Had not Stuart fallen ill at the "right" time and place (in a doctor's office), we probably wouldn't have known about his cancer until it was too late to do much about it. He wasn't having any symptoms of kidney cancer; he was having symptoms of depression, which only intensified when he learned of his cancer. But the fact is, it was a stroke of luck — or a warning message from his own body — that caught the cancer in stage one, and we are grateful now, both for that signal and for the infectious diseases specialist whose diagnostic thoroughness no doubt saved Stuart's life.
After she told me the bad news, I asked Dr. Diana to prescribe an anti-depressant for Stuart, because he was currently in no shape to fight — he'd been too sad to eat or drink properly for weeks — that's why he nearly fainted in her office. I knew he would see the cancer as physical payback for his years as a smoker. He'd felt there was no point in fighting it: his business was in the toilet, he was ill, and he would probably die.
And here I was, recovering nicely but physically weak and emotionally drained. I couldn't do the fighting for him. The doctor obliged me by offering a Prozac scrip, and Stuart agreed that he was depressed and willing to try an antidepressant. But relief was three weeks or more away. The immediate plan was to cheer ourselves up just by going home, petting our cats, sleeping in our own bed.
Stuart can only take so much lying down; he prefers to be up and doing. Though he'd been unable to stand or walk all week, on Friday when I offered to call a friend to come get us, he said he could get us home, and besides he didn't want to leave his car in New Jersey. So, he took the lead, and made several heroic, Percoset-assisted trips — down in the elevator and out to the very back of the parking lot, where I had left the car in the only spot of shade, and back for more of the "stuff" we had accumulated, we knew not how. He used the wheelchair they had provided for me, filling it with plastic bags of prescriptions and hospital release instructions and overnight bags, iPod and books, limping along behind with both hands braced on the chair grips, using it like a walker.
Meanwhile, I waited for the hospital social worker to set up my home nursing care, and the shift nurse to dose me with antibiotic fluid one last time, then unhook me from the pump and the pole, leaving the PICC line (a more permanent sort of IV site) in my arm for use at home. When Stuart had made his last trip up to the third floor, I eased into the wheelchair and he took me down to the lobby where I waited while he drove the car up to the door and helped me in. Can you drive? I had to ask. Of course, he said. But we both knew what a strain it was: as great as PVH is, we really wanted to get out of there. By the end of the afternoon we were lying side by side on top of the bedspread in our room, staring at the slanting shadows on the east wall, pretty much too tired to think.
We had a journey before us. The home nurse would arrive tomorrow to set up my IV. There would be trips back to the doctor's office in New Jersey, trips to the lab for blood workups, trips to urologists for consultation and advice, calls to the insurance company to check our coverage. As we had learned from prior hospitalizations, there's always an anesthesiologist or pathologist who refuses to accept what your insurance offers and sends you astonishing (and frightening) bills. But that was tomorrow...
(to be continued)
Wednesday, November 7
Monday, November 5
The Spirituality of Illness
No posts for over a month... because I spent the first week of October in Pascack Valley Hospital (PVH). And so did my husband, Stuart!
Here's how it happened. The excruciating lower back pain I experienced last April and May, which finally drove me into the hospital then, returned in September — on the other side of my body. In both cases, I had developed an abscess in the psoas (pronounced "so, as") muscle, which runs horizontally on each side of the spine, four to six inches below the waist. None of the many Medicals I encountered last spring could find a source for the infection. I had had no superficial injury that could have caused an abscess, and no incipient infection could be found elsewhere in my body. I spent a week of May hospitalized and two weeks after that on intravenous antibiotics at home...and the rest of the summer trying to get my stamina back and replenish my digestive system with friendly bacteria. Then it happened again — and again the infection and pain were inexplicable.
After a visit to my family doctor and a night of severe pain, fever and chills, Stuart drove me early the next morning to the infectious diseases specialist who was to give me a scrip for tests at the hospital. If my psoas cyst was larger than tiny, I would be admitted and the abscess drained by the interactive radiologist using the CT scanner to position the drain(s).
Coincidentally, Stuart had come home sick the night before, too. He was dizzy and weak and had crippling sciatica pain shooting down one leg. While I was in the doctor's examination room, Stuart virtually collapsed in the waiting area. When I came out, the doctor invited him to come in. She saw that he was dehydrated and his blood pressure was very low, so she told him to go straight to the Emergency Room.
