“…the Bitch is back”
First I was having problems accessing my Yahoo portal to the blog. Mostly, the past three months since pellets were placed have been too horrible for anything other than day to day survival. Over THAT.
Rich was admitted to the hospital last Tuesday. The swelling in his ankles started moving up his legs so I disregarded his orders and called the doctor. He went in for IV lasix, we were thinking it would be a simple fix and then home. We were so confident of that that Rich said he didn’t want me to come to the hospital. “Just take a break from this for a couple of days.” I didn’t argue. In the past three months he has been so miserable that he has become increasingly distant with me.
His ex-sister-in-law had arranged for some Master Gardeners to come and clean up the garden for us. Word spread and over the course of this past Saturday twenty some people came and went, volunteering several hours each of back-breaking work. The results are amazing. A dream came true.
Early that Saturday afternoon of magical garden transformation I took my lunch break, sitting on our stone bench in the corner of the yard where only my brother was working. His cell phone rang. It was Rich. He was asking when I would be coming to the hospital. I could hear in my brother’s voice that he could hear something in Rich’s voice. Bottom line… “when she comes, I need you to come with her”. I swallowed hard and then the tears came. A great, gulping, gushing flow. Once again I curse my lack of the beautiful ooze of shock gene.
In moments there was Christopher, Lynn, Alicia and Dr Peiffer kneeling in front of me on my stone bench while everyone else continued to work in the garden. Dr Peiffer “wrote” a prescription for an immediate glass of wine, and like magic it was in my hand.
I’ll spare you the drama. It took some time but they managed to get me to a point where I could follow their orders…breathe, .get a shower, breathe, get dressed, breathe, give Christopher your car keys, breathe, You can do this….breathe….
Thanks to them, I found myself at Rich’s bedside in full readiness.
There is now a tumor inside the vena cava. It’s inoperable. It is causing 85% blockage of the return blood flow to his heart. Hence, from the tumor site down, he has become the Michelin Man. They told him that “as things stand now, you have a couple of weeks.” He told me everything he knew with gentle calm and once all those ugly words were hovering above the bed where we sat holding each other he began to cry because that was the point where he wanted to tell me how sorry he was for putting me through all this.
I was aware of the knife that had just been plunged into my heart; also aware that any attempt to remove it would result in my bleeding out. So I left it there untouched and I focused.
A little while later Christopher and I were home, and everyone was gone save Alicia and Christy, still working, cleaning the kitchen and hanging Rich’s wind chimes on the patio.
As my brother and I are want to do in such situations, we built a fire, the next few hours spent on these three people rebuilding my foundation of existence.
I spent Sunday afternoon with Rich. We loved each other a lot. We drifted into the preliminary talk that you have to have before you can get to the Real Talk.
But wait. There’s more.
He has a lung infection. They put a drain tube in his right lung and connected it to a lung vac so there would be suction rather than just drainage.
So there he is. Swollen a heartbeat away from his skin splitting open, a lung vacuum on his right lung and two IV pumps infusing all that the AMA can throw at this on his left side; in one of the smallest rooms on the floor and he begins to get a worrying feeling in his colon. Then he tells me that he has been asking for a bedside commode for two days now because he can’t make it to the bathroom in time and soils himself. I immediately begin requesting a bedside commode in a slightly different tone than Rich tends to use. For four hours, I repeat the request to every member of hospital staff who enters the room. After four hours the worrying feeling in his colon descends to a threatening point.
I march myself to the nurses’ station where “report is being given” so they are fully assembled. All present for me to query in a low, calm voice, “Can someone please tell me whom I have to give a blow job to in order to get a bedside commode for my husband?” Then I smiled. We’ve been asking for two days. I offered to go get it myself because I used to work there, know where they are, just give me a hall pass so I don’t get busted by Security for stealing hospital property that is a receptacle for feces. Apparently these people had never been offered a blow job before because I was met with stunned silence. I marched back to Rich’s room.
I texted our PCP, “Dr Peiffer, do YOU have the name of the person I have to give a blow job to in order to get a bedside commode for Rich?” Within two minutes my phone rings, and Dr Peiffer is assessing the situation and my combustability. While we’re on the phone, the treasured object appears. Apparently our PCP is so good that all she has to do is wish for something and it appears for us. Rich was “relieved” and I then spent the next 90 minutes apologizing to every member of staff for my shit-ass lame impersonation of Shirley MacLaine in “Terms of Endearment”.
