You can see the dejection in his eyes. The cyclical fevers are still there, so are the night sweats. Three to six surgeons enter his room each day and we always ask. It's the big question - the only question - yet a thousand questions.
Did we get this thing? Is it possible we never even found the problem? Is it possible that we just stumbled across this cancer in our search for a needle in a haystack? Is the needle still there? Is it possible that we are in the exact same position we were in November, but now we've got 8-inch zipper stitches in his stomach and a hole in his leg?
All three surgeons give us the verbal equivalent of a collective shoulder shrug. They don't say no - but they don't say yes. They say, "Let's just keep watching it."
When we heard the phrase "clear margins" it wasn't like we were ready to believe the nightmare we'd been living this past year was over, but I think we allowed ourselves the possibility of imagining that we'd wake up from it. Now It feels like we're back in limbo.
But still, we look for the good in the day.
Anesthesia Erik popped in for a visit - just because he was wondering if we were ok.
Nurse Karl was there too. Though he wasn't there in official capacity. Karl and I go way way back to Bible camp counselor days. He kept me company for two hours, where our constant chatter helped Rico maintain a blissful sleep.
Rico got to sit on the edge of the bed today. It took four of us to help him, but he did it.
Lori and Chris came over to our house, made dinner, sat down to the table with our kids, and made sure there were leftovers when I got home.
The neighbors made dinner last night, (and the night before), hosted sleepovers, made us fresh chocolate chip cookies, drove Punk to work, and fixed Rico's computer.
Kooka cleaned our kitchen spotlessly.
The tornado warnings stopped so I could make it home in peace. Some things are still good.