Susan has an appointment with the oncologist today. She has one every four weeks, to get a dose of Zometa and to get a blood sample taken.
Then, in a few days, we should hear back from the doctor’s office on whether Susan’s tumor markers have stayed good, or if they’ve started going up again.
They’ll go up again eventually. We know that. And when they do, Susan will have to start chemo again. We’re both trying to be prepared for that. But I don’t think we ever really are. When Susan has to start chemo again, it’s going to suck. Bad.
Most of the time, to tell the truth, we don’t even talk about when that eventuality comes up, because we’d rather live in the present — where, for now, Susan’s pretty much stopped using crutches altogether and gets around really well with a cane. And — this is very cool — she can take several steps with no assistance whatsoever.
Still, though, sometimes I get can’t help but think about how at some point Susan’s going to have to start chemo again, and the suffering will start for her again, and it sucks all the wind out of me.
I think that’s why I’ve currently got two different posts for this blog — ones that are supposed to be funny — half-finished on the computer. It’s weird, really: I stalled out on the first one and thought, “Well, maybe this isn’t a good idea after all,” and I started writing something else.
That second one stalled out, too.
I’ve been writing this blog for three years and it’s usually so easy for me (that’s the big secret to my blog: it’s actually not hard work). So when I’m staring at the screen and I’ve got nothing to say, I keep asking myself, “What’s wrong with me?” And — strangely — it often doesn’t occur to me that maybe I’m not funny today because I’m worried and anxious about my wife.
Our 20th wedding anniversary is this August. Two days after we get back from Leadville. We’re getting close to the tipping point where we will have spent more of our lives married to each other than not. During this time, I’ve become somewhat attached to her.
So you’ll have to excuse me today — and probably again in another four weeks — while I worry a little bit.