Two weeks have passed in a blur — so much time when you are waiting for hope and so little when you have none.

The stents in Ken’s liver actually helped somewhat to improve the flow of bile from his liver. We saw a little improvement in his liver numbers on the Monday after his procedure. The next day, we learned that there was one last treatment option — experimental on colon cancer but well-received for breast cancer. His oncology doctor was excited about it; they agreed to start treatment on Friday. Ken would have to be discharged from the hospital but the care team would provide support to help him regain strength at home. Ken talked about returning to work in mid-April. We were filled with hope and excitement about Friday.

That afternoon, because Ken’s hemoglobin was very low, they gave him a transfusion, the first since he started treatment over a year ago. He was filled with energy and sat up in his hospital bed chatting with family. His color was good and our hearts were full. He went for a brief walk on Wednesday, with the help of a mobility aide. Finally, we had caught our break.

Thursday, he was restless and uncomfortable again. His hemoglobin numbers were dropping so his care team proposed another transfusion. We agreed but for whatever reason it was postponed to Friday, the day we were to leave for home and treatment. I left the hospital at 10 that night to buy some food for Ken’s return home and to prepare our living room for the hospital bed that would arrive on Friday. At 11:30, I got a call from the hospital. Ken had tried to get out of bed by himself and had slipped off the bed onto the floor, not really a fall but frightening as I contemplated having 24 hour responsibility for his safety.

Friday arrived and I hurried to the hospital because we had a full day ahead — discharge, treatment, and then home for the first time in 19 days. I will confess to feeling trepidation about his return home. He could walk once around the nurses’ station with assistance and a walker but he would need to make it through chemo, travel in a car to the house, and climb 4 steps to our house.

Many years ago, my dear mama told me not to worry so much, to “cross that bridge when I come to it.” She was right. I needn’t have worried about those 4 steps to the front door. Cancer is without compassion, having — this whole time — continued its onslaught. When I walked into Ken’s hospital room on Friday, he was in pain and feeling very ill. His liver function was terrible. The care team stopped his fluids, canceled his transfusion and came in to talk about options. The one Ken chose was to be moved to hospice. He recognized what we would not, that his body was failing even as his spirit was fighting to continue.

Ken didn’t “give up” (whatever that means) and tried, even here in hospice, to continue to improve but the cancer has continued too.  So, instead, we have gather around his bed and reminisced about various adventures we’ve had together. He is no longer able to join the conversation but we know he can hear us so we hold his hands and continue the stories.

Yesterday, the care team said he is crashing and so we’ve begun to stay here around the clock. The kids sleep on the sofas and lounge chair while I sit by his side through the night.