The Little Things Are Really the Big things

If you were looking at me right now, you would see that I have tears in my eyes. But they are tears of relief and thankfulness. It's amazing how happy you can be just to see someone you love eat an egg and a piece of toast, drink a glass of milk, smile, converse a little bit and chuckle at a joke. (Mike, I gave John your message this morning: "Mike says to go to the middle of the ship." He laughed. He would not have even smiled yesterday. So I'm glad I waited.)

Yesterday was a long, hard day. The last few days have been hard. But for some reason, I had a particularly hard day yesterday (emotionally). I had expected this round to be easier for John because of having the anti-nausea medication. But it didn't seem like he got much relief at all (although it probably would have been a lot worse without it). I was expecting yesterday to be better than Friday. So it came as a surprise when he spent a whole second day sick in bed. By last night I was feeling kind of blue. The stress makes you fragile.

I was telling a friend that seeing John so sick brings back a lot of memories of my mother, who died of colon cancer just after her 49th birthday. She was terminally ill for seven months. Ironically, the one meal I can most vividly remember her eating when she could get something down was a fried egg and a piece of toast. And that's what sounded good to John this morning. It had to be a fried egg for both of them.

After eating his breakfast, he took a Compazine and an Ativan and went back to bed. Before he did, I hugged him and said, "I'm so glad you're back." And he said, "I'm not back yet. But I will be soon." I wasn't suggesting that he was back to being himself. I was feeling overwhelmed with thankfulness that I could see a twinkle of his personality again. Just seeing his smile and being able to have a conversation with him made me feel like a kid on Christmas morning. I feel like a new person compared to last night.

You can't really know the feeling I'm trying to describe until you walk in these shoes. I have watched the progression of cancer in a very up close and personal way before. Hearing about someone's cancer battle and being in the battle with someone very close to you are totally different experiences. There are past moments, conversations, and experiences that are etched into my memory forever because of my mom's battle. It's an emotional battle for every family member, as well as the person who actually has the cancer. The emotions of my past experiences will always be with me. The fact that it's been over twenty years doesn't change the intensity of the emotion. When a memory is triggered, I feel the same emotion I felt then. And going through this with John triggers a lot of those memories.

Thankfully, John's situation is different. We are expecting a good response to these treatments and hopefully many years of not having to think about his leukemia. But when you are in the moment of watching someone you love suffer, there is only that moment. And there are your memories. And there is fear.

When you are feeling fearful and anxious, you feel isolated and alone - even though you know you are not. There are many friends I could have picked up the phone and called last night. Any number of wonderful people in my life would have been at my disposal at a moment's notice if they thought there was anything they could do to offer love and support. But one of the strange things about being in this position is that sometimes you can't figure out what you want or what would help. I thought perhaps I just needed someone to talk to and considered picking up the phone and making a call, but then at the same time, I wasn't sure I even wanted to talk to anybody. If I can't figure out what I need, I sure can't expect anyone else to figure it out!

So I wound up talking to all my friends last night by writing on my blog. There is something about writing that provides a release for me and serves as therapy. For some reason, just putting my thoughts and feelings out there makes me feel better. When I see a lot of hits on my blog, I know I'm being "checked on" and that you're thinking of us and praying. Although a blog may seem less personal to some (as a means of communication), it is very personal to me. It is comforting to me to know that you are reading the thoughts I share. Yet I don't have to worry that I'm interrupting you at a bad time because you can read when it's convenient or when you happen to think, "I wonder how John is doing. Maybe there's something on Shari's blog." I know you're only reading because you care and want to know. I don't have to worry that I might be bothering anyone or being a whiney baby because nobody HAS to read.

I'm so thankful John has allowed me to write about what we're going through. This is therapy I have needed for more than two years. It is such a helpful outlet for me to be able to share and write about whatever is on my heart at the moment I need to share it. If you call me three hours from now, I may not have the same need to get something off my heart. The great thing about a blog for me is that I can write at the moment I need to write and then feel better whether I've talked to anyone personally or not. That probably would not work for everyone, but it works for me.

I didn't want to make this about me (and I still don't). I wanted to honor John's preference for privacy in the beginning, and I did my best. But concealing anything only adds to my stress. I am wired to be an open book. Please know that even when we don't talk personally, I feel your love in a very tangible way just knowing you have been to my blog to check on me. Thank you for taking the time to walk through this with me. It means more to me than you know. It may seem like a little thing to you, but it's a big thing to me.