Patience

The last few weeks have been hard.  Michael is almost always in pain, to varying degrees, and always tired.  It tears me up inside to see him like this.  Watching him take a moment after he gets up to steady himself, seeing him take so much care and time climbing a flight of stairs, it breaks something inside me because I know he hates being this way.  He also hates the fact I am seeing him like this.  He is a man, and men never want to appear weak.  It's written into the DNA, I think.  Right now he is, and we both hate it.

But I am also proud of him.  He let's me see him like this because he trusts I will not kick him when he is at his most vulnerable.  He trusts that I will take care of him and do everything I can to keep him safe.  He knows I won't make fun of him, or bring this up later to hurt or embarrass him.  That's a trust built on love and time.  Very few people get past all Michael's walls to get to that spot, but I did.  It feels wonderful.

Even at our most hellish time we still rejoice in our love for each other.  I never thought I would find love like this, or that I would be capable of giving love like this to another person.  Oh, it's been tested.  But we've passed each one.

Now we are grappling with hope and it's a vicious beast.  Michael's last chemo before taking the PET scan is March 31.  We are both optimistic the results will be good.  The cancer will be gone.  But we don't want to get our hopes up.  We know what it means if the cancer is still there.  More chemo maybe, or radiation.  More drugs, more pain, more waiting.  It's a monstrous boulder hanging over our heads by a very thin thread.  We want to know and we want to know NOW.

Patience.  I'd like to punch patience in it's smug little face.

If the cancer is gone we can finally get back to our lives.  We can get healthy again, we can work out,  ride bikes, hike, go camping, and skate.  We can make plans in advance!  We can see our friends and hang out without worrying about germs.  We can say yes to invitations without the, "We may have to cancel..."  Our kids will stop worrying.  Our families will stop worrying and fussing.  We can live again.  IF the cancer is gone.

Patience, please fall in a deep pit full of sharp, broken glass and lemon juice.

So we wait and walk that fine line between getting our hopes up and fearing the worst.  When I see Michael next I'm giving him a big hug and lots of kisses.  This whole cancer thing has been a bitch, but we've come out stronger than ever:)