This was the pitiful picture: me, the "preeminent" patient in pain, pushing Stuart, the "interloper" sicko, out to the parking lot in the doctor's wheelchair. He was dopey, and I didn't know how to find the hospital from the medical office — northern New Jersey roads being impossibly confusing to New Yorkers. Then, too, my mind was whirling: neither of us had packed an overnight bag; I was going to have to postpone my tests while I admitted Stuart then drove home for toothbrushes, fed our cats, returned to visit him in Emergency, then hied myself over to the Radiology department hours later than I was expected. And, I was going to have to take enough Vicodin to be able to take charge of the day — when I should have been the center of everyone else's solicitous attentions! — but not so much painkiller that I couldn't drive and find my way back to the hospital without Stuart helping me navigate. Poor me!
It was a very long day. Stuart waited hours in Emergency for a bed upstairs. I waited hours in Radiology to get my CT scan — drinking the imitation-banana-flavored-barium "shake" for "contrast," developing diarrhea from same, waiting while three dead-at-the-scene patients came through Emergency to be brought back to life by the miracle-working PVH staff, including "my" radiologist who, necessarily, had to delay reading my scan and pronouncing my fate. Poor me, indeed!
By 8:00 p.m., with nothing on my stomach all day but the pseudo-banana "shake," I had progressed backward and was propped in a wheelchair in the Emergency waiting room — in pain, having chills despite being wrapped in a white cotton blanket I'd grabbed in Radiology — also waiting for a bed. If I could have gotten out of the chair, I would have laid down on the waiting room couch. Oh poor, poor me!
Stuart was, by this time, ensconced in a real bed on the third floor. On the plus side, I knew exactly what I was in for — getting a hole bored in my side on the morrow — but neither of us knew what lay in store for Stuart. We talked a little by cell phone, but our conversations were terse, desultory: we were both in pretty bad shape.
Around 9:00 p.m. I was finally wheeled to a room on the fourth floor. The staff had done their best to get me onto the third floor, near Stuart, but PVH was doing a lot of business that particular Tuesday, and space was at a premium. Unfortunately, neither of us was in any shape to walk to the other, and even if we had been, patients are not allowed to leave their floors except when an attendant rolls them somewhere for a test.
So at this point, the first week of October, neither of us was earning a paycheck, as we are both freelancers. No one was paying bills or answering phones or watering plants or mowing grass or paying us visits in the hospital. For reasons completely coincidental, we were miles away from our home (and friends) in the lower Hudson valley — those who would certainly have visited us at our local hospital — feeling very isolated and very helpless. And not without reason.
I didn't even bother calling the Ungrateful Child who lives a three-hour drive away. I knew she would have something more compelling to do than spend time helping us. The best I could do was cope with my own tests and procedures, sleep and rest as much as possible, and visualize getting out of the Sick House by Friday, as nothing is worse than waiting out a weekend in a hospital. (I helped the visualizations along by also verbalizing this wish to all the Medicals I encountered: doctors, nurses, aides, roommate, Stuart and so on.)
Stuart, meanwhile, was being inundated with IV fluids. He, too, spent a lot of time sleeping. Whenever he tried to get up, his sciatica prevented him from walking. Having successfully gotten each other admitted to the same hospital on the same day, we now began to wonder how we would manage to get each other home, and who would take care of whom when we got there.
Theoretically, I was the original sickee and needed two weeks post-hospitalization recovery (and coddling) time. However, in the reality we insist on perceiving, Stuart was extremely depressed and stressed about the crash of his freelance business (related to the subprime mortgage crisis). Besides talking the EMT guys into stopping by my room for a visit on the way back from his MRI, there wasn't much Stuart could do for me or for us. I felt tremendous pressure to recover quickly and begin working again, but I also knew that I could only generate about half the money we would need to pay our bills each month.
And then the real crisis hit, the message Stuart's body was trying to send came through. My visualization/verbalization had worked, and we were both to be released on Friday. But before we left, a urology specialist was sent to Stuart's room at the same time my admitting infectious diseases specialist came to mine, both on a mission to inform us that something had shown up on Stuart's CT and MRI — kidney cancer.
