Another day, another discharge...

Friday, September 24, 2010.
Rich was discharged today, in the record time of four-1/2 hours from the time I got the phone call till I was sitting at the entrance waiting for him.

I had some concerns...

Yesterday he was throwing up, battling nausea, and for the past two days he coughs and hacks repeatedly to bring up an endless supply of thick, globby paste of phlegm. He then collapses in exhaustion and the pain it causes his abdominal incision. More than once the nursing staff checked the staples to make sure they were still intact.
When he's not actively coughing up a ball of silly putty, he's constantly attempting to clear his throat in hopes of rearranging the clinging glob off the gag reflex nerve. Either way, the strain to his abdominal muscles leaves him weak, trembling and in need of pain meds.

Between the coughing, nausea and pain meds, and the food he is served, his appetite is facockta. He's incredibly weak. On more than one occasion he hasn't been able to make it to the bathroom in time. Take just a moment to consider what impact that would have on one's mental/emotional health.

But the important thing is that the doctors are pleased with the results of their latest efforts. I'm trying to be pleased too, but I'm not privy to happy-snappy lab results, or how the patient looks when his chart is reviewed. I'm sitting beside Rich's bed. Listening to him cough and hack and desperately attempt to clear his airway, while he holds his side and moans in pain from the effort. When he's not suffering, he's floating somewhere on the edge of pharmaceutical euphoria. Either way, he has nothing to say to me. An entire week in the hospital and 99% of his verbal skills have been shared with everyone but me. Ever polite, charming, please and thank yous, and he turns to me for requests. He complains to me about the food (rightfully so) then tells staff it was just fine. I beg him to eat, he whines, complains and refuses. Hospital staff comes in and he suddenly makes an effort, and assures them he will try harder. Nursing assistant enters the room to see if he needs anything and he says “no”. They leave the room and he needs me to move this, retrieve that, reposition this, untwist the covers, and where is his urinal, his water and his tissues?
On a deep level I feel and acknowledge that his comfort level is so high with me that I'm the one he turns to and leans on. I am the only one that he allows to see his weak, vulnerable side. It makes me feel special. Like I would specially like to smack him up the backside of his head.
By today there were no longer requests—just grunts and hand gestures. Just as well since his words are so slurred I can't understand half of what he says anyway.

For three hours we got the puzzle pieces of discharge. Translated, that means that every 30-45 minutes a member of hospital staff comes in the room and mentions that they hear you're being discharged today, and you put a hawkeye on their behavior to see if their actions mirror the promise. The surgeon agrees with me that we will not remove the PIC line today on the off chance that something develops (ya think?!?!) that might require fast IV access. Three times hospital staff comes in for the next step of discharge which is ---REMOVING the PIC line. After the third correction, I am now afraid to use the rest room lest I return to find the PIC line has been removed. On the flip side, the surgical drain that I was told would be removed before discharge is not going to be removed.
The Infectious Disease doctor says the PIC line can go, I explain why that is not going to happen and he's totally agreeable and the cycle begins again.

Suddenly the paperwork is complete and it is now the bum's rush to remove the patient. Without any assistance. This man has lost 45 lbs in the past 5 months. He was admitted to the hospital with his clothes HANGING on his bony frame. I'm trying to help him dress. He barely has the energy to lift a foot just enough to clear the floor and drop into a pants leg. By the time we get his oversized pants up to his waist I AM out of breath. Then we discover that his abdomen is so swollen that we can't button and zip the jeans that required a cinched belt to keep them up a week ago.
Now I've got to get his sausage feet into his footies and then into shoes. I'm close to tears. Between weakness and edema he can't hold his feet up long enough for me to slide his ankle socks on. Maybe it would work better if I laid him back in the bed and did it that way, but at this point I fear that if he lays down again, I'll never get him up.
Geezus Haych Kryste, now I have to get his shoes on. Shoot me. I had to loosen the shoe strings to the max to pull the tongue back far enough for a screaming opening that would accommodate his sausage dogs. Still it was a struggle that left me sitting on the floor by his bed crying with the assurance that Rich was oblivious to my pain, suffering and requests for assistance.

Yee-hah, he's ready to load. I pack up all the comforts I brought him that were well intended and totally ignored. His 8 lb terry bath robe, two large canvas bags of food on ice, lotion, hygiene items, photos, an herbal rice pillow for warmth and an expensive neck pillow.... cheery=cheery, rah-rah, crap that weighs a ton combined when schlepping flights of stairs and parking decks.

He does not speak to me on the 40 minute ride home save to say.... “What did I do wrong?” Apparently he noticed my frustration with the people who were loading him into the van for not listening to me when I asked them to hand me his walker.

Holy crap, Batman..... My comfort Vat is empty. For the first 10 minutes I try not to cry, but then I hear by his breathing that I could sing Madame Butterfly without response, so I just relax into the long drive and the orange barrels and let the tears fall.

I get him home. Let me tell you about getting him up the stairs. I park so that he can step from the van with his walker straight up to the stoop, and I know how to assist someone with a walker up steps. We make the landing and he is panting and exhausted. I have him sit on the bottom step. I sit on the floor beside him. I tell him how much the house has missed him and how the energy is trying to embrace him. When his breathing is even I have him brace his hands on the step behind him... “push with your legs sweetie and plop your bum up on the next step right between your hands.” We do this, rest and do this again, until he is two steps from the top. I get him to pivot, tell him how to move, which muscle to use and I stand locked rock solid between him and the fall.

I get him into bed which is no less effort than getting him dressed for discharge. I go to the pharmacy to fill the fistful of Rx. It will take an hour. I sit in my van in the parking lot and text message everyone I can think of that Rich is Home. Otherwise, people will show up to visit him in the hospital and later read me the riot act for not keeping them informed. Within twenty minutes I've got 9 text messages in response and I do not have the words to express how pleased I am that everyone is so pleased. I'd like to celebrate by sticking a fork in my jugular.

$168.53 for the Rx and those Rx not covered by insurance and the order that lacked an Rx so it was out of pocket.....

I get home and begin to beg him to eat. I'm foolish enough to think I can tempt and lure him into something that might appeal to him. Well, I'm an idiot. He's Catholic German so all I need to do is drop some slop in front of him and guilt him into consumption.

That's right, boys and girls. Once again...ever and always... I am the bad guy. And the flaming shit of it is that I feel guilty because I cannot get through to him. I look at this poor man suffering, and I'm upset because I'm not successful in his struggle?!?!?! Whoa.... returning attack of Snail Slime.

I am simply a selfish bitch. I want desperately to wrap myself around him, look into his eyes and reconnect with the electrical circuit that has fueled our home, our garden, our journey, our lives. I want to see a spark of recognition in his eyes for me. I want him back.
Instead, the fear of pain and disappointment holds me reserved so that I become servant to his needs to keep me close to him while carefully insulated from my emotions.
Maybe not enough.

I hurt, I hurt, I hurt. And how selfish am I that I hurt so bad I can barely comprehend how HE hurts?