Weepy Day

As any grief graduate knows--many among you!--grief runs on a non-predictable path.

So true to its form, or lack of form, today, for no reason, I can't stop crying to save my life. Just playing a computer game, or washing dishes, or even walking in a store, I am illogically overcome with aching surges of terrible sadness. I've cried so hard today, I thought I'd never inhale again. Poor rodeo boy--he doesn't know what to do to help, so I just get him to sit by me and hold my hand. Of course, when he does that, it seems so sweet of him that I start to cry all over again.

Hey THANKS BETH! THAT sure lifted everyone's spirits, on a pleasant Saturday! Let's all do a happy dance now!

There IS good news, though!

Second opinion!

Bronco Billy is GOING TO A DOCTOR in town on Monday and requesting a referral to an oncologist at the big hospital in Boone (at the Seby Jones Cancer center). That's where Bill got his chemo, and it is SO PLEASANT in that place that chemo is practically FUN! (Uttered by she who did not have the radioactively glowing lava cluster-bombs pressure-pumped into her little blue veins.)

Weird twist though.

Medicare apparently will pay for a 2nd opinion only if the first doctor recommended a certain TREATMENT. It will not pay where the first doctor has said, "You have no therapeutic options. Sorry. Just go home." Which is what our Dukey dude said.

So, yes, we can self-pay for a consultation, but if this oncologist is willing to accept Bill and let Bill at least TRY some new chemicals, and at LEAST get an MRI or PET scan (for God's sake! How could anyone refuse us THAT, as did Doctor Puke), then I suppose we'd have to fire His Supreme BladderDemiGodness and switch to the Boone oncologist who in NO WAY specializes in bladder cancer.

You'd think, "Well who cares if he knows about bladder cancer? Bill has no bladder, so bladder cancer is a thing of the past."

But no.

When bladder cancer returns, no matter what part of your body it appears in, it appears as BLADDER CANCER. ISN'T THAT JUST SUPREMELY WHACK? You can have bladder cancer in your lungs?

Say WHAT?

BUT THAT'S THE DEAL.

And then a tough decision arises: if we ditch The Duke of Hazard, the Bladdizard of Oz, for an extreme non-specialist, will we be sorry later?

Heck. Anything is better than just sitting here letting Bill's little demonic-remora psycho hell cells set up shop anywhere they dang well please in his beautiful body, right?

And I will never forget the Duke-dude's line: "No, Bill can't have an MRI. It's too expensive."

Really?

So I guess he knows the monetary value of a human life, the human life of a dignified, brilliant, kind and loving soul like my handsome Billy?

[SWEAR WORD! THE WORST SWEAR WORD YOUR CONSCIENCE WILL ALLOW YOU TO IMAGINE!]

So, through sad and swollen eyes, below which are dried rivers of salt, I sadly and sigh-ingly bid you adieu for today, and THANK you for finding that place in your heart where Billy and I can rest our heads in your love.

Forgive my uncourageous complaining and revelation of my terrible sadness, but I know for sure that you forgive me, and that you love us both.

That's everything, really everything. That you love us.

Bless you so very very much.

Bethie