On transplant recovery and kicking people in the throat.

Phil and I were talking the other day about how easy it is to fall behind in blogging because so much happens that there's no possible way to catch up. But I will try.

Phil is still making slow progress. If he was anyone else he'd be sleeping 20 hours a day, but he's one tough cookie so instead he's playing with the kids and helping friends and trying to get back to regular life. And all with a smile on his face, bless his heart. Just recently he came to the conclusion that this treatment process has been really hard on him physically (which I was anticipating and trying to make allowances for all along, but I won't say I told you so).

I mentioned it in my last post but it bears repeating... Phil's body went through a lot. Twice. And it's going to be months and possibly years before he's back to where he was before all of this. As much as I'd like to compare it to childbirth recovery, it's much harder, though Phil makes it look easy and never complains, unlike me. Three times. If you're going through transplant, give yourself time to recover. And if you have a loved one going through it, by all means... don't treat the patient like an invalid but do be compassionate. We've appreciated the sensitivity we ourselves have been shown by so many as our little family has been recovering from this trauma.

As for me, I'm beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel. From the moment we knew Phil had cancer, we were flooded with so much practical help from our closest friends and family. I will never forget those first few days, not only because of the complete shock we were in, but also because of the insane amount of love that we received. My little posse kept my family fed, my house clean and my head above water. I could never have survived without them. Now all of that help has allowed me to get to the place where I'm ready to stand up, dust myself off and take some unassisted steps toward autonomy. Just to put this in perspective, Phil has been sick since Ocean, who is now four-and-a-half, was five months old. We were only married for a year and a half before Phil's first blood clot, a pulmonary embolism. And that's just the tip of the iceberg. After all, this is just the myeloma blog. It's not the miscarriage blog or the getting fired blog or the moving five times blog or the losing loved ones blog. That's a lot of life crammed into a few short years.

Now, finally, I'm ready to be normal for once, realizing that our normal will include regular visits to the cancer center forever. But it also includes making dinner, scheduling activities and classes for the kids and taking vacations (something we have never done on our own as a family). I haven't mastered the laundry abyss or the cutting of the lawn but thankfully Phil's mom has been filling in the gaps there and not judging me as I am still figuring out how to juggle three kids while staying on top of the housework. (Hint: it's impossible.)

And speaking of my little angels, our two eldest kids have been kind of a disaster lately, and I'm at my wit's end with them.

I'm trying to find the balance between extending grace because this has been difficult for them, and sending them to their rooms for all of eternity. There has to be some middle ground. Currently I'm just looking forward to the start of school because, really, what am I supposed to do when Iris kicks Ocean in the throat because he won't stop touching her feet? Sigh. At least, at the end of the day, there's always Ruby who is currently too tiny to sass me.