Thursday, February 23, 2006
Two days before the wedding
It's two days before my wedding, I'm still fighting nausea, and there's an awful lot of backstory to cover.
I discovered in the hospital that you can't depend on the caregivers to necessarily give the best care, whatever their intentions. It is vitally important to keep track of your own treatment and to speak up if something doesn't seem right.
Unfortunately, many of the things that don't seem right are just a natural result of being ill or damaged. I started suffering ungodly muscle spasms, particularly at night. You know how when you fall asleep, sometimes your body does that all-over jerk that feels like you've just fallen from mid-air? Or sometimes it feels like electricity, or like all of your muscles just have to tighten all at once. It's involuntary, and usually harmless, but with my hip fracture, it was unbearably painful.
I also had a huge amount of nausea, which seemed to be made worse by anxiety. Every time the attending doctor and his little doctorlets came by, I felt ill. When my mom wanted to talk about wedding invitations--what kind of print, wording, whether to say "the parents of" or have them be from Brian and me--I felt queasy. When anybody talked about possible discharge from the hospital, I became ill. Where was I going to go? I couldn't imagine going back to the second-story apartment in Westland. But what else could I do? Brian began searching for other apartments, and looking at options also made me feel queasy.
At this point, I began physical therapy. I was on some level glad to be getting out of that torturous hospital device they call a "bed" and beginning the process of becoming something that wasn't an immobile lump of protoplasm, although actually having to do it was painful, difficult, tiring, and also caused nausea. Sitting up for long was difficult at first, but at least I did know--from previous experience--that it would pass and that getting up and moving around would ultimately be good for me. The physical therapist would show up, bring a walker, and have me try to get out of bed and move around. First it was three feet away from the bed and back. Then it was to the door and back. Then it was through the door, across the hall and back. Each time my jaunts got successively longer, and she recommended--as an alternative to going home or going into an "assistive care facility" (read: "nursing home")--that I be admitted to the intensive rehabilitation unit on the same floor of the hospital. I would do physical and occupational therapy twice a day.
So I moved to the room where I would spend my Christmas.
On my first day of occupational therapy, I was measured for compression stockings and given a set of adaptive equipment of the kind they gave to Grandma when she had her hip injury several years ago. I too got the sock put-er on-er, the grippy thing, the giant shoe horn, the pants hook. I'm not sure if Grandma also got the leg loop (it looks like one of those "invisible dog" leashes) or not; I found mine to be incredibly helpful for moving my legs onto and off of the bed.
Physical therapy consisted of walking for longer and longer distances using the walker (but putting no weight on the right foot), doing leg exercises on the mat, and occasionally doing arm strengthening using the pulleys or fulcrum weights. They also taught skills like stepping up onto a curb using a walker, sitting down in a car seat from either a wheelchair or a walker, and using a crutch to go up and down stairs.
I had too much anxiety to do the stairs. I was just too worried about my hips crumpling like phyllo pastry, and the therapists didn't press me.
Occupational therapy consisted of getting me dressed and showered in the mornings, and in the afternoon doing a combination of eye-hand coordination activities, some arm strengthening activities, and some arts and crafts. I saw people making these rubber mats with the Michigan M and when offered the tubs of colored rubber tiles, decided I would try to get creative and make an aquatic scene. The therapist was getting visibly impatient with me (she wanted to clear space off the counter) and I couldn't spend as much time planning my picture as I wanted, so I had to do a fairly rudimentary scene with two fish, gravel, some plants, and two different colors of blue to indicate the depth of the water.
Nobody told me it was going to be a doormat. If I'd known, as I told one of the substitute therapists on the Christmas break, I would have planned the picture to be horizontally aligned...as it was, they must have thought I was either mentally deranged or just really careless.
The other therapist turned it sideways the way I had planned it. "Oh hey, that's actually pretty cute!"
I discovered in the hospital that you can't depend on the caregivers to necessarily give the best care, whatever their intentions. It is vitally important to keep track of your own treatment and to speak up if something doesn't seem right.