(to be continued)
Here's how it happened. The excruciating lower back pain I experienced last April and May, which finally drove me into the hospital then, returned in September — on the other side of my body. In both cases, I had developed an abscess in the psoas (pronounced "so, as") muscle, which runs horizontally on each side of the spine, four to six inches below the waist. None of the many Medicals I encountered last spring could find a source for the infection. I had had no superficial injury that could have caused an abscess, and no incipient infection could be found elsewhere in my body. I spent a week of May hospitalized and two weeks after that on intravenous antibiotics at home...and the rest of the summer trying to get my stamina back and replenish my digestive system with friendly bacteria. Then it happened again — and again the infection and pain were inexplicable.
After a visit to my family doctor and a night of severe pain, fever and chills, Stuart drove me early the next morning to the infectious diseases specialist who was to give me a scrip for tests at the hospital. If my psoas cyst was larger than tiny, I would be admitted and the abscess drained by the interactive radiologist using the CT scanner to position the drain(s).
Coincidentally, Stuart had come home sick the night before, too. He was dizzy and weak and had crippling sciatica pain shooting down one leg. While I was in the doctor's examination room, Stuart virtually collapsed in the waiting area. When I came out, the doctor invited him to come in. She saw that he was dehydrated and his blood pressure was very low, so she told him to go straight to the Emergency Room.
This was the pitiful picture: me, the "preeminent" patient in pain, pushing Stuart, the "interloper" sicko, out to the parking lot in the doctor's wheelchair. He was dopey, and I didn't know how to find the hospital from the medical office — northern New Jersey roads being impossibly confusing to New Yorkers. Then, too, my mind was whirling: neither of us had packed an overnight bag; I was going to have to postpone my tests while I admitted Stuart then drove home for toothbrushes, fed our cats, returned to visit him in Emergency, then hied myself over to the Radiology department hours later than I was expected. And, I was going to have to take enough Vicodin to be able to take charge of the day — when I should have been the center of everyone else's solicitous attentions! — but not so much painkiller that I couldn't drive and find my way back to the hospital without Stuart helping me navigate. Poor me!
It was a very long day. Stuart waited hours in Emergency for a bed upstairs. I waited hours in Radiology to get my CT scan — drinking the imitation-banana-flavored-barium "shake" for "contrast," developing diarrhea from same, waiting while three dead-at-the-scene patients came through Emergency to be brought back to life by the miracle-working PVH staff, including "my" radiologist who, necessarily, had to delay reading my scan and pronouncing my fate. Poor me, indeed!
By 8:00 p.m., with nothing on my stomach all day but the pseudo-banana "shake," I had progressed backward and was propped in a wheelchair in the Emergency waiting room — in pain, having chills despite being wrapped in a white cotton blanket I'd grabbed in Radiology — also waiting for a bed. If I could have gotten out of the chair, I would have laid down on the waiting room couch. Oh poor, poor me!
Stuart was, by this time, ensconced in a real bed on the third floor. On the plus side, I knew exactly what I was in for — getting a hole bored in my side on the morrow — but neither of us knew what lay in store for Stuart. We talked a little by cell phone, but our conversations were terse, desultory: we were both in pretty bad shape.
Around 9:00 p.m. I was finally wheeled to a room on the fourth floor. The staff had done their best to get me onto the third floor, near Stuart, but PVH was doing a lot of business that particular Tuesday, and space was at a premium. Unfortunately, neither of us was in any shape to walk to the other, and even if we had been, patients are not allowed to leave their floors except when an attendant rolls them somewhere for a test.
So at this point, the first week of October, neither of us was earning a paycheck, as we are both freelancers. No one was paying bills or answering phones or watering plants or mowing grass or paying us visits in the hospital. For reasons completely coincidental, we were miles away from our home (and friends) in the lower Hudson valley — those who would certainly have visited us at our local hospital — feeling very isolated and very helpless. And not without reason.
I didn't even bother calling the Ungrateful Child who lives a three-hour drive away. I knew she would have something more compelling to do than spend time helping us. The best I could do was cope with my own tests and procedures, sleep and rest as much as possible, and visualize getting out of the Sick House by Friday, as nothing is worse than waiting out a weekend in a hospital. (I helped the visualizations along by also verbalizing this wish to all the Medicals I encountered: doctors, nurses, aides, roommate, Stuart and so on.)
