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.

To market we go...

I took Rich to the grocery store today. What was I thinking?!

I have no one to blame but myself. But wait, this requires a bit of background.

Last night I chewed Rich a new one. That was not my intention starting out, but I have zero tolerance for whining, so my original effort to inspire and encourage him towards building his strength, quickly degenerated into... “look, asshole, if you're planning on becoming a professional patient, then cancer is the least of your problems, Sparky, because I will be kicking your ass...” I used my kindest voice.

So today I have to go to the grocery store, because if you're going to do this whole healthy, organic, fresh approach, you're working with very short shelf lives. I try to get Rich involved in as much as possible so he's in charge of writing out the grocery list, and I also use this to help spark his appetite. Then he says he wants to go to the store with me. Because he's been thinking about what I said last night. And I'm right. So he needs to get more active. He wants to go to the store with me. Well, Yippy Skippy.

Two meals, four hours and three naps later, Rich is ready to begin the excursion. Bless his heart, he was being so positive and determined. A little too determined. When we pulled into the parking lot he tells me he wants me to park at the back of the lot so he gets a really good walk from car to store. REALLY? Well guess what—it's 92 freakin degrees outside and while that sounds really yummy to the freeze baby in my passenger seat....um....NO. I split the difference and park halfway, right next to the cart return. I hand Rich his cane and help him out of the van and he reminds me that he is going to need his blanket. I am now walking through the blistering hot parking lot, VERY slowly. Carrying a blanket.

I console myself with the knowledge that people will be staring at me carrying a blanket into the grocery store and therefore will not notice that I obviously cut my own hair last night with electric clippers and NO mirror. Why? Because I have an increasingly tenuous hold on my sanity and the meds haven't kicked in yet.

Thank GOD there is a motorized scooter shopping cart available, and within moments we are actually entering the store, where the produce section is cool enough that my eyelashes may stop sweating. I barely get lettuce in the bag when he tells me he needs his blanket. He's cold. I get him tucked in and ask him for the grocery list. By the look on his face I fear I may have just spoken in tongues. I am too hot to explain so I just wait for the gears to turn and then he tells me he forgot it in the car. I know he's not going back for it, and I know I'm not going back for it so I'm going to rely on the memories of Cancer Boy and Menopausal Bitch.

I am not past the peaches and plums when I notice that he is going to drive the scooter at the same speed he walks. This is going to be a long damn day. I go back and check to make sure the battery is fully charged. It is. Apparently Rich does not have the hand strength to squeeze the speed control thingy beyond a crawl. Now I figure that I'll just attack this in sectors, gathering as much as I can while keeping him in sight and then we'll move on to the next sector, and this is after all a 24 hour grocery so I'm good. As an aid to keeping him in sight, the scooter has an antennae like projection with a safety orange triangular flag on top. What the F$%# is THAT for?! It might be helpful except that it is not as tall as the top shelves of the aisles so I can't see the freakin' flag unless I'm in the same aisle he's in, in which case, I don't need the flippin' flag. It is at this moment that I decide grocery stores should have cash bars. If ever there was an occasion that called for a stiff Scotch neat, THIS is the occasion.
We FINALLY move past the disjointed maze of produce and bakery and enter the more orderly section of neat, straight rows. My relief is short lived.

I quickly surmise that Rich does not comprehend the total volume of his body plus the scooter shopping cart. He is maneuvering the aisles as if it is just him. ..not him within a contraption that is larger than a shopping cart. I also assume that he is concerned about side-swiping the shelves which is why he's commandeering the center of the aisle. If there were a double yellow line, he'd be so busted. The fact that he's bundled in a blanket and shivering is probably the only reason people are being so patient, but they quickly figure out that I'm responsible for him and they have no problem shooting dirty looks my way. I decide they just don't like my haircut. I repeatedly urge him back to the right lane, and he persists in protecting the items on the shelves.

Now would be the perfect time for me to give Rich a mission. Something that will contain and focus him. My first choice is to send him back to the pharmacy section—far, far from the frozen foods, and have him get me the extra special PMS meds with the exclusive anti-homicidal ingredient. I know this man. I could finish my shopping, load the groceries in the car, get a manicure and come back to find him still reading the labels. But he's trying so hard to keep up, to help remember the missing grocery list, to remember how we used to do these things together, to be positive in the midst of something that is clearly uncomfortable for him both physically and emotionally. I can't bring myself to alter a moment of this adventure.

I go with the flow. I am peaceful even as I realize that yet again I have chosen the wrong check out line. I try not to think about the minutes that are ticking by on Rich's Energy Meter. He's sitting out of the way watching people check out, go by, go ballistic over nonsense. I try not to look at him. It is the perfect distance and venue to realize how terribly frail he looks. During yet another lull in the action I feel compelled to look in his direction and find him staring at me, and when he see's he has successfully captured my gaze... he sticks his tongue out at me, and then grins. And one more time I think, “yeah, I can do this.”