Unfortunately, many of the things that don't seem right are just a natural result of being ill or damaged. I started suffering ungodly muscle spasms, particularly at night. You know how when you fall asleep, sometimes your body does that all-over jerk that feels like you've just fallen from mid-air? Or sometimes it feels like electricity, or like all of your muscles just have to tighten all at once. It's involuntary, and usually harmless, but with my hip fracture, it was unbearably painful.
I also had a huge amount of nausea, which seemed to be made worse by anxiety. Every time the attending doctor and his little doctorlets came by, I felt ill. When my mom wanted to talk about wedding invitations--what kind of print, wording, whether to say "the parents of" or have them be from Brian and me--I felt queasy. When anybody talked about possible discharge from the hospital, I became ill. Where was I going to go? I couldn't imagine going back to the second-story apartment in Westland. But what else could I do? Brian began searching for other apartments, and looking at options also made me feel queasy.
At this point, I began physical therapy. I was on some level glad to be getting out of that torturous hospital device they call a "bed" and beginning the process of becoming something that wasn't an immobile lump of protoplasm, although actually having to do it was painful, difficult, tiring, and also caused nausea. Sitting up for long was difficult at first, but at least I did know--from previous experience--that it would pass and that getting up and moving around would ultimately be good for me. The physical therapist would show up, bring a walker, and have me try to get out of bed and move around. First it was three feet away from the bed and back. Then it was to the door and back. Then it was through the door, across the hall and back. Each time my jaunts got successively longer, and she recommended--as an alternative to going home or going into an "assistive care facility" (read: "nursing home")--that I be admitted to the intensive rehabilitation unit on the same floor of the hospital. I would do physical and occupational therapy twice a day.
So I moved to the room where I would spend my Christmas.
On my first day of occupational therapy, I was measured for compression stockings and given a set of adaptive equipment of the kind they gave to Grandma when she had her hip injury several years ago. I too got the sock put-er on-er, the grippy thing, the giant shoe horn, the pants hook. I'm not sure if Grandma also got the leg loop (it looks like one of those "invisible dog" leashes) or not; I found mine to be incredibly helpful for moving my legs onto and off of the bed.
Physical therapy consisted of walking for longer and longer distances using the walker (but putting no weight on the right foot), doing leg exercises on the mat, and occasionally doing arm strengthening using the pulleys or fulcrum weights. They also taught skills like stepping up onto a curb using a walker, sitting down in a car seat from either a wheelchair or a walker, and using a crutch to go up and down stairs.
I had too much anxiety to do the stairs. I was just too worried about my hips crumpling like phyllo pastry, and the therapists didn't press me.
Occupational therapy consisted of getting me dressed and showered in the mornings, and in the afternoon doing a combination of eye-hand coordination activities, some arm strengthening activities, and some arts and crafts. I saw people making these rubber mats with the Michigan M and when offered the tubs of colored rubber tiles, decided I would try to get creative and make an aquatic scene. The therapist was getting visibly impatient with me (she wanted to clear space off the counter) and I couldn't spend as much time planning my picture as I wanted, so I had to do a fairly rudimentary scene with two fish, gravel, some plants, and two different colors of blue to indicate the depth of the water.
Nobody told me it was going to be a doormat. If I'd known, as I told one of the substitute therapists on the Christmas break, I would have planned the picture to be horizontally aligned...as it was, they must have thought I was either mentally deranged or just really careless.
The other therapist turned it sideways the way I had planned it. "Oh hey, that's actually pretty cute!"
Labels: anxiety, Brian, doctorlets, Grandma, hip, hospital, mom, nausea, physical therapy, spasms, stairs, walker, wedding, wheelchair
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Lesson Learned on 6A: be a squeaky wheel
The attending physician on floor 6A was usually preceeded by one of his interns, who would come to ask questions, take vitals, poke and prod, and ask me to breathe so he could listen with a stethescope. Then the full-fledged doctor would show up, with a group of two or more of his interns (I called them "doctorlets"), and repeat the process, which never elicited any new or exciting information. The typical questions were always: "How's your pain?" and "Any shortness of breath?" or "How are your bowels?" or "Much of an appetite?"
