In mid-July, our eighteen-year-old grandson, Garrett, was diagnosed with a neuroendocrine tumor following an emergency appendectomy. On Friday, he underwent surgery to resection a portion of his colon and to remove a few lymph nodes.
The surgery went well and his surgeon does not believe that the tumor has metastasized into the lymph nodes. We won’t know for certain, of course, until they receive the pathology reports. At any rate, we feel optimistic.
Garrett has had a rough few days post-surgery. I won’t go into details, but he’s been in a great deal of pain and has needed two blood transfusions. He’s in good hands, but it’s hard knowing he’s hurting and I feel helpless.
It’s been difficult not getting to see him and hug him, but Covid restrictions limit the number of visitors. At least his mom (my daughter) and his dad have been able to be with him. Besides, I’m a hoverer and would likely annoy the heck out of him.
So, I’m here on the sidelines, hanging out with Garrett’s two younger sisters. I’d say I’m taking care of them, but they’re both pretty self-sufficient. The 16 year-old could probably run the country. The nine-year-old could provide the comic relief. Mainly I think I’m here to keep the pets in line.
So far, the pets are winning.
Their family has a terrific support system—my son-in-law’s parents and sister have checked in on us, fed us, and kept us entertained. Neighbors and friends have brought food and vegetables and even a lovely little plant. The little town of Port Byron seems to be filled with caring people.
We appreciate all of the prayers and good vibes. Garrett may require an additional surgery this week; although, we hope it doesn’t come to that. Sorry if this is a bit of a ramble. Just trying to get it all straight in my head.