Part 38

Part 38 The source of true suffering


Monday morning I find myself still in this miserable place. The place isn’t really miserable, it is just my state of mind that I have projected on to this hospital, but I’ve done it so well that the building itself and all its inhabitants are oppressive. Becah dropped by at lunch time, watching me attempt a clear liquid diet (Sprite and soup broth) which didn’t really work. A warm shower later in the evening, however, does wonders. The night is memorable for someone playing the bouncy Christmas song “Marshmallow World” (although it is April). I sip on a can of Ensure, fighting the immediate urge to throw up soon after.

I awake the next morning nauseous again with (of course) my raging wet mouth, flying through boxes of Kleenex as fast as the staff can bring them to me. My long time general practitioner drops in to see me, saying very little but lightening my mood some simply because he is a familiar face. He is followed soon after by my otolaryngologist who I unfairly regard as the person who set all this torture into motion. He informs me that the excessive mucous and instability of my salivary glands are the result of radiation, and that my condition will improve if I can just ride it out long enough. They decide to not scope me today but will instead wait until my condition improves. They do, however, wheel me out for a chest x-ray for some unfathomable reason.

Becah has called my insurance company, who assure her that they will pick up the tab for all these physicians and tests and Kleenex boxes. This comforts me greatly, and in time I will discover that true suffering comes not from all the needles and potions and rays but rather from the astronomical bills that are deposited in your mailbox and the ever present reminders that you are stuck with them should the insurance company refuse to pay.

By evening my temperature hovers around 100, dropping and rising intermittently. The mucous and mouth sores are worse today than ever. Becah is with me again at dinner time, watching TV. Suddenly a kind looking Indian physician enters the room, smiles, and sits down beside me. He leans over, introduces himself as Dr. Se- , and gently describes my status. I have apparently been administered a “kick ass treatment”, primarily in the choice of following radiation with another round of chemo (which apparently landed me here). Dr. Se- says it will be six weeks before the mouth situation will significantly improve. He suggests I gargle with water and baking soda. He likes the look of my x-ray. I find that his voice – maybe just his presence – is infinitely relaxing to me, and I wish he would never leave.