They would provide medication based on my answers, which gradually resulted in my taking, in addition to the patch I already had, an increased dosage on the patch, pills for pain (a narcotic and ibuprofen), pills for muscle spasms, muscle relaxing pills, pills for promoting bowel movements, pills for softening stools, pills for stomach health, pills for sleeping, pills for depressions, pills for anxiety, a powder mixed with liquid for--well, they were never able to really clarify what the Nutri-phos is for (I think it might be something like pedialyte)--either an injection of a very powerful opiate or liquid morphine taken orally when I was to be moved, and an incredibly painful shot for preventing blood clots that felt like a bee sting and which I decided might have consisted of concentrated bee venom. After having been immobile for several weeks and on various narcotic products, my digestive system was seriously backed up, which was leading to the abdominal pain and spleen/gallbladder symptoms. So they decided to step up the cleansing of the alimentary canal and also prescribed things intended to flush the colon from every conceivable direction. Yes. You know what I'm talking about. Mercifully by this time I had a private room.
Naturally, I came to dread visits by the attending and his little doctorlets. They were torturing me. Every time they came to visit, I found myself getting nauseous and vomit-y. When my dad and Susan came into town, they took over talking to the doctors when they could (the timing of their visits meant that sometimes they'd miss him and his posse on rounds), and would even leave the room to talk about topics that seemed to turn me green.
I was not in a good way.
When I got moved to my private room, I might have looked forward to getting more individual attention and care from the nursing staff. I now know that this does not necessarily happen.
One of the things the doctors told me is that I needed to drink as much as I could. Take in fluids at all times. Any fluids. Juice, water, milk, anything. I didn't seem to be getting any water, although they did have me on an iv. Also, food is important to get the bowels moving. I needed to keep my digestion working, but I didn't seem to be getting any food, either.
I was actually getting kind of hungry, which at that point meant that I was starving, since my appetite had generally been quite poor, but my breakfast never arrived. I assumed this had something to do with having been moved. Maybe my breakfast got delivered to the other room? By lunchtime I figured things would be straightened out, but again was kept waiting. They had been quite prompt with the food delivery; are they just slower on this hallway, or something? The doctors came, asking about my appetite, and they went. I complained I hadn't gotten any food, and they said they'd make sure the order was there to get anything I wanted.
A few hours later I was ready to chew my arm off.
I called the nurse.
"Um, am I supposed to get a lunch? I've been waiting and I'm really hungry."
"Oh, your orders say no food or water due to a test."
"What test?" I had been told no food or water for the untrasound, but that had been done at six o'clock the previous day.
She flipped through the chart, and found it. "Ultrasound," she said. "You need to not have food or water before the test."
When I pointed out that the test had already occurred--"Or is this another one?" I asked sarcastically--she looked a little bit disconcerted and went to go check.
A little bit later, somebody from food service showed up with a tray. Hospital food is not exciting, nor is it particularly appetizing, but I felt myself beginning to drool. Food, glorious food!
I beheld my tray. It consisted of clear broth, apple juice, and a plate of air.
I laughed hysterically. Clear liquid diet! This is just great...so I hit the nurse call light again and told the person who answered that my plate of air really wasn't the lunch I had been hoping for. "Have you been eating?" They wanted to know. "Usually when you're not eating they start you on clear liquids then..."
Yes, yes. I know all that. But I wasn't on a restricted diet. It was only for that one test, could I please have something normal, instead of something imaginary? He went to go ask the nurse if it was ok. I think she was embarrassed, because they agreed to get anything I wanted. My toasted bagel with cream cheese and container of chocolate milk were delicious.
This was not the only time different shifts of the nursing staff had some confusion about changes in my orders; I learned that as a patient, I was going to have to keep on top of things and let them know. My dad and Susan also helped keep a running list of questions to ask the doctors, which helped immensely. It's also good to know that you can question anything, and you do have the right to refuse the bee-sting shots if you just can't stand them any more, or the plate of air if you want something tastier.
