I have a heavy heart

I never fully understood the meaning of the expression "heavy heart" until recently. It is a phrase that is bandied about and used in all sorts of situations. But this aching weight I feel in the middle of the chest is surely the genesis. It comes and goes but I feel it now as I struggle to find the strength to write about this part of our life. David recognizes this feeling, he has felt it before, in his childhood. It's grief, he says.

We are all grieving for Mae's lost health. And for the lost unthinking expectation that she and all of us had that she would have a full and busy life, eventually grow old and leave this life in many, many years' time. Now this unthinking expectation is replaced with doubt and fear as we struggle to comprehend what has befallen her.

The histology results from the tumour material that was removed during surgery came back on Thursday, the day after my last blog entry. The news was not what we had hoped for. It confirmed that an aggressive colon cancer was the primary, and gave the devastating news that it was very likely to return sooner or later, despite whatever treatment was undertaken. Mae has had the very best and most extensive surgical treatment possible, and now she will have chemotherapy.  This is likely to extend her lifespan, perhaps by years. The statistics are against her, but it is still not impossible that she may win over this. At least for a good while. We prefer to take the hopeful path in our thoughts.

This photo was taken a week ago, with Lian in the face mask, and the collection of virtual pets she made to keep Mae company while in hospital.

This photo shows the daily corridor walks, accompanied by a kit bag of tubes and drains. She walks further and further each day, and today managed to explore the entire floor comprising the surgical ward, the orthopaedic ward, the MAU; then she visited the ICU ward on the next floor down, and finally walked down the long corridor, the one with the ghastly artworks, that leads to the cafeteria. Have I mentioned these artworks? Horrible. One looks like an arterial spurt, one like a spattered operating theatre wall, one resembles vomit and the last one looks just like the ward floor did when the lady in the next bed didn't quite make it to the bathroom.  I am becoming hospital-centric in my perceptions, clearly.  Comes from spending most days in one or another over the last few weeks.

Mae's physical recovery from surgery has been really good and fast, compared with older people who undergo this procedure. Today she had the last of her drains removed, leaving only a urinary catheter. Once she can manage her waterworks, and provided all else continues to heal well, she can go back to Canberra. There is a lot of recovery still to be done of course, but she can do this at home, with her man by her side, especially through the long nights. The fluffies will cheer her up too. As incongruous as it may sound, we are having a few laughs together as we get through the days in hospital. We play Scrabble, make jokes about the stoma, and about eachother's foibles and about the strange things that happen in hospitals. Such as Mae being woken up by the social worker from an exhausted sleep after a tearful night, to be asked about her "feelings" about her prognosis. Mae politely sent the social worker away. She is much more stoic and patient than I would be. I was ready to vandalise the social work department when I came back after a half hour out for lunch and heard that story.