Well, let's be honest. These were hardly the best laid plans. The fact that they were still relatively up in the air two days ago is evidence enough of that.
Either way, you get the drift.
For the last several weeks, my uncle has been putting one foot in front of the other with a new round of chemotherapy. Clinical trials. Lately, there have been more downs than ups. People know what they're talking about when they say the treatment can be as bad as the disease.
I know that sometimes, things get worse before they get better; that the darkest hour, push come to shove, is still just an hour; that even the most impenetrable night breaks on the sword of the morning.
I know that. You don't have to tell me. In fact, I don't want to hear it. From you, it runs the risk of platitude, and platitude is the last thing I need.
We were supposed to converge on their home -- my second home -- tomorrow night. This is how we spent every Christmas when I was growing up. In the middle of Iowa's white winter, we'd pack up the car and drive the 800 miles south to Texas. With my cousin's baby on the way (this Friday), it was time to renew the tradition.
But my uncle had an "episode" this week. Right now, he's in intensive care, and the doctors have put a moratorium on visitors -- for the time being. This is a function of his weakened immune system -- from the chemo -- rather than a manifestation of his actual illness. That, at least, is some small comfort. Unfortunately, his immune system is too weak to handle the exposure to whatever bugs we bring with us. Which has left us physically and emotionally stranded.
I'm not good at feeling helpless.
But what my uncle needs is time, and rest, and food. An opportunity to bounce back. That's what he does: he bounces back. Every time. And this time is no different. I keep telling myself that. Not because I want it to be true -- but because it has to be true.
And because he's too goddamn stubborn for anything less.
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