To be continued...
They would provide medication based on my answers, which gradually resulted in my taking, in addition to the patch I already had, an increased dosage on the patch, pills for pain (a narcotic and ibuprofen), pills for muscle spasms, muscle relaxing pills, pills for promoting bowel movements, pills for softening stools, pills for stomach health, pills for sleeping, pills for depressions, pills for anxiety, a powder mixed with liquid for--well, they were never able to really clarify what the Nutri-phos is for (I think it might be something like pedialyte)--either an injection of a very powerful opiate or liquid morphine taken orally when I was to be moved, and an incredibly painful shot for preventing blood clots that felt like a bee sting and which I decided might have consisted of concentrated bee venom. After having been immobile for several weeks and on various narcotic products, my digestive system was seriously backed up, which was leading to the abdominal pain and spleen/gallbladder symptoms. So they decided to step up the cleansing of the alimentary canal and also prescribed things intended to flush the colon from every conceivable direction. Yes. You know what I'm talking about. Mercifully by this time I had a private room.
Naturally, I came to dread visits by the attending and his little doctorlets. They were torturing me. Every time they came to visit, I found myself getting nauseous and vomit-y. When my dad and Susan came into town, they took over talking to the doctors when they could (the timing of their visits meant that sometimes they'd miss him and his posse on rounds), and would even leave the room to talk about topics that seemed to turn me green.
I was not in a good way.
When I got moved to my private room, I might have looked forward to getting more individual attention and care from the nursing staff. I now know that this does not necessarily happen.
One of the things the doctors told me is that I needed to drink as much as I could. Take in fluids at all times. Any fluids. Juice, water, milk, anything. I didn't seem to be getting any water, although they did have me on an iv. Also, food is important to get the bowels moving. I needed to keep my digestion working, but I didn't seem to be getting any food, either.
I was actually getting kind of hungry, which at that point meant that I was starving, since my appetite had generally been quite poor, but my breakfast never arrived. I assumed this had something to do with having been moved. Maybe my breakfast got delivered to the other room? By lunchtime I figured things would be straightened out, but again was kept waiting. They had been quite prompt with the food delivery; are they just slower on this hallway, or something? The doctors came, asking about my appetite, and they went. I complained I hadn't gotten any food, and they said they'd make sure the order was there to get anything I wanted.
A few hours later I was ready to chew my arm off.
I called the nurse.
"Um, am I supposed to get a lunch? I've been waiting and I'm really hungry."
"Oh, your orders say no food or water due to a test."
"What test?" I had been told no food or water for the untrasound, but that had been done at six o'clock the previous day.
She flipped through the chart, and found it. "Ultrasound," she said. "You need to not have food or water before the test."
When I pointed out that the test had already occurred--"Or is this another one?" I asked sarcastically--she looked a little bit disconcerted and went to go check.
A little bit later, somebody from food service showed up with a tray. Hospital food is not exciting, nor is it particularly appetizing, but I felt myself beginning to drool. Food, glorious food!
I beheld my tray. It consisted of clear broth, apple juice, and a plate of air.
I laughed hysterically. Clear liquid diet! This is just great...so I hit the nurse call light again and told the person who answered that my plate of air really wasn't the lunch I had been hoping for. "Have you been eating?" They wanted to know. "Usually when you're not eating they start you on clear liquids then..."
Yes, yes. I know all that. But I wasn't on a restricted diet. It was only for that one test, could I please have something normal, instead of something imaginary? He went to go ask the nurse if it was ok. I think she was embarrassed, because they agreed to get anything I wanted. My toasted bagel with cream cheese and container of chocolate milk were delicious.
This was not the only time different shifts of the nursing staff had some confusion about changes in my orders; I learned that as a patient, I was going to have to keep on top of things and let them know. My dad and Susan also helped keep a running list of questions to ask the doctors, which helped immensely. It's also good to know that you can question anything, and you do have the right to refuse the bee-sting shots if you just can't stand them any more, or the plate of air if you want something tastier.