Stuart, meanwhile, was being inundated with IV fluids. He, too, spent a lot of time sleeping. Whenever he tried to get up, his sciatica prevented him from walking. Having successfully gotten each other admitted to the same hospital on the same day, we now began to wonder how we would manage to get each other home, and who would take care of whom when we got there.
Theoretically, I was the original sickee and needed two weeks post-hospitalization recovery (and coddling) time. However, in the reality we insist on perceiving, Stuart was extremely depressed and stressed about the crash of his freelance business (related to the subprime mortgage crisis). Besides talking the EMT guys into stopping by my room for a visit on the way back from his MRI, there wasn't much Stuart could do for me or for us. I felt tremendous pressure to recover quickly and begin working again, but I also knew that I could only generate about half the money we would need to pay our bills each month.
And then the real crisis hit, the message Stuart's body was trying to send came through. My visualization/verbalization had worked, and we were both to be released on Friday. But before we left, a urology specialist was sent to Stuart's room at the same time my admitting infectious diseases specialist came to mine, both on a mission to inform us that something had shown up on Stuart's CT and MRI — kidney cancer.
(to be continued)
Monday, August 27
Kolonoscopy, Part II
The colonoscopy "prep" was awful: the dizziness of fasting and waking up hungry the next morning with the appointment still hours away, the salty-tasting clear gel I had to down a gallon of in an hour the night before — hoping not to vomit the vile fluid up and abort/reschedule the torturous process I'd already accomplished. Horrible. After the first trip to the bathroom everything was liquid, and I got up in a rush every hour and a half all night long. Pretty disgusting.
Tuesday, August 21, dawned rainy and cool. We slogged our way through the gray wetness, Stewart driving me. At the gastroenterology office I was not required to wait long — at least they were running on schedule. A pleasant nurse took me to a procedure room and explained things. The gown was dark green, which is good with my coloring, which wasn't normal in the bluish light of the medical setting, and it didn't look bad on, but it left off about four inches above my knees. I kept some of my underwear on above the waist because it felt more comforting to do so. It was cold in the room, and I asked that a second gown be wrapped around my bare legs, which was also a comfort. I had worn tennis "footies" to keep my shoeless feet warm. Another woman entered, inserted an IV into the back of my hand and promised to put me to sleep, bless her. The sooner the better, I said. (In a medical office in the lower Hudson Valley,she had no way of understanding the pun on my Okie origins.)
The doctor is nice. His wife is my opthomologist and I like her, too. But nothing compensates for the fact that I had to turn on my side, away from the three strangers in the room, and bare my butt — and was required to do that before the anesthesiologist would start the soothing drip. Just relax, the doctor said. You realize I won't be able to do that until this lady puts me to sleep, I replied. That statement was the last I remember. Falling asleep almost immediately afterward, however, did not compensate for knowing that my body's privacy was being very unpleasantly invaded. Yuck.
I awoke and felt okay except for the rumbly intestines and the fact that people in the room were speaking about me as if I could not answer for myself. I had thought the bloating would be over, but no, the nurse explained that the doctor sends air up your butt to...what?...get a better view or something. Don't feel bad, she said, everyone, but everyone, farts in this room. Just turn on your other side, pull your knees up and have at it — you'll feel much better. Great. Very comforting.
They let me lie there resting for awhile then took my BP one last time (up before, down during, back to normal after) and gave me Apple & Eve Very Berry juice to break my fast.
I threw on my clothes hurriedly, wanting to make a run for it, but it's not the sort of test you wait a couple of days for the results of. I was led to a consultation room and Stewart was fetched. While we waited, he made a few tasteless jokes to pass the time. (He has been through this himself, twice, and vows never to do it again. I vow never to be in a positiion to hear his tasteless jokes again.)
Eventually the doctor came in and reported, with some disappointment I felt, that my bowels are perfectly normal — try as he might, he could find no sign of diverticulosis (or -itis, the suspected culprit of my massive infection last spring).
Then what did cause it? Stewart asked. The doctor explained how bacteria migrate — sneak into one's system — on a daily basis, but usually our immune systems vanquish them. However, if a person's immune system is at a low ebb, voila, you can get an infection. So, it's just what I thought, I could not help observing knowingly. Going through two months of heavy stress over Cathy's dad's illness and death suppressed my immune system and gave rise to the infection.
