A secret message for R2

Today was not the lucky day. No discharge. I think I'm going to stop saying, "maybe it will be tomorrow," and then maybe it will be tomorrow.

Despite adding another diuretic and increasing doses on her medications, Cora's lungs still look and sound essentially the same: fluid-filled. She's showing some of the same heart failure symptoms we've seen in the past, namely enlarged liver (more than usual), some edema in the knees, a specific heart sound associated with heart failure, and then the difficulty getting fluid off her lungs. She slept almost the entire day today, and when she was awake, she seemed lethargic. Of course that worries us a bit, but the general consensus seems to be that if we can just get Cora's fluid balance right, she will be back to where she was last weekend and good enough to be at home.

Even if her heart function has decreased the most important thing is really, how does she seem? If she seems to be happy enough and doing okay, then she can go home even if she has poor heart function. But we still need to work on getting that fluid off and they will continue that over the next day or two. Tomorrow she will get another set of labs and see where things stand, then go from there.

In our household during this era of Star Wars infatuation, everyone has a name. Jason is Luke, I am Padme, Dominic is Anakin Skywalker, Cosette is Yoda, and Cora is R2-D2. I spent the day with Cora, and then Jason picked up the kids after work and we had dinner together before he headed in. On the way to dinner the kids and Jason called me on speaker phone. The first thing Dominic said was, "how's R2, mama?" We told him she was back in the hospital and he said, "is it a short one or a long one?" We told him is was a short one, and he actually took it pretty well. He sent Luke with a secret message to transmit to R2 back at the hospital, and the kids and I went back home.

I really hate that fear and stress and sadness have to be a part of our daily life. I hate it for Jason and me, but I really hate it for the kids. I hate telling them she is back in the hospital, knowing they know on a deeper level that it means Cora is having a hard time. Then there are moments, especially when Cora is home, that are clearly very stressful and sad. Moments when she turns blue or is struggling, and when Jason and I are working as fast as we can to try to help her. During those times, as much as I want to, there's no way to protect Dom and Cosie. Dom usually retreats to a corner and sometimes he gets tears in his eyes. There's absolutely nothing I can do about it, except hug them, and love them, and remind them that it's daddy's and my job to take care of Cora and that they don't have to do a single thing.

And then there's the bad that I feel about Cora, for all she faces, even in times when everything is relatively okay. Such a tough little muffin. So much tougher than me or any of us wimpy grownups.

Of course if I could weave our life, I'd fill it with sunshine and rainbows, and we'd all have gleaming teeth as we laughed constantly, surrounded by joy. But I guess that might not be better than what we have now, because despite all I could argue, the contrast does make things richer. We can't have that canned happiness right now, so we live for moments. Rubbing Cora's head until she went to sleep this afternoon. Cosie twirling and dancing in the courtyard when we were out to dinner, saying over and over again, "you wanna see me do that again?" Dom solemnly giving Jay the secret message for R2. Those were the good ones today.