To be continued...
Labels: anxiety, Dad, doctorlets, food, hospital, morphine, nausea, spasms, Susan G. Komen
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Phew; where to begin?
So much has happened in the time since my last post. I regret not having been able to chronicle things as they occurred. At this point I think most of the three or so people who read this blog are up to date, but I will try to reconstruct events (to the best of my ability) after the fact.
After my less-than-delightful news about the cause of my joint pain (which just had to be delivered by the incredibly condescending doctor whom I have since given several bad ratings in a mail survey sent to me by Oakwood Westland Family Practice), I intended to soldier on and go about my business. I contacted the University of Michigan Cancer Center, and was told that I would have to supply them with all of the conceivable medical records relating to my initial cancer diagnosis. Slides, mammograms, X-rays, scans, pathology reports, everything.
I was unable to do much of anything besides make phone calls; Brian did most of the collecting. He went to various hospitals and gathered piles of films and scans and CDs. He tried looking at them too, but to a lay person they don't make much sense. The Cancer Center called and said I had an appointment with Dr. Daniel Hayes on November 29. I met the doctor and Lita, his nurse practitioner who both seemed very kind and yet somewhat disquieting. Nobody asked the really dangerous questions, and nobody seemed inclined to provide answers to what remained unasked: how bad is it? How long do I have? What's the prognosis? Will I get better?
What they did do is start setting up appointments like gangbusters. I was to come back the next day to meet with the orthopedic surgeon to find out if surgery would be required for my hip. I was to have the first of my monthly infusions of a bone-strengthening drug and the first injection of the pellet which has by now completely shut down my ovaries (there will not be the pitter-patter of little feet in my future unless the little feet are attached to a puppy), and I was to meet with the radiation oncologist to get "measured" for the radiation treatments.
The next day I was back at the medical center being wheeled around. Good news from the surgeon: no surgery. It wouldn't really help at this point, and radiation would be of more benefit. The infusion was unpleasant, as they always are; the iv lady couldn't get the iv started and after several failed attempts had to get somebody else to do it. The giant needle used to insert the pellet hurt like a m***** f*****. When they say "You might feel a little sting," be prepared for the PAIN.
Finally I went to meet the radiation oncologist, who was oddly smiley, and the radiation people put me on the table, made some marks on my body, and then said something which sounded disturbingly like, "Ok, now we're going to do the tattoos."
"Is that really necessary?" I said. I'd had it with being stabbed for one day.
It wasn't. They were able to make do with stickers, so I avoided acquiring permanent markings as a sign of my treatment. (I did eventually get something of a radiation burn on some very private areas--and suffered some rather interesting hair loss--but the rash went away and I assume the hair will eventually grow back. If not, I'll forever be able to save money on the kind of bikini wax job people pay good money for.)
Sitting up from the table, I started to feel very ill...I am extremely familiar with nausea and started having that extreme saliva production that heralds the onset of, well, the puking. Somebody grabbed a pink tray for me, and I spewed into that for a moment. Of course the involuntary spasms caused no small amount of agony in my hip.
Later that evening, getting into the car, I had trouble turning on my good foot and accidentally put my full weight on the injured side.
Agony.
Every bump in the road compounded it.
Getting out of the car took forever.
Getting up the steps was one of the hardest and most painful things I've ever done; putting any weight at all on my right leg caused horrible, excruciating pain. Dangling the leg and putting no weight on it caused similar, but different pain. Every time I was able to hoist myself onto the next step, my right foot would tap the step as well, causing more agony. About halfway up the staircase I started to feel like my left hip was snapping apart as well. I don't know how I finally made it; Brian tried to help but lifting under my arms didn't work either. I eventually made it onto the landing and it took about a half an hour to go from the front door to the bathroom. From there I went to bed, where I planned to stay the next day.
