Richard's post-op euphoria has worn off. Monday morning he called to tell me he felt great. The way he was slurring his words, I think I know why. He asked me to “take the day off”--stay home and rest. He said he'd call me later in the day. I don't think he remembered that part.
I stayed home, but not to rest. Are you kidding me?! This house looks like a tornado blew through. I had just enough energy to put a dent in it and I baked for him some “breast feeding cookies”. They are so called because of the ingredients that promote milk production. They are YUMMY, and thank heavens I'm not lactating.
I went in to see him Tuesday afternoon and I completely missed his Happy Window. He was completely post-op miserable. I felt what little energy I had being sucked out of me. I crawled into bed beside him and we took a nap. Awake again he was in pain, trying to get up to the chair but abdominal surgery makes everything difficult and painful. We triumphed with effort and he slept in the chair for a bit, then we took a very short walk a few feet down the hall. He is so tired of being in pain. He still has no appetite. When his dinner came, I could understand why. The meat was dry, the gravy tasted more of salt than anything else, the steamed vegetables tasted like formed paste. He had told me not to bring the mac and cheese I had made. Now he was regretting that. He had some kind of nutritional supplement that tasted like orange syrup. I could not have eaten that crap. Even the water was awful. It wreaked of chlorine, which you will notice when you drink nothing but filtered water at home. Thankfully I remembered to bring the Britta water pitcher. I offered to go to the cafeteria and find him some yogurt and he agreed. I noticed that nothing on his tray was being offered in the cafeteria where people actually pay for their food, as opposed to a portion of the overall room cost. Hhmmmm.
A scoop of mashed potatoes, two little Activia yogurts and a pint of whole milk--$4.07 Watching Rich eat something....priceless.
At this rate I'll go broke. Three dollars a day to park (and that's with my $2 off card, and we now have to pay to park for his doctor's appointments), almost the same amount in gas for the round trip, and now I have to buy his meals? There should be nothing on a patient's tray that is not being served in the doctors' dining room. If they had to eat that crap there'd be a major shake-down.
Silly me. How could I have forgotten in such a short time that I'm supposed to be bringing food in for him, and while the McDonalds the Dietician recommended would be way more convenient, that's just not going to happen for a plethora of reasons. So I'm still cooking, which also requires cleaning up the kitchen three times a day. The only difference is that instead of setting a lovely tray and carrying it up the stairs, I'm packing it up in ice and schlepping it to the very last room on the fifth floor. It's like going camping every god damn day only you never actually get there so you drive back home and the next day you do it again.
Today I get here ten minutes before his lunch tray. Today is the day he eats 100% of his meal. Thankfully the food I brought is packed in ice so it will keep until dinner time, or till I get it back in the fridge at home so I can schlepp it back tomorrow. I go for coffee only to discover that the coffee machines in both the oncology family room AND the MICU waiting room are out of service. Now I just want to cry. I try to knit, but my Cranky Mood takes all the peace and joy out of knitting for me. I watch him read the newspaper I brought him. After my third failed attempt at conversation I give up from exhaustion. Ten minutes later he's sleeping. I don't blame him. I can't make small talk when I'm at my best; I don't feel like talking at all when I'm sick. But the silence enables me to hear the little voice in my head telling me how grateful I should be that he's doing better. I think I'll suspend gratitude until I'm doing better.
So pardon my case of Crabby Pants. For the past few days I'm listening to everyone sing happy because Rich is doing so much better and I “must be so relieved”. If I hear one more person tell me how grateful I must be that I can now get some rest I'm going to totally jump ugly on them. That's like everyone doing the Happy Dance because the baby is finally here, as the mother is trying to recuperate while waking up every two hours to feed her. Shut up.
But the phone call that absolutely threatens to push me over the edge is... “we just had to call to find out how Rich is doing because we've been praying for him...” I SO don't know what THAT means.
Seriously? If something is important enough that I'm going to appeal to my higher power, I don't think I'm going to be rude and call around afterward to check up on His/Her performance. Way to bring your Faith.
Normally I can suck it up in an hour or two, but now my attempts at rebound are at a dead stop. I fear it will stay that way until Hope stops feeling like a delusion. That and I would appreciate an answering machine with an automatic kill switch for Stupid. Temporary deafness would be bliss. Doubt I can book three days in a sensory deprivation tank... Since ear drums do not regenerate, I'm trying to resist the urge to sharpen pencils and stick them in my ears.
I absolutely despise how ungrateful, ugly and bitchy I sound. Even as I write this I question whether I have the guts to actually post this blog and reveal my evil side. It would be so easy not to....only post the hope, love and devotion. But that's only a part of it and without the whole picture this is just a lame movie on the Lifetime Channel. As bad as my candor makes me look, it would be more evil to let other people in similar situations think it's possible to walk this path in a constant state of Perfect Polyanna. You can't live something this ugly day after day without having UGLY rub off on you. Two days after a new workout routine, your muscles really feel it; two days after surgery your incision hurts the worst; and three days after the crisis passes, I get a case of Crabby Pants. That's how that works.
A couple of years ago Rich bought me a t-shirt with a crown on the front that says “Princess Crabby Pants.” His way of letting me know that he understands and supports the occasional funk. He could usually tell a spell was coming before I did. It didn't take him long to learn that the duration was heavily impacted by how he responded to it. He became the King of Princess Crabby Pants. It takes a humongous load of crap before I feel the weight of the Crabby Pants Crown. Still, he could have me turned around in no time. Now he's in too much pain, or too tired to notice and if he did he'd only feel guilty that he was the cause. It makes me keenly aware of how alone I am without my best friend to tease and comfort me.
One of the many evil aspects of Cancer is that it divides and conquers. First, It turns your mate into a Patient, and gradually it turns the patient into a Stranger. The battle to keep the lines of communication open is monumental. Then there's the battle against surrendering to pity for your mate's suffering; guilt for your exhaustion and lack of patience; the confusion of when to be tough and when to be gentle.
So pardon me if I'm not dancing on clouds because an excellent surgeon cleaned up another doctor's mess. Don't think I'm not grateful. In my solitude I did cry with gratitude, and I did sing. But it was one battle in a very long war, and the very next morning I had to pick up my bundle and move on down the road to the next battlefield. Between surgical pain, lack of appetite and low blood counts, he is barely capable of responding to a three second warning of bladder and bowel. Not conducive to celebrating when the emotional impact is far more damaging than the physical and I'm the one dealing with both.
And while I'm dealing with his care and comfort, I have to juggle the care and comfort of everyone who feels they have the right to be kept informed because their lack of faith requires that I update them on the progress of their prayers and the power of their god.
Breathing down my neck is the corporate policy demand to keep my employer informed when the situation changes daily and I can sit on hold for 40 minutes and still not get through to whoever may, or may not, be my supervisor. I could fully explain, but it would seriously compromise my employment.
I'm just doing the best I can, tired of being critiqued and directed in the process by well-intentioned people without a fucking clue. I AM..... Princess Crabby Pants.
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