The sun will come out tomorrow

It was back to the old grind for me today, and a long day it was at that. Never thought I'd experience separation anxiety at 49 years old. I called Gilly periodically to check on his doings, and it seemed that he and Liylah were holding down the fort without incident. I arrived home to Yaron speeding down the block, Liylah sprinting beside him at break neck speed. What a sight! Gilly was manning the Bar-B-Q as I entered our humble abode; a welcoming sight to behold.

Gilly and Jerry left the glasses at the Opticien today so the prisms could be affixed to the lens. We have our fingers crossed ever so tightly for tomorrow. It's been a painfully long wait. Gilly has to concentrate very hard to see and to move around safely in his environment. It tires him greatly.

We made our decision, as most of you avid blog readers know. Gilly will be followed by the MNI, with Dr. Souhami as his radio-oncologist and Dr. Kavan as the medical oncologist. This means that the MRI Gilly was to have 8 weeks after the biopsy is a non-issue at this point. We are not waiting, as Dr. Mohr originally suggested, to chart the growth. Instead, Gilly will begin treatment as soon as they contact us. This could be anytime now, but we have not been given a starting date as of yet. He will more than likely have MRI's and CT scans aplenty, but we do not know the schedule of these tests yet.

We still recieve calls from people suggesting we look into alternatives. We are urged to contact the best of the best in the world. Thus far I have taken the leads, but the exercize has become more emotionally draining than hopeful. We have consulted MANY related professionals. Some friends and family and friends of the family of the friends may think I seem ungrateful for the information they wish to share. This is far from the truth, however I have been strongly advised to accept the situation now and build trust in the team we have chosen to handle Gilly's case. We have done our homework rather diligently. Quality of life, remember? This is key, and I have never lost sight of this advice. The treadmill has to slow down, though, or I'll surely fall off.

My heart pounds heavily everytime I am asked to contact neighbours, cousins, colleagues... who themselves have had brain tumours. I receive countless messages through friends and family from people who were told their tumours were inoperable, yet they found someone to operate, and now they are just fine. All they want is for me to call them. My pat response: Please just send the name of the doctor, and perhaps we can follow-up.

Gilly's tumour is in his brain stem. It has been explained to us repeatedly that this is the reason it is inoperable and ungammaknifable. It makes sense and we've accepted this, and so it is time to move on. If a reputable doctor tells us there's something that can be done other than the options we have been presented with, well then super! But I am not emotionally up to going through the whole story (theirs and ours) only to discover that the tumour was a whole other type and in a very different spot.

If today's entry sounds a bit glum, well I suppose I must have the Monday Blues. I think I'll go downstairs and catch a glimpse of my main squeeze, cozy in his favourite chair, fast asleep. Just eyeing him in such a comfortable pose ought to cheer me up. Tomorrow will be a shorter day, a brighter day, topped off with another playoff game. I think the grass will be that much greener too.