Most doctors hate when patients talk like this, especially women who may tend to phrase things less than scientifically, and the gastroenterologist was no exception. So naturally, he would not agree with my statement. He rephrased it carefully, in his own terminology, and pointed out that it was mere speculation on my part. So, I'm a medical mystery, I said acidly, reflecting his logic back at him and rising from my chair. We shook hands civilly, and he said he'd like to see me [and my butt, no doubt) in five to seven years. Fat chance.
Tuesday, August 21, dawned rainy and cool. We slogged our way through the gray wetness, Stewart driving me. At the gastroenterology office I was not required to wait long — at least they were running on schedule. A pleasant nurse took me to a procedure room and explained things. The gown was dark green, which is good with my coloring, which wasn't normal in the bluish light of the medical setting, and it didn't look bad on, but it left off about four inches above my knees. I kept some of my underwear on above the waist because it felt more comforting to do so. It was cold in the room, and I asked that a second gown be wrapped around my bare legs, which was also a comfort. I had worn tennis "footies" to keep my shoeless feet warm. Another woman entered, inserted an IV into the back of my hand and promised to put me to sleep, bless her. The sooner the better, I said. (In a medical office in the lower Hudson Valley,she had no way of understanding the pun on my Okie origins.)
The doctor is nice. His wife is my opthomologist and I like her, too. But nothing compensates for the fact that I had to turn on my side, away from the three strangers in the room, and bare my butt — and was required to do that before the anesthesiologist would start the soothing drip. Just relax, the doctor said. You realize I won't be able to do that until this lady puts me to sleep, I replied. That statement was the last I remember. Falling asleep almost immediately afterward, however, did not compensate for knowing that my body's privacy was being very unpleasantly invaded. Yuck.
I awoke and felt okay except for the rumbly intestines and the fact that people in the room were speaking about me as if I could not answer for myself. I had thought the bloating would be over, but no, the nurse explained that the doctor sends air up your butt to...what?...get a better view or something. Don't feel bad, she said, everyone, but everyone, farts in this room. Just turn on your other side, pull your knees up and have at it — you'll feel much better. Great. Very comforting.
They let me lie there resting for awhile then took my BP one last time (up before, down during, back to normal after) and gave me Apple & Eve Very Berry juice to break my fast.
I threw on my clothes hurriedly, wanting to make a run for it, but it's not the sort of test you wait a couple of days for the results of. I was led to a consultation room and Stewart was fetched. While we waited, he made a few tasteless jokes to pass the time. (He has been through this himself, twice, and vows never to do it again. I vow never to be in a positiion to hear his tasteless jokes again.)
Eventually the doctor came in and reported, with some disappointment I felt, that my bowels are perfectly normal — try as he might, he could find no sign of diverticulosis (or -itis, the suspected culprit of my massive infection last spring).
Then what did cause it? Stewart asked. The doctor explained how bacteria migrate — sneak into one's system — on a daily basis, but usually our immune systems vanquish them. However, if a person's immune system is at a low ebb, voila, you can get an infection. So, it's just what I thought, I could not help observing knowingly. Going through two months of heavy stress over Cathy's dad's illness and death suppressed my immune system and gave rise to the infection.
Most doctors hate when patients talk like this, especially women who may tend to phrase things less than scientifically, and the gastroenterologist was no exception. So naturally, he would not agree with my statement. He rephrased it carefully, in his own terminology, and pointed out that it was mere speculation on my part. So, I'm a medical mystery, I said acidly, reflecting his logic back at him and rising from my chair. We shook hands civilly, and he said he'd like to see me [and my butt, no doubt) in five to seven years. Fat chance.
Monday, August 20
The Dreaded Colonoscopy
I always said I'd never have one of these. No mammagrams and no colonoscopies, and it's nobody's business but my own. I do take responsibility, damn it. I'm not in denial about anything!
It's costly, though, a decision like that in a culture like this. My understanding doctor gave me a prescription for a breast sonogram instead, a test I thought I could cope with — no slamming titties in a device like a window sash. But the lab would not even schedule me without a preceding mammagram — would NOT do it — and made me feel like a criminal in the process of telling me this. So, my gynecologist, a woman, gives me a thorough manual breast exam whenever I see her. I work with what I've got, she says philosophically. (Also, I'm not high risk for b.c.)
