I don't know what that means

Well, don't I feel lower than snail slime.

We went to the grocery store yesterday. In part because my husband is the understatement of symptoms. In part because I suddenly had a Drill Sergeant approach to physical therapy. He pretty much did not move the rest of the evening.

Because it was Tuesday, we got the lab results from the blood that was drawn on Monday by visiting nurse. Our Infectious Diseases doctor called to tell me that his vancoymcin level was good so he wanted me to resume 1 Gm daily IV, and he's switching him to an oral anti-fungal which should eliminate the headaches. I reported Rich's overall condition and asked if the rest of the blood work was okay, and it was. The CAT scan results from Monday show the liver abscess has shrunk, but now there's infiltrates in the right lung. Then he tells me “but the good news is that the infiltrate in the left lung is gone.” I would have been happier about it being gone had I known it existed in the first place. We confirm our plan and he assures me to call him if we have any questions or concerns.

Half hour later, visiting nurse calls because the lab results show that Rich's hemoglobin is “seriously low and we want to know if anyone is doing anything about it.”

REALLY? Really... I don't know what that means. Since you called ME, should I infer that I'm the one who's supposed to be Doing Something About IT? Did you call the doctor who ordered the lab work? No, they didn't call the doctor, they just sent him the lab results. Well, if you assumed the ordering doctor would deal with the results.....Hmmm.....maybe you should call the ordering doctor? Just a thought. Then, I actually said to him, “I'm sorry, I've got a really bad haircut and my meds haven't kicked in yet. Would you like ME to call the doctor.?” Wow. He jumped on that offer like a duck on a June bug.

At 18:00 we called the doctor's service and gave the message and requested a call back. At 19:20 we called again—same message. At 22;30 we went to bed and figured that a) there was no cause for concern, or b) the man had not yet learned to properly fear me.

At 11:00 this morning we are sitting in Dr McGee's office, Rich with his jacket and blanket. He asks for a cup of water after they get his vitals, but he can't drink it because the tap water wreaks of chemicals. This is our first visit with McGee since discharge. There's a lot to tell him... the vancomycin nightmare, the lack of communication, no discharge instructions for the drain tube that blocked up and created problems; the 3x daily blood sugars followed by insulin while in the hospital—then discharged with nothing. How did THAT magically resolve itself? The unchanging symptoms that are critical one day and mean nothing the next; not being informed that there was a left lung infiltrate, and no one wanting to address the “seriously low hemoglobin” that was drawn TWO days ago. This is where I find out that labs drawn by visiting nurse go to the ordering doctor only, and are not shared with THE ONCOLOGIST!. He asks me if our PCP is being notified? Well, he was, but then his office called to tell me he doesn't want to deal with it because he hasn't seen Rich in over a year---SO why was Anyone covering for him in the hospital?!?!?! Could someone exhibit some compassion and just poke me in the eye with a sharp stick?

Dr. McGee is NOT looking happy and I'm fairly certain it's not my haircut.

He has one of his staff come in and do a fingerstick to get his hemoglobin. It's 8.0 Apparently, that's the winning number to get a blood transfusion. They come in and draw all the necessary vials to get all the results McGee wants plus type and cross-match for the transfusion. We walk across the hall and take a seat in the Cancer Treatment Center. The lady at the desk tells us it will be at least a half hour for the lab to type and cross match so they can do the transfusion. We settle in, Rich falls asleep and I curse myself for not having a book or knitting project with me. At this point in our process I know better than to leave home without reading or knitting materials. It is 12;30. There is an “Us” magazine. Shoot me now. There is a six month old “Time” magazine, and a June “Family Circle” magazine. I turn the pages very slowly, to make each portal expand and fill up time that I know for damn sure will go beyond thirty minutes. I have been around this Cancer Block quite a few times now people. Thirty minutes in YOUR time is any point on the time line of infinity for me. We took our seats at 13:05. At 15:30 the department supervisor came out to tell us that we needed to go home. The lab was still in the process of cross-matching and it would not be completed for quite some time yet because Rich had “new anti-bodies” in his blood that weren't present at the transfusion he had a few weeks ago. “this could take awhile”. I asked for an explanation, only because I was seriously curious. She looked like I had just poked her in the eye with a sharp stick. “Because of the anti-bodies they have to keep testing to find a match, so it just takes longer to rule out the donors that don't match his anti-bodies.” Who's on First? I don't know.... Third Base.

So is there a chance he's not going to get blood if nothing matches? I ask. “no, it just takes longer to match.” I looked at Rich and said, “well thank heaven you;re not bleeding out right now.”

Tomorrow we go back to the Cancer Treatment Center so Rich can get a transfusion. But we have to call first to make sure they're ready for us. We have a forty minute drive home. I'm fine with comfortable silence. I have zero tolerance for ignoring the elephant in the room...or car as the case may be. Rich has been my Confessor since we accepted the Gift of Us. I need to apologize, confess and receive absolution for the bitch I was Monday night in trying to build his strength, and prevent him from slipping down the slippery slope of Egocentric Professional Patient. Jah-Zeezus, could I be more selfish????

I don't get two words out and he suddenly coughs like some theatrical trick performed on cue. Then he reaches over and pats my leg and says, “If it weren't for you, Pupshn, I'd be dead.” He even shares his Frostee with me.