Anticlimactic

Richard is usually the king of drama, but today he fell flat.

We got to Portland almost 45 minutes early. Richard was not to be late. We toddled around and saw the sights of Providence Portland’s Cancer Center. I hate to sound like a jaded world tourist, but it really didn’t float my boat. I mean, there were the library and the café and the fountain, but frankly, Paris is a couple steps above. Paris… medical tourism… sorry, my mind wandered.

We got to the Oncologic Radiology department on the Garden Level well ahead of schedule. It should be noted that the “Garden Level” is what Meier & Frank used to call the sub-basement, where all the big sales took place.

Anyhow, it was pretty much a wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am affair. Richard was in and out before you can say, “But wasn’t he supposed to start treatment today?”

No, that starts Monday, simultaneously with chemotherapy.

At least he gets the next four days off.

A rainy morning in Hood River.

I would tell you how Richard’s first day of radiation went, but it is 5:30AM and it hasn’t happened yet. Remember, I’m psychotic, not psychic. They sound much the same, but two little letters can change a word’s meaning dramatically.

But I can give you some pertinent information about something near and dear to me: me.

I saw my surgeon yesterday and he took out my stitches.

He told me that he had been concerned the day he performed the procedure on my wrist, not only because I had festering wounds of the dimension and severity he had only seen while he was working in the tropics, but also because he knew when he prepared his technical paper on my condition that millions of medical textbooks worldwide would need to be recalled so the chapter on worst-case Carpal Tunnel could be updated. He mentioned that it would take me longer to recover than someone who had a mamby-pamby, sissified version of the condition.

(Okay, for those of you wanting a more reality-based update, he told me I can’t believe everything I read on the internet. I guess instant relief was an unrealistic expectation. I’m progressing well. He gave me a cute little smerf ball to use in physical therapy. Max and Spike are having the time of their life. Hopefully they will think to send a thank you card for their new toy. He did use the term “extremely severe” in reference to my Carpal Tunnel, and told me to come back in three weeks.)

And now Wednesday begins.

Richard is home (so am I).

I would say it was an uneventful day, but that would only be in comparison to yesterday. And in truth, today had many more smallish moments, yesterday just had one big heartbreaker.

Richard did have surgery yesterday. The ‘oscopy’ he had was performed by slicing open his throat and doing stuff I don’t know about and I am totally content to maintain that status. He is a little sore, but all-in-all okay.

He starts radiology on next Wednesday. He has treatments every day, Monday through Friday for six weeks. They made it sound less than horrific. He has to go to Portland for the treatments. (The Dalles was an option, but for a number of reasons, Richard chose to stick with his team in Portland.) They say he can drive himself, but I plan to take him in for his first treatment, just because. All-in-all, they made it sound moderately benevolent. He will deal with exhaustion… but for the most part it will be tolerable.

He starts chemotherapy the following Monday. He does it for six days (once again Monday through Friday and the following Monday), then has a couple of weeks off and then does it again for six days. No one used the term benevolent when discussing chemo. It sounds really ugly, but many people do it and it is okay afterwards.

Richard went down to Radiology today. I went with him, but I had to sit in the waiting room. He got a special mold made, so the radiation only goes where it is needed. And he got tattoos: little tiny tattoos that mark the spots they are aiming for.

Next thing you know, he’s going to be ordering a Harley to go along with his tattoos. Hey, if I had a tattoo, I’d demand a Harley to go with it!

I didn't really mention

Richard is spending the night in the hospital. They gave him a spinal block, and apparently if you get one of those, you’re in the hospital for 24 hours.

There was an obnoxious screeching noise at 3AM this morning.

And it wasn’t Max.

Richard and I rarely use an alarm clock. It is not a common occurrence that we have cause to get up earlier than that wee hour at which we always awake. But Richard had me set the alarm for 3AM. It was important to him to be in Portland a few minutes before 6, and he wanted me, as the chauffeur, to be alert. Go figure.

We arrived at Providence’s parking lot at 5:51AM. We had our choice of a number of prime parking spots. I was delirious with the possibilities. I started to pull into one place, and then I realized the one two down was even primer. I started to back up. Richard gave me that look. We decided to go with the spot that we were already half way into.

Check-in was lickety-split, and we were hanging out in the pre-op room before you knew it. Richard was wearing the Ralph-not-quite-Lauren inspired barf green hospital gown with elegant baby blue booties and bonnet. He was radiant. I was going to take a picture, but opted against it when Richard threatened bodily harm to my smart phone.