And I wouldn't be having the damn colonoscopy in the morning if three or four — maybe it was five? — doctors hadn't repeatedly insisted. See, I was unfortunate enough to have an unusual kind of muscle abscess in May: excruciating pain and a week in the hospital. Since there was no injury that could have caused the infection, and since it cultured out as e coli, the culprit had to be kidney or intestine.
I had my kidneys checked out — that was easy, a little blood, a urine sample. But the kidneys were fine, never better...unfortunately, from my point of view. Hence the upcoming colonoscopy.
What is it with me? It's the humiliation, babe, the humiliation. Let's just say I have a dark past and anything, anything at all, that smacks of humiliation, mortification, immodesty, over-familiarity or boundary-crossing is u n b e a r a b l e. Get over it, they tell you. Everybody does it, they tell you. But THEY don't get it. I'm serious about no nudity with strangers, let alone grabbing my butt or my tits — I've had enough trouble with the people I know well, if you get my drift.
But not only the respected gastroenterologist but also my trusted (female) osteopath says it would be SUCH a good idea, and I should JUST DO IT. So I'm JUST DOING IT! (Gritting my teeth all the way, not to mention what's going on with the sphincter muscle I'm sitting on.)
Everyone told me the preparation is worse than the test. Everyone said, get the procedure done early in the morning so the fasting is shorter. Of course, it's the knowledge of sticking my bare butt out for strangers that does me in, even if I'm going to be asleep at the time. As always, it's what I know that kills me. And, as for the fasting, all I could get was an 11:30 a.m. appointment. So I may be pretty hungry in the morning, so much for the breaks.
Right now I am liquid fasting: clear broth, coffee, tea, water and ices (lemon, kiwi, mango — nothing red or purple allowed). I'm sure you've already been through this with Catie Couric, or whoever it was, on TV, but I don't watch TV. I'm living this. And so far... not bad. I had a BIG breakfast, which had to be over by 11:30 a.m. this morning. And I've had chicken-mushroom broth and lemon ice, and for me, this is living! No muss, no fuss.
However, in a little over an hour I have to start ingesting the weird chemical potions they give you in the Kolonoskopy Kit. Four horse-pills and some yucky liquid you have to gulp down 8 ounces at a shot every 15 minutes. After that, you can trust me not to go into further detail.
More tomorrow — gotta go pack for the wedding!
It's costly, though, a decision like that in a culture like this. My understanding doctor gave me a prescription for a breast sonogram instead, a test I thought I could cope with — no slamming titties in a device like a window sash. But the lab would not even schedule me without a preceding mammagram — would NOT do it — and made me feel like a criminal in the process of telling me this. So, my gynecologist, a woman, gives me a thorough manual breast exam whenever I see her. I work with what I've got, she says philosophically. (Also, I'm not high risk for b.c.)
And I wouldn't be having the damn colonoscopy in the morning if three or four — maybe it was five? — doctors hadn't repeatedly insisted. See, I was unfortunate enough to have an unusual kind of muscle abscess in May: excruciating pain and a week in the hospital. Since there was no injury that could have caused the infection, and since it cultured out as e coli, the culprit had to be kidney or intestine.
I had my kidneys checked out — that was easy, a little blood, a urine sample. But the kidneys were fine, never better...unfortunately, from my point of view. Hence the upcoming colonoscopy.
What is it with me? It's the humiliation, babe, the humiliation. Let's just say I have a dark past and anything, anything at all, that smacks of humiliation, mortification, immodesty, over-familiarity or boundary-crossing is u n b e a r a b l e. Get over it, they tell you. Everybody does it, they tell you. But THEY don't get it. I'm serious about no nudity with strangers, let alone grabbing my butt or my tits — I've had enough trouble with the people I know well, if you get my drift.
But not only the respected gastroenterologist but also my trusted (female) osteopath says it would be SUCH a good idea, and I should JUST DO IT. So I'm JUST DOING IT! (Gritting my teeth all the way, not to mention what's going on with the sphincter muscle I'm sitting on.)
Everyone told me the preparation is worse than the test. Everyone said, get the procedure done early in the morning so the fasting is shorter. Of course, it's the knowledge of sticking my bare butt out for strangers that does me in, even if I'm going to be asleep at the time. As always, it's what I know that kills me. And, as for the fasting, all I could get was an 11:30 a.m. appointment. So I may be pretty hungry in the morning, so much for the breaks.
