Part 138 The well empties


The next week is tentative, etched with minor improvements and sharp setbacks. The speech therapist informs me that some people experience sudden swallowing problems with onset between one and two years following radiation. She performs an evaluation of my skills and reviews some swallowing exercises with me. I am to do these exercises multiple times throughout the days. They are generally the same as the ones I was given in the hospital, and I find practicing them to be challenging and tedious. The therapist will later determine that I am an acceptable candidate for Vita Stym therapy, a technique that employs electrical stimulation of my throat. I am open for anything that will speed up this process.

My temperature ranges from normal to slightly elevated, accompanied by bouts of vomiting (mucous or dark bile) between once and three times daily. I experience dizziness often when I attempt even brief walks around the house. My best weight is a puny 146 pounds. My voice is hoarse and weak when I speak.

One day we return to the hospital to have the j-tube replaced, tired of the leaking and burning and general ineffectiveness of the current one. The process is familiar: lie down and wait for an IV, then more waiting, watching new doctors, assistants, and nurses walk by and wondering when I finally will get this going. The operating room is new to me, and this adds to my discomfort. I am awake for this procedure, and experience apprehension, although aside from a few pokes and prods and sharp stabs, I survive.

Back at my home, I walk up the stairs, assisted by Becah, to rest in the game room, one afternoon as the sun pours through the windows. We watch an episode of “Friday Night Lights”. I am unsteady, so light that I could topple over, and feeling confused. I feel as if I am returning from a long trip alone.

I am sinking into a sea of physical and mental weakness. I am ready to give up. Twice in the week Becah pulls at me, raising her voice and glaring in my face, confronting me about my obligations to be assertive in fighting all this and standing up to my responsibilities to get well for the sake of our family. But where does the strength come from? Since the beginning of all this – one and a half years ago – I always had a supply of hopes and dreams and strength at my disposal. The doctors thought I was tough enough to endure their arsenal of treatment, and they kept the barrage coming. I stood up and took it all. Now I reach into my reservoir and find it empty.

This recovery process is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life.