Yesterday was terrible, and traumatically reminiscent of everything that went wrong the fist time around--fever, throwing up, pain. She was really miserable.
I'm sorry--I couldn't post anything on the blog. I thought about it, thought I should, but I truly had no idea what to write. "Today, Jen feels like shit and the rest of us are totally freaking out" seemed neither appropriate nor sufficient, and I didn't want to validate the experience by writing about it, anyway.
Earlier, I had successfully demanded (nicely) of the nurse that she get one of Jen's docs on the phone and let them know what was up, rather than just adding her condition to the notes in her file. It wasn't until late in the day, though, that Whiteford finally came in to check up on her, which he did quite casually despite acknowledging that she looked crappy. Glancing up, he must have seen a look in my eye because he admonished us to not let our "PTSD" get the better of us. He wasn't worried. He indicated, in that surgeony way, that everything was going to be OK, and strolled out of her room.
Guess what? He was right! After sleeping all day yesterday (except when vomiting, etc) Jen is feeling pretty good today. She's eating an ever-expanding diet (Yay for toast!) and she's logged perhaps two miles of walking through the oh-too-familiar byways of the Providence Cancer Center's seventh floor.
Up and down, people, as our bodies progress through their healing stages. It is not always fun, but it works.
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