A handful of minutes later a nurse-like person rapped on the door and entered the room. Without even looking up, she said, “Mrs. Laurer, I’m here to take you pulse and…”

Now, I knew instantly that Richard wasn’t Mrs. Laurer. Mrs. Laurer and her daughter entered the hospital simultaneously with Richard and I. We had rarely been out of each other’s view until we were moved to our private pre-op rooms. Mrs. Laurer doesn’t have beard. Richard does. That’s the easy way to tell them apart.

The nurse-like person look up and said, “You aren’t Mrs. Laurer!” She then left.

The anesthesiologist then entered and did some stuff. All good.

Time passed. Mucho time passed.

At about 8AM (one hour later,) another nurse poked her head in and said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Jackson, I know you’re here and I’ll have you ready for your 9:30 surgery.”

Eventually, they figured out that Richard wasn’t Mrs. Laurer, Mr. Jackson or the other Mr. Parker and he made it to his 9:30 surgery.

Don’t ask me what happened to his 7:30 time. We didn’t ask. We were just happy that he wasn’t having a hysterectomy.

Okay, I’ve joked all I can. It wasn’t good news. The doctor did another one of those ‘oscopy’ tests. The cancer has spread. It is no longer operable.

I don’t know what to say, because I don’t know a damn thing. We meet tomorrow (at some unknown time) with the Oncologist we have already met and a Radiologist.

One final update

Tomorrow is the big day. Richard and I (well, technically just Richard, but since I get to drive I’ll include me) have to be at Providence Hospital in Portland (the big campus) at 6AM. Let’s see, doing the math… carry the seven… subtract three… multiply by the square root of π… and, oh my god, I have to go to bed now. Good night!

Just kidding, I have a good three minutes before I need to be asleep.

His surgery is schedule for 7:30AM. I sure hope Dr. Daniel is a morning person. The procedure, although there are many potential variables, is estimated to last between 2 and 3 hours. I will hang out until I get to see Richard in the ICU. A friend and co-worker, Susan has said she will keep me company. She lives only a few blocks from Providence, and frankly, she hung out with me the last time Richard had major surgery at Providence, so I’m thinking she’s a good luck charm.

Then I will trudge home and deal with the dog and the cats. (It still seems unnatural to use the singular term for the canine species.)And I will update the blog with some amazingly witty repartée. Or just some boring statistics, or maybe a Garfield comic strip, or maybe ...

I don’t plan to go back to the hospital tomorrow night. It is expected that Richard will spend the night in ICU, and they really don’t like people just hanging out for hours on end. And the part that would piss off the pope: they won’t let you bring a cocktail in with you. It’s not that they have their own bar and expect you to purchase your drinks in the ICU, they just have this ban on fun in ICU. Remind me to write a complaint letter when this is all over. (I’m not so stupid as to write said letter prior to Richard’s surgery!)

If you have a spare moment, a good thought would be appreciated.

And thank you, Abby & Steve and Shannon & John. It meant a lot to us.

Guess what happened 33 years ago today?

(Subtle hint.)

The day after the triumphant return.

Maybe I was a little over-confident in my post yesterday. Maybe I painted the world just a little rosier than it really is.

I’m not saying my psyche isn’t in a better place than it was two days ago. I’m not going to claim that the ‘festering wounds of the dimension and severity rarely seen outside of the tropics’ aren’t more moderate today than yesterday morning. But quite frankly, the frickin’ drugs have worn off.

It went sour first thing this morning. I was happy as a lark, thinking the world was a beautiful place, humming as I got ready for a wonderful day. I went to change my dressing. GASP! The incision is much larger than what I was told to expect. It truly starts from the middle of my palm and goes down to just past the top of my wrist. And it is ugly and jagged. And I damn near passed out.

Any day that starts like that should be spent in bed. But no, I went to work anyway. I lasted 3.5 hours before I hit the wall.

All-in-all, it’s okay. They told me a half day today, and I almost made it. Hopefully I can make it the rest of the week.

A triumphant return to the real world.

Okay, I'm not actually in the real world quite yet. I think a more precise phraseology would be to say that I’m perched on an overlook that gives me a good view of what might possibly be something that comes reasonable close to resembling reality. It’s really a quite beautiful place.

I had my Carpal Tunnel release surgery this morning: and not a day too soon. Last night, a couple of the blisters between my stubby little fingers popped and were very angry this morning. In truth, they were pretty small and insignificant, but years (or days) from now, when I am regaling a trapped audience with stories of my travails, they will be referred to as “festering wounds of the dimension and severity rarely seen outside of the tropics”.

