Of love, of course. What, you thought I'd have ate too much?
Dominic sure ate like a king. And he's always full of love.
And yet, somehow, the scale this morning said he'd lost weight. We're convinced it vanished into thin air. Smelly, smelly air.
The numbers on the scale don't matter. Neither do the ones that measure his blood pressure, though nurses seem to always want them. I'm half convinced they just use the notion of taking vitals these days as an excuse to see him. Never mind that it's a hospital and that's their job. Which they do wonderfully. Trains of thought like these usually lead to me sleeping on the couch.
What numbers matter? Just the ones in his blood counts, which continue to show no neutrophils and keep us from going home to Medicine Hat together.
No neutrophils means no infection-fighting white blood cells. All killed off by round three of his chemotherapy, but expected to return any day now. As it seems everybody is sick these days, it would be more than a bit dangerous for Dominic to be exposed to the general public.
While we wait, he acts like there's no problems in the world. There was an amazing dinner spread for patients and their families Dec. 24. He didn't eat a bite; too excited about being in the Sunshine Room, people-watching and playing. As I came back to our room I spotted a food services woman delivering the fish sticks and peas that I'd ordered a day ago for Dominic. You order all of his meals by ticking off boxes on a sheet that comes each morning.
"Where is everybody," she asked.
"In the Sunshine Room for the big turkey dinner."
"Ohh... competition," she said without a hint of sarcasm.
She'd be glad to hear that he ate a fish stick and all of the peas. Yay capitalism, I say.
Christmas Day started with presents in his stocking from the hospital and yet another visit from Santa. He was well enough to get out on a four-hour pass, so it was then off to Trish's parents' place for an absolute feast, family and more presents.
On most days that would be the end of it. But this is Christmas. So after coming back to the hospital to do another set of vitals, hear carolers in the hallways and a nap, it was off to my parents' place on a second four-hour pass. More food, more gifts, more family. Exhausting in the best way possible.
So here I sit, and this will be my last night in hospital with him for this blessedly long stretch. It's been tiring at times but also a blast. He gets out in the hallways at least four times a day, now rarely using the walker but instead pushing it or just holding my hand and walking. We both puff out our chests as we go.
Now that he's asleep, the night nurse popped in to do another set of vitals. Once done, she asked me "is there anything I can get you?"
"No," I said. "We're great."
But in my head I thought to myself "how about some neutrophils? And while you're at it, a cure for cancer."