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Nick is catatonic today, not in the literal sense, but in the faking sort of
way. I know that he can hear me, and that he’s processing information just
fine. He’s anxious about the results of the latest test, which are said to be
coming by the end of the week. The diagnostics doctor doesn’t want to say
beforehand what he’s thinking, or what specifically the test is for, but Nick
says that he has this feeling that the answer is on its way. He believes that
we will know what we’re dealing with on Friday. The anticipation is killing
him faster than the disease probably could. So he’s refusing to eat or
communicate, or even sleep. He just lies there, staring up at the ceiling. I’m
taking care of his bodily imperatives, but there are ways for him to still
handle some of that himself, so I will not continue doing it all for him for
an extended period of time. It’s okay for now, but he’ll have to get back to
work on his own recovery tomorrow. This is a home care program, so if that’s
not enough for him to survive, then I’ll have no choice but to check him into
a facility full time. I don’t think he wants that. He’s gotta meet me halfway.
I think he thought that he would be a pro at this, but his reaction to all
this change is perfectly normal. We will get through it. Together.
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