dcnovice
Posts: 37282
Joined: 8/2/2006
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February 24, 2015
“Well, actually …”
Dear Ones ---
“You don’t want to go down there, sir. That’s the morgue.”
That kindly advice came from a GU Hospital employee who’d noticed my confused search for an alternate route—construction blocked the usual path—to the cab stand after my treatment this morning. He was so warm and friendly about it that I couldn’t bring myself to say what I thought: “Well, actually the morgue sounds perfect right now. You don’t suppose they have any spare spots, do you?”
I’m half-joking, of course, but only half. This bleak mid-winter finds me feeling wiped out on all levels. My body is tired, my brain is tired, my heart is tired. And I suspect my loved ones are tired too—of me and my whining.
At the bottom of things, literally, is that wretched pinhole of a wound in my “Barbie butt” (as ostomates term the sewn-up replacement for our rear exit). My wonderful wound surgeon, tells me that things are improving—slowly—and we’re gonna try a few more months of hyperbaric oxygen therapy. Meantime, I’m still leaking enough fluid to float my beloved Normandie, and the pain actually seems to be worsening. Even at home, which tends to be a refuge, I’ve been hurting a lot lately.
And my last meeting, maybe a week ago, with the wound surgeon had a definitely anxious vibe. She talked about the possibility of my needing additional surgery, and she wants me to check in with my GI surgeon. I can’t begin to describe the dismay that wells up in me at the thought of another operation.
Then there’s the heart monitor. A month or two ago, my cardiologist prescribed an “event monitor” for me to wear round the clock. When the package arrived, it took several days to muster the energy for even opening it. I finally did and discovered that the neck strap was missing. Customer service promised to send a new one, which arrived a few days later.
So I dutifully dug everything back out of the package and set to work. The first step was applying a trio of electrodes to myself: one on each half of my chest, the third on my belly. The directions said to align the belly one with my bottom rib. “Hell,” I thought, “if I could feel my ribs, I probably wouldn’t need a heart monitor!” Not surprisingly, given my skin’s resistance to anything meant to stick there, they peeled off in seconds. Result: more quality time with customer service, followed by a shipment of electrodes with a different, stronger adhesive.
The new electrodes worked! So did the monitor when I fired it up. It took a “baseline ECG” to transmit to CardioNet, the monitoring company, then began recording my heart happenings. In my joyful giddiness, I posted the news on Facebook—exultantly and, alas, prematurely. I’d barely finished typing when the monitor began shrieking. One of the leads (the wires connecting to the electrodes), it scolded me, was detached. I checked the leads, and they seemed fine. I pushed down on them firmly, and that seemed to do the trick. The wretched monitor shut up—for five minutes.
Then the whole cycle began again. And again and again. After 40 minutes of this, I peeled everything off, turned everything off, and dumped it all on the dining room table. Not hurling it through the window was a major triumph of self-control. There the equipment remained till tonight, when I thought I’d make one last attempt. So far, things seem to be working, but the night is young. Fingers crossed!
“There, you have said it all and you feel better,” wrote Robert Frost. Well, I haven’t quite said it all. I’ve spared you the mountain of paperwork I can’t climb, the work woes, and the grim moments when I fear I’ve wasted my life. But just getting this much out has made me feel better, and I appreciate your kind listening/reading more than I can say.
As ever, love to you all!
Cheers,
DC
_____________________________
No matter how cynical you become,
it's never enough to keep up.
JANE WAGNER, THE SEARCH FOR SIGNS OF
INTELLIGENT LIFE IN THE UNIVERSE
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