After I got Art home, Art slept and slept and slept. He woke up to greet each kid and then would fall asleep. The kids tried to talk to him and he'd fall asleep mid-sentence. It wasn't till after dinner that I notice his eyes. Have you ever seen photos of the nazi war camp survivors? He started to look more and more like those photos. His eyes were suken, rimmed in deep blue black. The 15 pounds he has lost made him look tiny frail and underfed. He had to psych himself up to just use the bathroom. I had to "prepare" the bedroom before he got into bed, turn down the covers, get his pillows in the right position. He was too weak to do it himself. Chemo was doing it's job.
Then he slept. It was a restless night and then at 11 o'clock the fevers started. 101, 103.5, 105. The nasea started and culminated with vomiting. That was at 4 am. I call the American Cancer Center in a panic. "Is this normal?" I called the doctor. She said take him to the hospital. My mother and knew we couldn't get him to the car, and I couldn't call the ambulance. It seemed, I don't know, just wrong. Something in me said leave him be. When I woke him at 8, his fever was 101. It took me, Langston and my friend Olivia to get him to the car and then we were back, in less than 24 hours, to the hospital. That is where I write from now.
Chemo is the scariest thing I have ever witnessed.
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