His counts are almost at 0, 156 to be exact. (Normal is 1800 – 8000) They will be 0 tomorrow when they take his blood. O, nada, none. No white blood cells. Nothing to fend off virus’, fungus’, or bacterias. All milk products are officially band (unless they are cooked). The only fruit available are oranges and bananas because of their thick skin. No salads, restaurant food. No fresh vegetables. The simple act of not washing my hands before I hand him something can make him sick. Someone had a child in the center on Friday, a coughing child. I wanted to pick up that germ bag and remove it, then walk in and scold the parents –people who were beyond realizing that this was a “cancer treatment center” and there are people here who “are sick.” I didn’t know I would so fierecly want to do bodily harm anyone who sneezed or coughed within a 5 mile radious of Art.
Art walked down to the cancer treatment center today. For the past three days, he has been too fatigued to make the walk, using a wheelchair instead. He still walks at the approximate speed of an 18 month old toddler, although with more focus and no stopping. Stopping means not going again. At home, he hasn’t sat at the dinner table for the same number as days. I have to remind him to take his medicines. I help him undress every night. It's like living, I assume, with an elderly patient who needs assistance in almost everything he/she does. Only, this is not an elderly man, this is my 42 year old husband.
If I had a sledge hammer, I am sure I could break through four concrete walls with one blow. As I picked up the hammer, all the frustration, stress and anger from Art, the kdis and me would be drawn into the wooden handle. My own will would swing the hammer high and strong over my right shoulder. Gravity and my anticipation of release would power the momentum of the hammer down. It would trigger the flow of emotion from the handle to the metal mallet. The force would ravage four walls. After being hit, the walls would crumble in defeat and the emotions of this journey would dissipate with the dust. I would walk away feeling my "wrecking ball" power.
A Side Note. I have had no formal training as a writer, heck I graduated college with a degree in speech pathology. I have always used Art as my editor. He was able to read my work with a “professional” eye, asking questions and make suggestions that would take whatever I wrote to the next level. That last paragraph, “if I had a sledge hammer” is also a victim of this disease. The idea is present, but something is missing from it (you writers totally know what I’m talking about). It needs work and I am incapable of figuring out what to do. There have been moments when I have "channeled" Art, making the changes I know he would suggest. At present my own fatigue has made me incapable of that and Art is under the chemo haze, uanble to focus long enough to help me. The rage I feel at this moment could probably knock down this whole building. I miss him.
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