M-51

Peggy's favorite galaxy. She even had it on her business card when she was practicing psychiatry.

Reminds us of how we all are part star matter, and how it's all connected.

Spoke with Peg tonight about how her body is becoming less resilient and more easily fatigued. I don't know how to even express this...but I want you all to know that Peg and I both feel this is coming to a close and fairly soon.

She's  ready.  Us, not so much.

Colorado

This beautiful card arrived today from one of Peg's old friends in Colorado. Reminded me of the times we've hiked around the Maroon Bells, near Aspen, over the last 26 years. I never know what will make me cry, but this did...knowing how much Peg loves the Rockies, and how she'll never see them again.

Almost 13 years ago,  we were lugging our three year-old over muddy trails on Shrine Mountain Pass. I still remember this day like it was just hours ago.

No matter where Peg's journey takes her, I will always know where to find her heart.  And so the Rockies will always have a special place in mine.

A new beginning

Initial hospice consultation was a day early...scheduling snafu. All good. It feels like a weight has been lifted from our shoulders.

Hospice provides everything from pain relief, to 24/7 in-home care, to counseling for family members long after the storm has passed. Patients can be in hospice care for a year or longer...please don't freak out at the word "hospice." It doesn't mean Peg's passing is soon. It's just that there's a small army of folks who have our back when the time comes.

Peg's last invasive medical procedure will be on Tuesday morning, and it's a helpful one. They'll insert a tube from her belly with a valve so she can relieve weekly fluid buildup herself, here at home, instead of letting it balloon so she's miserable, then draining it so she's dealing with fluid imbalances that adversely affect her appetite.

No more chemo. No more blood tests. No more trips to doctors or the infusion center. No more hours spent in waiting rooms. No more hospital stays. No more enduring yet another procedure that doesn't ensure a longer life, but does ensure fatigue, discomfort, loss of appetite and turning Peg's life into the equivalent of "medical detention."

It's kind of hard to be giddy around cancer, but we were just shy of doing the yippy-skippy dance today. Our wonderful internist, Dr. Patella, is fully supportive. He told us today it's been his experience that patients in hospice care live longer than those who have slogged through further chemotherapy. It's such a relief to let go of the medical mishegoss and just focus on Peg being comfortable, and present, and happy, for as long as it lasts.

She's gotten her "Get out of jail free" card, and it's a welcome change when she's been so tired and disheartened. This is a new freedom for Peg, one she hasn't had since June, 2009. This is her show now...she's calling the shots. We're not under any illusion that she'll survive this...and dropping that illusion is a blessing we never imagined.

Life 3.0. Bring it.

A good day in the land of Life 3.0

I got a ride in the rain, thanks to Mary hanging out with Peg, who slept a bunch and visited some. Peggy rallied after dinner and we had a wonderful, and long (hour and a half) visit with friends whose daughter went to Kindergarten with Zoë. It's weirdly liberating, having the cat out of the bag...we can talk honestly with everyone. The other shoe has officially dropped.

Zoë, Peg and I watched "Psych" (one of our favorite shows) after our friends left and life 3.0 almost felt like life 1.0 for a bit. Peggy had enough appetite for a good chunk of chicken soup and her energy level was better than it's been for a few days.

Meeting with hospice day after tomorrow. It's all surreal. Sticking to our new family motto: a half day at a time.

Out on a limb

I think the time is probably past to sugar-coat how Peg's health is deteriorating. The reality is pretty harsh....her body is gradually failing.

I hesitated (that's an understatement) to post this. But I also don't want anyone to feel blindsided by a sudden turn of events. I'd rather that you all know what's really going on.

For whatever time Peg has left with us, we want her to be happy, free from pain and stress, and in charge of whatever she can be in charge of.

A better day. Half day at a time.

Peg feels so much better after the paracentesis, enough to enjoy some food. I got out on a 30 mile bike ride while Jeanette kept Peg company.

The sun is shining and it's in the mid-60's (neither of which will be true tomorrow and the rest of the week, which is okay...we desperately need the rain).

A friend is here now with some food and lovin' conversation for Peg, and Pookie's home shortly from swim practice. Right now, in this moment, things seem less chaotic and overwhelming.

My 12 year-old cyling shoes finally bit the dust this afternoon when a cleat broke off completely, fortunately at the end of the ride. This is "Mister Tinkles," my favorite ride. Fast and freaky lookin', 'cause that's how I roll. Literally.

Daylight savings, plus a morning paracentesis. Ugh.

They wanted Peg there at 8:30 for a 9am tap...but when we arrived we found they had changed the time to 9:30...then were 20 minutes late getting her in. Neither of us are used to getting up at 6:30am Standard Time, although Zoë rocketed out of bed to get to school at 6:40am (5:40am Standard Time) as usual.

They took a liter and a half off of Peg's belly, which will hopefully enable her to eat more than she has, which hasn't been much.  Going to try a few bites every half hour-40 minutes and see how it goes.

I'm having a hard time concentrating these days. Sometimes I just stare out the window, or at the keyboard. How can time pass so slowly and be racing by at the same time?