Before leaving for work the next morning, Brian made sure I would have pills and water nearby, and that I'd have access to a phone. When I woke up and attempted to get out of bed, I was made painfully aware that I was not going to be able to do so. I couldn't get out of bed, much less cross the hall to go to the bathroom or make it down the stairs to any of my radiation appointments. I called Brian and left a message; Brian called Lita and started planning how to get me admitted to UM Hospital's Emergency Room.
To be continued...
After my less-than-delightful news about the cause of my joint pain (which just had to be delivered by the incredibly condescending doctor whom I have since given several bad ratings in a mail survey sent to me by Oakwood Westland Family Practice), I intended to soldier on and go about my business. I contacted the University of Michigan Cancer Center, and was told that I would have to supply them with all of the conceivable medical records relating to my initial cancer diagnosis. Slides, mammograms, X-rays, scans, pathology reports, everything.
I was unable to do much of anything besides make phone calls; Brian did most of the collecting. He went to various hospitals and gathered piles of films and scans and CDs. He tried looking at them too, but to a lay person they don't make much sense. The Cancer Center called and said I had an appointment with Dr. Daniel Hayes on November 29. I met the doctor and Lita, his nurse practitioner who both seemed very kind and yet somewhat disquieting. Nobody asked the really dangerous questions, and nobody seemed inclined to provide answers to what remained unasked: how bad is it? How long do I have? What's the prognosis? Will I get better?
What they did do is start setting up appointments like gangbusters. I was to come back the next day to meet with the orthopedic surgeon to find out if surgery would be required for my hip. I was to have the first of my monthly infusions of a bone-strengthening drug and the first injection of the pellet which has by now completely shut down my ovaries (there will not be the pitter-patter of little feet in my future unless the little feet are attached to a puppy), and I was to meet with the radiation oncologist to get "measured" for the radiation treatments.
The next day I was back at the medical center being wheeled around. Good news from the surgeon: no surgery. It wouldn't really help at this point, and radiation would be of more benefit. The infusion was unpleasant, as they always are; the iv lady couldn't get the iv started and after several failed attempts had to get somebody else to do it. The giant needle used to insert the pellet hurt like a m***** f*****. When they say "You might feel a little sting," be prepared for the PAIN.
Finally I went to meet the radiation oncologist, who was oddly smiley, and the radiation people put me on the table, made some marks on my body, and then said something which sounded disturbingly like, "Ok, now we're going to do the tattoos."
"Is that really necessary?" I said. I'd had it with being stabbed for one day.
It wasn't. They were able to make do with stickers, so I avoided acquiring permanent markings as a sign of my treatment. (I did eventually get something of a radiation burn on some very private areas--and suffered some rather interesting hair loss--but the rash went away and I assume the hair will eventually grow back. If not, I'll forever be able to save money on the kind of bikini wax job people pay good money for.)
Sitting up from the table, I started to feel very ill...I am extremely familiar with nausea and started having that extreme saliva production that heralds the onset of, well, the puking. Somebody grabbed a pink tray for me, and I spewed into that for a moment. Of course the involuntary spasms caused no small amount of agony in my hip.
Later that evening, getting into the car, I had trouble turning on my good foot and accidentally put my full weight on the injured side.
Agony.
Every bump in the road compounded it.
Getting out of the car took forever.
Getting up the steps was one of the hardest and most painful things I've ever done; putting any weight at all on my right leg caused horrible, excruciating pain. Dangling the leg and putting no weight on it caused similar, but different pain. Every time I was able to hoist myself onto the next step, my right foot would tap the step as well, causing more agony. About halfway up the staircase I started to feel like my left hip was snapping apart as well. I don't know how I finally made it; Brian tried to help but lifting under my arms didn't work either. I eventually made it onto the landing and it took about a half an hour to go from the front door to the bathroom. From there I went to bed, where I planned to stay the next day.
Before leaving for work the next morning, Brian made sure I would have pills and water nearby, and that I'd have access to a phone. When I woke up and attempted to get out of bed, I was made painfully aware that I was not going to be able to do so. I couldn't get out of bed, much less cross the hall to go to the bathroom or make it down the stairs to any of my radiation appointments. I called Brian and left a message; Brian called Lita and started planning how to get me admitted to UM Hospital's Emergency Room.
