His speech and hearing and mobility have all taken a dive. His brain is still undergoing swelling as a result of the extensive radiation. And so he is stuck in this holding pattern. Not being able to move or speak... just to think. And what goes on in his brain all day, I wonder?
I sat down near him on the couch as he was lying there. I set my chin on his knee. And I looked him in the eyes. I told him I love him and then my eyes filled up with tears. And so did his. And some of the words he can manage to say are, "It's ok." ... What's ok?? What is it that is ok, Rob? Because none of this seems ok to me. It would seem ok if you could get better. And it would seem ok if you could pass quietly into the next world. But this does not seem ok. This holding pattern. This lengthy stall of inability and frustration.
I swam across a lake this weekend... just as the sun was reaching its fingertips into the sky. The lake was glassy and cool. And a man and his boy were fishing at the southern edge. Why did I jump into that water? I sat there for a few minutes... tottering the line between jumping in and just dangling my toes in the water. And as the sun quickly made its ascent, I knew there were precious few minutes to enjoy this moment. To float softly across the water just as the sun made its way into the open sky. Only 200 miles south lay a man that I loved and that I still love that couldn't jump in even if he wanted to... unless he wanted to just roll off the dock and sink through the murky water to settle at the bottom. And here I was delaying a beautiful moment simply because the water was cold?? Insane.