Miracles and Memories #miracles #cancer

In today's day and age, the kind of death Dennis suffered should never have happened. He was in the hospital three times in the last three weeks before his death. And three times, three different physicians did CT scans and no one told us about the tumor in his spine that would soon break his back in two. Even his oncologist knew about it, yet no one thought to tell us.

How does that happen? 

Dennis had an autoimmune condition that reduced the platelets in his body to under twenty. He was given Keytruda an immune treatment which he never should have received, because it is like giving cancer methamphetamines. No one told us that. In fact, his oncologist here in Grass Valley never did a bone marrow biopsy. The physicians at Mercy San Juan Hospital just shook their heads in disbelief. 

It is in those two things my crisis abides. 

I have ripped my memories apart wondering what I could have done differently. I should have demanded a bone marrow biopsy when he first got sick, but honestly, I relied on the doctor to do what was best. A bone marrow biopsy never crossed my mind, but it should have. 

This is guilt. The stages of grief happen, but in my case, it doesn't happen in order.
I have visited every stage over and over again, but the guilt stage has me stuck. I don't know how to move on from this situation.  My therapist suggested I write a letter to his oncologist, but what is the point? It cannot change the past and getting angry and vengeful will only make my guilt  worse. 

Wrapped in the agony of unsolvable guilt, my daughter in law took me shopping on Monday. On the way back she asked me to call my son about something that I don't recall. On accident I hit my home number and once it rang I sat transfixed at the message scrolling across the screen. My son took a screen shot because I have no idea how to do it. 

Dennis had never used a cell phone in his life. He hated anything electronic. He never had an email, had never seen Facebook or Twitter, and had never played a game on one. It was his pride and joy to say he was not part of the electronic age. He did have a laptop, but I had to set it up to so he could see our financials as soon as it opened. I cannot tell you how many times I had to fix the damn thing because he hit the wrong button. "This is up and this is down," I would say showing him the arrow keys. 

Dennis never could have programmed my phone to say: Lucy my beautiful wife, fifty years and counting. I went to my kids and they swore they didn't do it and I know I didn't do it and to be honest, no one knows my password. Frantically, I called everyone I knew to see if somehow someone might have thought this a kindness and put it on my phone. You see, our 50th wedding anniversary is on Sunday. 

Dennis promised me he would come back to let me know he was safe. I always thought it would be the whisper of an errant wind, or a smell, or light touch. Never did I think it would be on my cell phone. Yet there it is. I loved the phrase 50 years and counting, which lets me know that we are still together in some indefinable way. 

Interestingly enough, one of my nurses at the hospital told me a few weeks ago to expect a miracle. She's married to an Apache medicine man and she went on to tell me how strong I was and not to worry. On Monday, I hadn't had a miracle yet and I was due to see her the following day for my infusion. As soon as I was hooked to my line she ran over to see me. She asked if I'd had my miracle and I showed her my phone. 

Tears sprang into her eyes. She said that was my miracle and more would be coming. Lots more. She said they had Dennis'  picture hanging in their breakroom so they could send him peace, love, and light, each praying in their own way.

More RNs came over to see me. They told me to look for the small things, that he was in the house and trying to contact me. I was overwhelmed with their kindness and concern and also because no one but me had issues with physical miracles. They told me it happens all the time. They said that people have to be open to the possibility because if they are not, then they cannot see the little physical miracles that take place everyday. 

But this is huge, I said and they just nodded and stated they see it everyday. Especially with cancer patients. 

Last night I dreamed that he was on one side of a veil and I was on the other. I was grabbing him and managed to get an arm and one leg on my side.
All the while he was screaming, "You're not supposed to do this Louann."

I couldn't get all of him here, and I know I'm not suppose to do things like that, but hell, what right did anyone have to make him and his family have to witness such a death? We all have PTSD. How could we not? 

This miracle we decided, we were going to take. Our only other option is that someone at Apple or Google got into my cell phone and programmed it because we were in so much pain. But how would they know he called me Lucy?