Part 60 Sick branches on the family tree


Dr. Ly-, my new oncologist comes by one afternoon, when my parents are visiting. He is getting more background information on my condition. I am so impressed by his determination and thoroughness that I almost forget that he is but one more of the growing list of strangers who are just passing by, intruding in my life. He asks my mother for a brief family history of persons who suffered from the disease that I was initially treated for before all these successive problems began. My mother starts with her description of her double mastectomy which she experienced years ago. I of course am familiar with this. But next she rattles of a list of Aunt Mabel’s and Uncle Lew’s that goes on and on and on. My eyes widen. I have no idea that so many people on my supposedly generally healthy family tree were so afflicted! Her side of the family is a raging medical basket case. I’ve usually been told I favor my father, but some have remarked that I have traits of my mother. I am now suddenly terrified that my medical condition could be in any way influenced by her family genealogy.

It is finally the end of the week, a Friday, and I have been in this hospital nine days. Becah and the kids come to visit me during therapy. It is wonderful to see them, but I am ashamed that they have to see me this way. The kids are great – encouraging my feeble, concerted attempts at doing what I did effortlessly in the past. But still I want them to return to my hospital room so I can do this without having their eyes on me. Bree has brought me the DVD of “Alice in Wonderland”, reminding me of when we saw it together in the theater. They stay a short while longer. I continue to experience profound ambivalence when they come. I am desperately overjoyed to see them, but minutes after they arrive I am bothered when they start squabbling. It is not the behavior itself. It is the fact that they focus on trivial things to argue about. I am too weak or preoccupied with myself to intervene. But mostly it is the reality that I am not allowed the privilege of getting upset over small things anymore. It is all about the big things. My children remind me of that. And I am saddened by that knowledge.

Late at night I have a scare when I choke attempting to swallow my food. Becah has already gone and I am alone. I have discovered that the hospital staff actually have other patients besides me and must tend to their needs occasionally. What that means though, is that just because I press the button for help doesn’t mean it will instantly arrive. I feel a brief surge of panic before I am able to swallow and breathe. When assistance arrives, I request a Vicodin to get some sleep. Being awake in this place is my idea of a bad time.