Fighting to Keep my Balance

I’ve got one foot on the ground
And one foot in the grave

And time is standing still
I need more antibiotics
My lungs hurt

Which doctor do I message?
Oncologist?
Pulmonologist?
Gastroenterologist?

Interventional gastroenterologist?
Palliative care?
Nurse practitioner? (My favorite)

I have a new concern; my teeth hurt.
Frantically googling all my new meds. Which ones cause teeth pain?

Meantime the box of morphine sits like a cheap box of wine—ugly, unopened. Shamefully pushed to the back of the meds group. Directions - take x ml per mg per kg per body weight. What?

Nothing about morphine is simple. I leave the box sealed and hidden.

I’ve got one foot on the ground and one foot in the grave.
Off-balance.

Beautiful text messages roll in. I try to keep up but can’t. I feel and appreciate the words. I lean into them. Let them pull me out of the grave and back to firm footing.

I’ve got one foot on the ground and one foot in the grave.  Maybe that’s what we all have. Maybe I’m just feeling the unsteadiness, bridging two realities.

My daughter is uploading photos to the group album. “Mom do you want me to edit out the pics where you’re in pajamas, in bed and not looking well?”
Facetune my Cancer? Brilliant!
I laugh at the thought of Glamming up my Pre-death.
Nope. It’s your album. And this is where I’m at.
In pain. In pajamas. In bed.

The majority of my life tells a different story, but the advances of late disease with this awful pain has zapped my strength.

Jude doesn’t care. He likes my big fluffy bed.

He brings all his favorite stuffed animals and toys into my room. And climbs up next to me in bed. And decides to finally try vanilla pudding. He’s surprised and calls it
apa-see-ah, which is how he says ice cream. Nearly all his words are changing from baby language to people language. He is fluent in Spanish and easily uses the two.

Balexa! Balexa! He’s now in the kitchen, shouting at Alexa. We were painting with dot paints and I made up a song about the dots.

He wants “Balexa” to play this “new” song. My daughter tells him that Yama made it up. But he keeps asking, so she cleverly plays “Who let the dogs out” and we change the words to “who let the dots out”. Instant hit and the song was on repeat the rest of the afternoon.

Anything that makes him happy makes me happy. The evolution of 20 months of photos shows my deep love for this little boy.

Yes, you can see the fat-faced steroid sisters all over my face. And the chemo killing rapidly dividing cells, all over my bald head.

But you can see that most days I had good-enough energy. As you can see lately that my energy is leaving. And pain is making an appearance.

One foot on the ground, and one in the grave.
I’m fighting to keep my balance.