To be continued...
Labels: blog, Brian, Dr. Hayes, hip, infusion, IV, Lita, nausea, Oakwood, radiation, spasms, University of Michigan Cancer Center, Zometa
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
More Questions With No Answers
Will I start to feel better soon?
Will the new pain medication keep from making me ill so that I don't have to worry that the involuntary muscular spasms from heaving the remnants of last night's dinner and this morning's dose of medication into the sink will cause my hip agonizing pain?
Will I give up trying to go up and down the stairs altogether? I thought about cancelling the PET scan today because everything is so hard. I did actually cancel my first appointment for today and sent my mom instead to pick up a new prescription for oxycontin, which gives me something in common with Rush Limbaugh, who also got people to get his drugs for him. Getting down the stairs and into the car was hard. Luckily the hospital has wheelchairs, but they had to move me several times. First they loaded me into a chair in the scanner trailer (sort of like the one I thought was going to take me to Iowa for weird medical testing in some corn field), then they made me get out of the chair and use the little peoples' room (apparently the isotope collects in the bladder and obscures what they are trying to image), then load me onto a narrow table. After they were done, there was an ER nurse to help move me back onto the wheelchair.
I wonder what they saw in the image to go get a nurse.
I wonder how fragile the damaged bits really are. Brian wonders this, too. He said he looked at the ex-rays today but doesn't really know what it means because nobody has explained them.
The reason people shy away from asking things is that they are afraid of the answers. This I understand.
Will the new pain medication keep from making me ill so that I don't have to worry that the involuntary muscular spasms from heaving the remnants of last night's dinner and this morning's dose of medication into the sink will cause my hip agonizing pain?
Will I give up trying to go up and down the stairs altogether? I thought about cancelling the PET scan today because everything is so hard. I did actually cancel my first appointment for today and sent my mom instead to pick up a new prescription for oxycontin, which gives me something in common with Rush Limbaugh, who also got people to get his drugs for him. Getting down the stairs and into the car was hard. Luckily the hospital has wheelchairs, but they had to move me several times. First they loaded me into a chair in the scanner trailer (sort of like the one I thought was going to take me to Iowa for weird medical testing in some corn field), then they made me get out of the chair and use the little peoples' room (apparently the isotope collects in the bladder and obscures what they are trying to image), then load me onto a narrow table. After they were done, there was an ER nurse to help move me back onto the wheelchair.
I wonder what they saw in the image to go get a nurse.
I wonder how fragile the damaged bits really are. Brian wonders this, too. He said he looked at the ex-rays today but doesn't really know what it means because nobody has explained them.
The reason people shy away from asking things is that they are afraid of the answers. This I understand.
Labels: Brian, hip, hospital, PET scan, spasms, stairs, wheelchair, x-rays
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Ray of Sunlight: good things happen, too
I am engaged to be married. :)
Brian made home-cooked lasagna for dinner, which I thought was good enough, but it got better. He rented some movies (lighthearted ones...I declare it will be a long time before I am going to be able to watch Shadowlands or Terms of Endearment), and we were having a couch-potato evening, necessitated by my having twisted funny while reaching for some rolls of toilet paper and being somewhat laid up by a back spasm.
He paused the movie and got up, ostensibly to clear the dishes, and came back and got down in front of the sofa I was sprawled upon. "We might as well do this right," he said, producing a ring box.
I can't accurately describe the sequence of events, but they involved him officially asking if I would marry him, me saying yes, trying the ring on, moving it to my pinky, an explanation that the place he got it didn't have half-sizes for some reason (we are somewhat financially constrained), some goofy smiling and hugs and kisses, and a request to bring me the ring he gave me for my birthday so I can wear that on my left hand while we figure out how to handle the sizing issue.
I'm a fiancée.
Labels: Brian, engaged, ring, Shadowlands, spasms, wedding
