Krzy Glue For A Broken Heart

I went three rounds with the shower wall today. That wall will never talk back or splatter me with soap in the eye again. Everything felt better, but my hands. 

There was no time to be tough today, outside my boxing match with myself. After the appointment at the oncologist office, we both cried. More than we have in months. We have never sat across from this particular doctor where he wasn’t confident there was another option. 

“I have thrown everything I can at this disease. I’m out of ammunition.” Those were the words. And they hit like bullets. His aim, was that of a sniper. I don’t like to cry in Matt’s appointments, but I couldn’t blink my way out of this one. The weekend’s mascara remnants were all over my blotchy face and so was my snot, no thanks to my mask. 

For the first time ever we left with no treatment plan. We left with a prognosis. He gave it to us more reluctantly than my mom used to hand me the keys to her brand new fully loaded car after I had just gotten my license in 2005.

Six months to live. 

Six months, takes him to a day before his birthday. It doesn’t give him another Halloween. Or Christmas. It doesn’t allow us to celebrate another wedding anniversary. 

And as I got fired up, I gathered myself. You only have a small window of face time to ask the important questions and push for options. Take the emotion out of it. And advocate. Because that is your job here. 

In this office I’m not a manager, or a business analyst. I’m not the project manager. I’m the life manager. Because it isn’t fair for Matt to have to regroup and ask more questions. 

I called and got us into Memorial Sloan Kettering again. To make sure we have exhausted it all. I will Dr. Fong again tomorrow as well, because I want to make sure there isn’t anything left.

But, in the same breath, I won’t let Matt suffer. It’s quality over quantity. Like them there shower walls, in my bathroom. So quality— that I’m still icing my hands.