A year ago, I could not have shared Nicholai's story. My hope was too tenuous, my grief too near the surface. Now that we have reached the magical one-year line, I can risk it.
As time goes by and Nicholai flies in the face of predictions, I search for emotional balance, finding myself often experiencing equal parts of cockiness and denial. "Have we beat this thing?" I'll wonder as I go about my business, Nicholai hikes energetically, snarfs his food, and nuzzles me with his nose as I drive us home from one of our outdoor jaunts. Nothing has changed for him – with the exception of inadequate rations, life is still beautiful. Then I see his enlarged lymph nodes and I remember.
I find that I have no choice except to accept a doggish approach to the future. Nicholai insists that in this moment he is well, and he refuses to be defined by his diagnosis. Since he won't play by the rule book, and we're out of authoritative predictions, I don't know what to expect. I guess I'll actually have to take it one day at a time, mixing joy and hope in equal parts without subtracting from today's experience just because it might not last till tomorrow.
I'm a bit afraid of hope, disappointment, and a broken heart. As I sit and search for the words, a blue light from the computer reflected on my face, Nicholai comes and whines at me, turning and giving me his back end. "Pet me, human-partner, scratch my butt." He is insistent. How can I fret about a future broken heart when my main-man needs scratching?
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