This past week Will experienced a setback from the progress he was making. The week before he seemed to be improving and hopefully he still is, but about 4 nights ago, Will turned to reach for something stretching his left arm across his body and in doing so either fractured or dislocated a rib. This caused, and continues to cause, excruciating pain. The hospice nurses and doctor have come multiple times to adjust his pain medicine to make it manageable. They seem to have gotten it to a place where he can tolerate it — most of the time. However, it makes it next to impossible for him to get out of bed or move in even the slightest ways.
We continue to be overwhelmed (in a good way!) with the help we are receiving, and today was no exception. A physical therapist from our church offered her services, and with her help we were able to learn new ways to get Will in and out of bed. It takes 3 of us, but we did it with little to no extra pain for him. Once Will is up, he is still mobile, he just needs a little assistance.
We are continuing on with our new regimen, and it seems to be helping in many ways. I wish it were possible to know what is going on inside his body. What I do know is that Will is able to carry on a conversation longer, stay awake for longer periods of time, and feels better — except for this new pain — than he did two weeks ago.
As certain changes are taking place with Will’s body, the hospice nurses and social worker want to prepare me for what they believe to be him declining. I’m sure there is an aspect of denial in me, but at this point, I just don’t see the declining that they see. I see Will looking me in the eyes and playing with my hair, carrying on conversations, and hanging out for a few hours at time. Watching a Lakers Backstage episode and doing his little jig (even in bed) when he does something really well. I know he is still in an extremely serious condition, and I still can’t walk by or sit by him for long without glancing to see if his chest is moving. I am very aware of the fact that without the Lord intervening, it is only a matter of time. But, right now, today, Will is still Will. He’s just a tired and hurting Will, but he is definitely still with us.
So each moment of each day my head is full of what I feel like is every emotion known to mankind. That might be a little dramatic, but it feels that way lately. Having some of the hospice nurses talk so matter of factly about him declining, and the social worker wanting to take me to coffee to discuss what to expect in the coming days / weeks just fuels me to fight for him even more (that is, after a moment of fear and sadness). I will not give up on Will. We are a team of so many working for him — to save his life. I always felt like we (as a society) tend to often work as individuals or small groups for the masses (which I believe is very important), but often forgetting about the one. The one sheep that strayed in the 99. The lost coin. Right now, in some ways, Will is the one, but it is the masses that have come together, seeing this one life as worth doing everything possible to save. Without a doubt he is worth it; he is worth doing everything we can. My hope is that I, and we all, will view every life as the one in 99, worth going after, fighting for, giving up of ourselves in a way for someone else. You all are doing that for Will. Thousands of people are doing that for Will. We are all working together, praying together, to save this one life. Thank you.