The morning was pretty uneventful. Dozens of people asked me name and birth date. (I’m sure that they were just having difficulty believing that such a young looking and virile man could have been born in 1956. I understand their confusion.) Then a nice young RN stuck an IV in my arm. Then I fell asleep. Then I woke up and most of the swelling and all of the pain were gone.

I know I promised you dancing in the streets, but that is one of the ‘foolish’ things that the medical staff at Providence Hood River Memorial Hospital forbade me from doing. So, I’ll just do a little jig in the piano room.

A most auspicious date.

On this date in 1503, Christopher Columbus first set eyes on the Cayman Islands. All reports that he invested in a hedge fund while there are unsubstantiated.

Oh, and tomorrow is my half birthday. Now that is cause for a major celebration.

And of course, on May 10, XXXX, in the sleepy little burg of Chehalis, Washington, Peggy Jane made her debut! (The year is encoded so that the author of this post doesn’t get the crap beaten out of him the next time he sees Peggy Jane.)

Happy Birthday, big sister!

National Macaroni Day!

You do all remember my proposed national holiday, don't you? And I assume you celebrated appropriately today.

Four Dead in Ohio!

Tin soldiers and Nixon's coming,

We're finally on our own.

This summer I hear the drumming,

Four dead in Ohio.

Okay, is anyone else freaked that is was 43 years ago?

From the April 25th edition of the USA Today.

Page 8A, News, State-by-State

“South Dakota Hot Springs: Confederate flags are flying again at the Veterans Affairs Medical Center, where they were removed last week after some patients complained that they represented racism. VA Black Hills Health System Director Steve DiStasio told the Rapid City Journal the flags were returned Tuesday as ‘a reflection of those who gave the ultimate sacrifice for America’.”

Dear Mr. DiStasio,

Oh Steve, where do I even begin?

First, I understand your confusion. This may blow your mind, but other than a handful of residents of North Dakota, no one thinks of you as ‘the South’. The Black Hills are not in Dixie. I studied geography at the collegiate level: I don’t expect lay people to be up on all the minutiae. (But when you have the time, I have some truly mind-boggling things to tell you about North Carolina and West Virginia. Prepare to have your socks blown off!)

And second, I’m not really sure it would be accurate to say the Confederate soldiers “gave the ultimate sacrifice for America.” I mean no disrespect, but I just don’t think that it is historically precise. But then, I never studied the Civil War in college (well, other than Ducks vs Beavers), so I may be wrong.

Sincerely,

PS: A lot of people are truly offended by the Confederate flag. It does have some ideology associated with it that is, in all honesty, odious.

It is official.

Richard’s surgery is on Wednesday, May 22nd, 2013.

I have to be at Providence Hospital in Portland at 6AM. Do you know of any better example of cruel and unusual punishment? Those Catholics have the driest sense of humor. Or is that sickest?

Just when you think things are looking pretty peachy, don’t you just love the drama that life throws your way? A month ago I would have told you that everything looked pretty good. I still missed Ralph and I needed to do something about my hand, but it was all under control. Under control, my ass. It was all just waiting to break loose.

And now, I have to be in Portland at 6AM on 5/22/13. It just isn’t fair.

Oh, and don’t forget Richard. He has a pretty big day ahead of him on the 22nd, too.

The humor may be strained, but I’m trying!

I woke up this morning.

Please, I’m not complaining. It is much better than most of the other options.

But I was very depressed. I sat on the edge of the bed with my head in my hands.

“You okay, honey?” Richard said to me.

“Damn it, Richard, I screwed up big time. After six week, six hours 4 minutes and 9 seconds, I fucked up and smoked a cigarette.”

Richard was quiet for a moment, but he’s no dummy. He did the math. “So you had a cigarette at midnight. Where did you have it,” he inquired?

“I went down to the banks of the Congo and watched the tugs and ferries and fishing boats go up and down the river,” I responded. “It was really pretty neat. You should have come.”

There was a pregnant pause.

I heard Richard’s voice say, “Mac, where is the Congo River?”

“Africa, of course,” I shot back, incredulous that he could ask such a silly question.

“When’s the last time you were in Africa?”

“Well, you know as well as I do that I have never been to… oh, I think I’m seeing something here… I didn’t go down and sit on the banks of the... oh, I get it, it was all a dream.”

Pretty much set the tone for the day, but Richard wasn’t with me at work. So, no one really pointed me in the firm direction of reality for the rest of the day.

Can you say discombobulated?