The good news is the doctors finally figured out what's causing Michael's pain: he had more than a liter of fluid in his abdomen. They drained it off and he feels like his old self again. He called me with a mouthful of food to tell me he's able to eat real food again.
The bad news is that abdominal fluid can be caused by cancer. They sent the fluid off to be tested for cancer cells, and if they find any, they told him they can't talk cure anymore.
I'm trying not to think about that. I can't imagine life without either one of my sons. I'd rather die myself than lose one of them. I guess that's part of being a mother. They're supposed to outlive me.
We've been on this roller coaster with Michael for three years now. He has been sliced and diced, poked, prodded, injected with chemicals, irradiated, bagged, tubed and drugged, and he's still with us and still cracking jokes. He's spent very little time indulging in self-pity.
He's been told he'll die before. Two years ago, his doctors in Savannah, Ga., told him there was nothing more they could do. The doctors at Duke decided they would at least try, and that has given him more time.
None of us really knows how much time we have. My older sister used to say, "Every day above ground is a good day." My younger sister likes to say, "Hell, I could get hit by a bus." They're both right.
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