I feel pretty darn alone right now. I feel so darn helpless. I am really struggling. This damn fight is hard. Harder than anything you might ever be able to imagine. It is beyond difficult to see your rock crumbling. To see the road that leads you everywhere disappear in the fog. You don’t know where to go, what to do, what to say. My Tim today…he is crumbling…my Tim has disappeared. And for me, this is so indescribably difficult. I feel like a baby right now crying and carrying on like I am…but shit, it is so hard not to. I listen to this chemo device pump poison through my husband every what, 60 seconds. Yes, like every damn minute I hear it infuse more in to him. Every minute that pump reminds me that he is sick and that he is feeling absolutely terrible. The helplessness of this disease is truly crippling. It is. It just is. You can only lean on family, friends and neighbors so much for support. Then you just have to friggen buck up and deal with the shit on your own. You do. You have to. Unless you’re wearing or have worn these shoes before you just won’t get it. You will say, oh I’m here to help or oh, I wish you would call or lean on me and Gosh, how I wish I could…. but you freakin can’t. You just can’t. It’s not possible. It is the loneliest and most scary place one might ever find themselves.
At this very moment, I sit here with my laptop and I stare at Tim. He is laying next to me, breathing quietly, consistently. I am so thankful he is asleep. Because if he is asleep, I can just pretend that he is not sick, I can think that he is just tired. When he is asleep, I don’t know how much pain he is in. How terribly the side effects are impacting him. I can make believe and pretend. This makes me happy. At the same time, it makes me feel so alone. He lays here, next to me, so still and so silent. I want to snuggle up next to him, but I can’t. I’m afraid to. I don’t want to wake him. I don’t want him to feel his discomfort and pain anymore so I stay away.
The tears are pretty heavy and are stinging pretty bad on my face tonight. They won’t stop and I most definitely don’t have the energy or will to try to figure out how to make them stop. I feel like we have been fighting this monster for so long. I don’t know what we ever must have worried about before. Did we ever have a life pre-cancer? Were we ever the care-free, worry-free, fun-wild-crazy Tim and Denise that I see in pictures, that we talk about when reminiscing with friends?
Tim is my energy. My smile. My love. My light. My happiness. My laughter. My tears. My hopes. My dreams. My crazy feelings. My every day feelings. My excitement. My mundane. He stimulates my brain. He stimulates my heart. He takes my breath away, still, to this day. I hope that so many of you reading this experience this type of crazy, consuming love. nbsp;And if you haven’t, I pray that some day you will. I pray that you read this and you pause and look at your person and you realize how truly blessed you are. Say thanks to God for your person. Thank God for your health. Thank God for blessing you with another day.
Tonight I will sign off and I will talk with God. I will work through the doubts and questions that are in my head and heart. I will ask that He heal my shaken faith. I will ask that He wrap His loving arms around my Tim and help to weaken the side effects and pains and help to strengthen him to push through this. I hope He hears me. I hope I feel Him with me. I need Him tonight. I really do.
I needed this space and needed you as well. Thank you for letting me take up your time. I will forever and always appreciate this site and the love and support we receive from every one of you. My apologies for ranting but as always, it feels better to let it go – no matter what it might me or whether or not it makes sense – I always have to just spit it out and leave it all here.