Monday Rich and I had a nice visit because my King had a throne and all was right with the world. (More on this later)
Yesterday I went in at the time Rich requested because they were sending him for tests. A bone scan, because if the cancer has metastasized to his bones…. well, we’re screwed.
Here’s how THAT went. They did the bone scan. Then, radiology wheeled him on his gurney out into the hallway. And parked him. Someone called for transportation to take him back to his room. He laid on that gurney in that hallway for an hour and fifteen minutes. Without a urinal or call light. It might have been longer had not his nurse started wondering where the fuck he was. Later reports to me were that his nurse started jumping ugly to the point that one of the “head radiology staff” found him and made heroic efforts to navigate the intricacies of the floors and elevators until Rich returned to his room.
They explained this to me the following day with the assurance that the Supervisor of Transportation would be up to Rich’s room to apologize. I took the report of events quite calmly, then assured the nurse that I SO did not need some hapless victim of short staffing to throw himself on his sword for damage control.
“Seriously. Nothing short of the Head Hospital Administrator on his knees explaining how it would be okay for HIS family member to lay in a hallway for an hour and fifteen minutes, or okay to wait two days for a bedside commode after soiling themselves three times… No, really, I’m good. Just not up to a Dog and Pony Show right now….”
Moot point. No one showed up to say shit about shinolah to us.
I just smile. I know the One who holds the keys to release the Flying Monkeys.
And now if have to say This about That.
Claire Wilson is the most amazing Director of Nursing. She supervises the oncology floor. The ENTIRE staff, from nurses, to assistants, to housekeeping, to the lovely little girl that makes milkshakes for the patients… are AWESOME!!!! Transportation is awesome and everyone I may have missed us also awesome. But I don’t care what your training or degree or expertise is, three people cannot do twenty people’s job. I will address this further. Somewhere. It won’t be pleasant.
Today I got to the hospital early so I would be there when Dr McGee rounded. We were expecting the results.
We Got them.
The bone scan lit up like a skeleton wanting to be a Christmas Tree. Rich has a large tumor in his left hip, smaller glow spots in his left femur; both shoulders, his clavicle and little diamond points in his wrists.
It nearly broke my heart to watch Dr McGee stoically map out our Pit of Despair. He tells us that the mapping of previous radiations suggests that they can radiate the tumor in his vena cava and relieve the swelling. Then he addresses the hip and starts talking about the surgery that will place a rod in his leg, or else we are looking at a soon to happen hip fracture and…blah, blah, and
I brought the whole thing to a rapid halt, bitch that I am.
“Dr McGee, Rich and I have talked. You and all of his doctors have done an amazing job. No one could ask for more. I don’t think we’re going to get a return on that investment, so let’s just focus on palliative care and bring this mission home.”
I said what Rich wanted to say and couldn’t. Why? Because Rich can’t bring himself to fail his doctors. I said what Rich and I spent loving, tearful moments preparing for in the event that the cancer had metastasized to his bones. I said what no one wanted to say and everyone wanted to hear. There was a brief silence and then a flush of relief from both of these men in the room. I envied their relief.
And so this day began.
The periodic parade of Hospitalist, Pulmonologist, Infectious Disease Doctor, Pharmacologist, Endocronoligst. We Saw them all. And each time they asked the perfunctory questions and Rich gave the answers he wanted them to hear. Then I would read the confusion on their faces because I know they had reviewed his chart before entering so I tried to explain things without sounding like I was talking about him like he wasn’t’ there, and the whole time I’m wondering if they think I’m just a heartless bitch who just wants this to be over? And how do I tell you that really, this is what he has assured me he wants but he just can’t bring himself to disappoint you, and can’t you please, please, please, see how much I love him and desperately want him to be comfortable? And can you see that….
Then I remember. It’s not my box of tissues.
We’re pre-flight now. Rich is mapping out the mission. I’m waiting for his coordinates. I’m getting my
gear in check and I’m sitting on the tarmac. Standby. I’m his wing man.
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