I'd silently hoped Dominic would wind up left-handed like me. Maybe he'd be a pitcher, know the struggle of right-handed scissors and demand that his fork be set on the right of his plate.
It would also mean I could pass down all my old crappy sports gear and go buy better stuff - kidding! Sort of.
Someone bought him a toy golf set that he likes to use. And it turns out he's got a pretty good throwing arm, ejecting things from his crib or car seat at lightning speed.
He is a lefty, of course. But it was forced on him by the strokes and brain tumours. His right side isn't nearly as strong, not nearly as coordinated; he can't easily pick anything up with his right hand, much less throw with it.
Out of the hospital after four days, things ought to have been better this week. Instead, he's sort of still grumpy, now up to 10 medications a day, needing a lot of rest and sleep. We've added new antibiotics and as of Thursday he's back on oxygen full-time.
When he's up, it's a roll of the dice. Sometimes he's in a great mood, dancing around. Other times, we can't seem to figure out what he wants. Is he in pain? Is he being a two-year-old? We've all been tired, maybe it's that.
We've been reminded again this week how great our community is. Last Saturday a friend, Corrie, came and watched him so we could go to a friend's wedding. On Monday, I left a corporate golf tournament early to bring dinner to Trish. Our playing partner, the owner of Ralph's Texas Bar and Steak House, insisted on buying. And on Friday, our anniversary, I got a call from Dominique Hirsch who owns the UPS store here in Medicine Hat.
Dominique had been busy setting up a game day sponsorship for the Medicine Hat Mavericks baseball team. They're in a college-level league and get the majority of our paper's coverage in the summer. Her focus was Plaid for Dad, which aims to increase awareness and funding for prostate cancer by having everyone wear plaid for one day a year.
Knowing that Dom was out of hospital, Dominique asked if he'd be able to throw the first pitch. "Certainly!" I exclaimed. We worked all afternoon with a real baseball, and he was loving it. Even put my old glove on him for a minute.
Down at the park we shook hands with the players, went out to throw the pitch, and suddenly he wanted nothing to do with it. I helped him toss it, but it was a great moment nonetheless.
Naturally, for the next hour he threw mini baseballs from his seat in the stands.
But then his feeding tube sprung a leak, and there was a literal puddle of stomach fluid under his seat.
It's that roller coaster again. Round and round and round it goes; where it stops, nobody knows.