The meds are working, a daily dose of antibiotics and steroids, wee Sherlock is drinking like a fish and peeing copiously and continuously, flushing out poisons and getting back to his happy usual self.
He's wearing a t-shirt hand-me-down that grandma saved for the grandkids, but Sherlock needs it right now, and it fits perfectly, so who could say no. Lovely soft cotton, and lovely soft blankets, air-conditioning when it's hot and the best tidbits for me, he says. The leakage from the ulcerating tumor (aka fungating wounds) is slowly abating, two or three changes of t-shirt a day suffice. Sherlock teaches us grace in face of death. I know they say Cerberus guards the gates of Hades, and it is always seen as such a scary thing, but Sherlock shows me that passing is full of angel light and goodness, and the underworld is nothing to fear, but that every moment together is precious, radiant with love and joy. So be it.
Photos by Lelantos
