Sometimes I see my reflection and find my face hardly recognizable, my body feels worn and torn. Once an avid weightlifter and cardio queen, my knees and hips now hurt just from walking. Jill and Diane feel the same. Tired and stressed no longer adequately define it; it’s beyond a feeling, beyond a morning look. To feel this tired, this sore, this fatigued is a state of existence. For now, at least. I say this not as a source of complaint but as a reminder to me that I have it easy. We have the luxury of time and health to try to correct this year’s damage, but what of Craig? Each time my body pops or my pinched nerve fires, I think of Craig and what he must be feeling – pain from foreign cancer invading his belly and organs; pain from a split open tailbone; frustration from losing control of the most basic functions; exhaustion. If my sisters and I feel like this in the unique ways we might define it, then what must that level of fatigue feel like for Craig -- the kind of exhaustion that inhibits shifting side to side, or carrying on conversations? What does it feel like to lose strength over the simple muscles that allow walking or wiping? What does it feel like to lose muscle strength to swallow comfortably? What must that really feel like? Especially now.
This week has arguably been difficult. Each day, I see my brother, someone that I know but who now stands in the shadows of who I knew just months ago. MONTHS! Just in December, he was that quirky brother running in his swishy pants and black fleece, jogging about the cross-country track with us, making faces as he’d pass going in the other direction. December! Mid February, though already sick, he was the son helping our fallen mom from the floor, picking garments for her to try on and purchase, and playing harmonica as he strolled down the street. How did it come to this? How did it get to this point of no return? We hear of folks at “death’s door” who somehow find a miracle cure. But were they really at death's door? Was death’s door back in Craig’s February when he was first taken to the hospital hallucinating from pain and nausea? Or was he at death’s door when he found out he had an aggressive, incurable form of cancer? Or perhaps when his third chemo treatment turned out to be his last? Or now when his body has passed the brink from which it’s imaginable anyone returning or overcoming? Despite throwing every appropriate and legitimate medical treatment at his cancer, despite his young 32 year old body and his uber fit physique, despite an uncontested will to live, we are still where we are watching that guy -- who only a few months ago ran with us, ate with us, and dreamed with us -- slowly fade away.
Several indicators speak to us each day -- respiration rate, pulse, consciousness, circulation – and some voices grow louder. Craig’s respirations have dropped from 8-9 breaths per minute to 5-6. I’ve tried to breath only 5 times per minute and find myself gulping for air. We stare at his chest for longer spells, waiting for him to take a breath. His pulse has dropped, as well. Though still high, he’s now in the high nineties rather than 140. But, he’s still alert when awake and the mottling, which would indicate poor circulation, remains a product of dangling his legs too long rather than a constant.
For some rare reason (perhaps the fact that it was recently on TV), I’m reminded of the movie, Sleeping with the Enemy. There's a similar reluctance checking his symptoms as there is monitoring the bathroom towels and cupboards of cans. One symptom standing alone is not particularly worrisome, but when aligned… We take note of these indicators -- hoping each day they aren't aligned, knowing some day they will be, and realizing the horror of what it means when they are.
It's so hard to believe this is happening to him., and too difficult to wrap my mind around. In time, maybe it will make sense. But, right now, it just seems so utterly unfair and screwed up. ~E
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