Another chemo weekend. Jay's currently sleeping peacefully in the chemo chair, his primary caregiver is at the ready in case she's needed, and I'm in the bedroom writing this post and contemplating the day.
These chemo weekends are tough on everyone, obviously not the least on Jay. But I'm discovering as time goes on and my experience with them grows just how difficult they are for me.
It is incredibly hard to watch the light go out in his eyes as the chemicals swim into his body, to watch him sleep in the chair in the infusion center, to watch him come back to himself, that light flickering and struggling back to full life for moments at a time, only to wane again as he's dragged back into chemo-induced unconsciousness.
My heart is always tender and fragile these weekends, tears always close to the surface and almost never expressed. The grief is also close to the surface, floating there and intermingling with the love and the passion and the tenderness and the longing and the hope.
The worry and the love are exhausting, but there is no other path here. There is no comfort but the comfort of the rituals of caring for Jay, of making sure he has whatever he needs in this moment, of bearing serene and loving witness to that which must be nearly unbearable for him.
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