Part 84 Return to misery street


Regardless of how one tries, it is impossible to relate personal experiences effectively so others can understand your unique life situation at any time. I can state that I am ill, or even use the words “miserable” or “terrible”, but that still does not allow others to really step in and experience my condition themselves. Of course, who would really want to do that?

From Monday through Friday of late October to early November my residence is the hospital room. Around the middle of that time my stent is replaced. The original stent had apparently migrated, causing me to ache with pain for all those days. The new stent, in a new position, should bring an improvement. Of course, there is no guarantee that this stent will not also move, with subsequent discomfort to be expected. I ask Dr. Ra- why he cannot simply put a softer piece of PVC pipe in my chest so I don’t have this metal stent grating against me. He replies, “oh, you mean a Mexican stent?” (his being Hispanic making this remark more humorous).

The usual array of nurses and staff check in on me, but I have spent enough time in hospitals now that I am becoming jaded to even their honest efforts at making all this a more pleasant experience for me. I really just want to sleep to escape and, when awake, just want to be pain free and left alone. Of course, even when I attempt to doze off, there is the usual waking me in the middle of the night for taking vital signs or drawing blood or wheeling me out during the day for chest x-rays and other tests. For distractions the TV is here, but rarely turned on. As usual, I also have a stack of books and magazines, but they go unread. I am existing (living would be to optimistic a word) until Friday, my proposed discharge date.

Friday is chilly, and it is evening before all the papers are ready and we can finally get away, but I am at last on my way home.

Early in the morning in bed I have a crazy dream about going to England and meeting Tony Blair and having to control feeling nauseated. I wake up actually feeling sick. After this abates, though, I realize my pain has dropped considerably. Soon a crystal, cool day has evolved, and although I am shaky I feel much better. I work out for the first time in many days, an activity which itself lightens my mood. Activated, I drive around, running errands while listening to “Buffalo Springfield Again” because its freshness just seems to go with this day.

I visit my oncologist Dr. Bu-, who has reviewed my latest PET scan. There is a tiny lighted area in my groin. I have told him about the periodically swollen and painful lymph gland. He feels that this might indicate a hernia, which in light of everything I’ve previously dealt with would be a minor problem. He recommends another scan in three months.

My good fortune is short lived, though. The tension is thick over the next days regarding my unresolved health status, and Becah and I find ourselves shouting again over which one of us is suffering the most. Becah is convinced that her caregiver duties are draining her, while I am adamant that my pain is greater and I would change places with her any day. It is, obviously, an unwinnable fight because, again, no matter how you try, you cannot really live inside another’s skin.