe its just because they’re men. How fucking sexist is that? GAC will have a time with that. Ladies, I’m a pretty liberated guy, having a wife like her. Seriously.

But I can’t help it. I didn’t work well with her. She seemed to talk down to me, she seemed to not understand that I want to know what the systolic pressure is, and what the white cell count is, what the PCO2 is, and the liver enzyme, and the bicarb. I need to know what her heart is doing. What her pulse is. Her temp. I need the facts, because I can work with numbers.

As I cope, I’m learing to work with the non-objective things.

GAC’s will is so strong. It could move mountains.

I’m learning something about grief. I realized tonight that I’ve been stressing about not feeling the grief, which is dumb. What I should be feeling is the love, and I feel that so strongly. Her love, and my love for her, flows like an aura.

I feel her, in the back of my head, through that love.

There were no tears produced in the writing of this post, and thats OK. If I want to defer the racking sobs, well, thats just fine. I’m a little sick of em.

I’d rather focus on those eyebrows. That hand squeezing me. The fact that I can calm her. That more than anything.

GAC, my girl. My love, my darling. I love you so much. Come back to me, GAC. Heal your body, heal your blood, heal your organs. Please, please, please, God, let my GAC come back to me. My sweet BJ.

I might write more tonight.

There is nothing to fear, nothing to doubt.

I love you, BJ.

This entry was posted on Monday, November 6th, 2006 at 11:25 pm and is filed under Pain. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.