Honest

There are some days, I just don’t know what to write; this happens to be one of them.  Today, I’ve found myself teetering on the fulcrum between anger and anguish.  Hearing Craig laugh, or watching him sleep keeps me in the middle.  There will be times I’ll stand outside his door and it’s all I can do to keep from crying.  Then I remember, Craig’s not crying.  If he can do this, so can I.  Little does he know I draw a lot of my strength from him.  I’m amazed at how he tolerates the onslaught of bad news.  I’m amazed at how he views each vomiting episode like it’s a science experience, asking me to record the volume and the consistency.   I’m amazed at how he can muscle through what I imagine to be fairly painful symptoms, if only to be awake for his friends.  He wants to do these things; he wants to be ‘normal’.  But I know it’s a struggle and the shifting postures and quiet moans reveal a more honest monster.  

Ironically, we’ve had some of our most tender moments during bouts of pain or nausea.  The other day, he told me he’d like me to hold his hand or buzz his leg when he vomits.  I’ve also been massaging his lower back and legs to help ease the pain.  He said today that he thinks the tumors have grown to a point of pressing against his spine and back muscles.   He’s also having difficulties fastening his pants, now that his belly is so distended (I hope he's just water-logged from the saline).  It’s hard to sit at his bed-side, and push IV meds into my 32 year old brother.  I look at his arms and see familiar veins, familiar skin -- the same brother I’ve known for 28 years.  And yet, a process entirely foreign to us continues underneath. 



I often catch myself staring at Craig, just wondering how this all came about.  Just tonight, we had a little discussion about how fast things can change.  A few months ago, we were traveling around SE Asia, with the only worry on our mind being, of course, our mom, and then what destination we’d hit next.  Never did we consider this as a possibility.  I’m so grateful for the opportunities we've had.  I wish more than anything we could go back to Raleigh beach, to gazing at the stars and laughing at how romantic the situation would have been, if only we were with other people (i.e. not cramping each other’s style).   How long ago that seems.

We’ve developed a routine, and that somehow makes our life feel normal.  But time ticks on in our new ‘normal’ and I can’t help but feel like there’s simply not enough of it.  As much as I think I’ve come to terms with our reality, there are times I look at him and just think ‘this can’t be happening’.  It’s a tough balance, and the best I (we) can do is to take one day at a time.   I only wish those just now coming into Craig’s life could see him at his best -- he’s a way of being as much as he is a person.  He’s made a lot of people laugh along the way, and still does, despite it all. His strength inspires us all to continue on, and to focus on the times we've had, and the ones to come.  Even as we say goodbye to elements of our old normal, we turn over another page with the anticipation of discovering new things to love.  Sad and a tad cheesy, but that’s coping.  --J