Right now I am liquid fasting: clear broth, coffee, tea, water and ices (lemon, kiwi, mango — nothing red or purple allowed). I'm sure you've already been through this with Catie Couric, or whoever it was, on TV, but I don't watch TV. I'm living this. And so far... not bad. I had a BIG breakfast, which had to be over by 11:30 a.m. this morning. And I've had chicken-mushroom broth and lemon ice, and for me, this is living! No muss, no fuss.
However, in a little over an hour I have to start ingesting the weird chemical potions they give you in the Kolonoskopy Kit. Four horse-pills and some yucky liquid you have to gulp down 8 ounces at a shot every 15 minutes. After that, you can trust me not to go into further detail.
More tomorrow — gotta go pack for the wedding!
A Sandwich Day
Today in my quiet New York suburb it's Sandwich Day: running around trying on, ironing, and packing for my daughter's wedding in Vermont, and remembering to call my 88-year-old mom back in Oklahoma, to keep her apprised of the latest family news.
In this year of preparation for the wedding, my daughter Catherine has not been speaking to me, I've been hurt and infuriated, and my husband has been steamed at Demian, our lovely son-in-law to be. In this last week, some relations have improved somewhat, but Stewart said today that he still isn't sure he'll be able to offer a sincere toast to the happy couple. That's okay, I told him, though of course it isn't, but worrying won't help, so I expect a miracle by Friday.
I do not mention this tension in my call to mom. Catherine is her first grandchild, and mom doesn't believe darling Cathy is capable of any bitchiness. I can't come to the wedding, mom says sorrowfully, again. Not only is her long-term memory shot, but so is the short-term. Whenever I call, she wants to know what I do all day, it's news to her about the wedding, and she asks how "we all" are — because she doesn't remember Stewart's name, ever.
That's okay, I tell her, though it isn't. Maxine is Catherine's only living grandparent now, and she'll be missed. And Catherine's an only child. And both her birth father and her Grandpa Jay died in April this year. And she's feuding with her dad's girlfriend. One of Cathy's two stepbrothers (Stewart's younger son) can't come to the wedding because he's gone all-over-Orthodox — with new black hat, modest wife and baby Schlomo — there's really no kosher catering in Brattleboro. So, it's not okay, nothing's okay, but Grandma Maxine really is too weak to travel to Vermont.
I am the liverworst of the sandwich, the bread is rough, scratchy — grainy and toasted: I get squished from time to time, but I'll be fine — I've been squished before. You live. We'll all be fine: Cathy will only remember that the wedding was lovely, even if it rains because ... weddings always are lovely, aren't they?
Squish…squish…squish.
In this year of preparation for the wedding, my daughter Catherine has not been speaking to me, I've been hurt and infuriated, and my husband has been steamed at Demian, our lovely son-in-law to be. In this last week, some relations have improved somewhat, but Stewart said today that he still isn't sure he'll be able to offer a sincere toast to the happy couple. That's okay, I told him, though of course it isn't, but worrying won't help, so I expect a miracle by Friday.
I do not mention this tension in my call to mom. Catherine is her first grandchild, and mom doesn't believe darling Cathy is capable of any bitchiness. I can't come to the wedding, mom says sorrowfully, again. Not only is her long-term memory shot, but so is the short-term. Whenever I call, she wants to know what I do all day, it's news to her about the wedding, and she asks how "we all" are — because she doesn't remember Stewart's name, ever.
That's okay, I tell her, though it isn't. Maxine is Catherine's only living grandparent now, and she'll be missed. And Catherine's an only child. And both her birth father and her Grandpa Jay died in April this year. And she's feuding with her dad's girlfriend. One of Cathy's two stepbrothers (Stewart's younger son) can't come to the wedding because he's gone all-over-Orthodox — with new black hat, modest wife and baby Schlomo — there's really no kosher catering in Brattleboro. So, it's not okay, nothing's okay, but Grandma Maxine really is too weak to travel to Vermont.
I am the liverworst of the sandwich, the bread is rough, scratchy — grainy and toasted: I get squished from time to time, but I'll be fine — I've been squished before. You live. We'll all be fine: Cathy will only remember that the wedding was lovely, even if it rains because ... weddings always are lovely, aren't they?
Squish…squish…squish.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
