Wishing on a Blue Star (6 page)

The truth is, I felt... overlooked.

Ok. Lets think this thing through. Doc’s advice, based on everything I said, *must* mean that what I was experiencing wasn’t all that big a deal, right? After all, I’ve said over and over how much I trust the guy implicitly. E.G, if the white blood count is high, my body will take care of the situation on it’s own.

Yeah, that lasted for all of an hour while I googled “neutropenia.” In a nutshell, it’s a fever of at least a given duration *while* the neutrophil (a type of white blood cell) count is abnormally low.

Okay, so if everything is fine (and it obviously is not given the steadily increasing swelling) who do I still feel like I got tossed under the bus?

I’m not too proud to admit that I went a bit childish and decided, “Fine. I’ll deal. I’ll take pictures and rattle his cage at my next visit in a couple of weeks.” Add to that the distinct feeling that my personal hero just let me down, big time.

Folks who know me know I can be stubborn about the strangest things, and I decided there had to be an alternative. Maybe Mark didnt relay everything I said? Maybe Trina didnt relay everything Mark said? Surely my guy would have done something different had he known, right? RIGHT? I mean, we’re talking about an existing lump the size of my thumb that has swelled to something the size of a baby’s fist virtually overnight.

I just cant believe that doesnt matter, and if that’s true, that means my doctor guy, whom I freely admit I adore, hasnt forsaken me.

Enter Liz, one of the counselors who keeps tabs on patients and check on their progress, etc. She called the next day to apologize for not meeting me during the last treatment which is her usual habit. No biggie, since it was never a formally scheduled thing, but it was sweet of her.

Naturally, I repaid her in kind by whining.

“Liz, help me figure something out, will you?”

I told her what had happened, and told her how much it bothered me to think the Doc blew me off.

“Did you talk to him about it?” she asks.

“No. Trying to get past Trina is like trying to get a message to God. I didnt even bother. Besides, I dont want to raise a stink if it will backlash on him.”

“Okay, if you could talk to him face to face, what would you want to say?” Clever Liz, extracting my own words like that.

“I’d ask him if he had been given all the information I gave Mark. Surely he’s got to be thinking it’s just a transient fever, in which case his advice would be spot on.”

“I’ll go upstairs and have a talk with him and see what he has to say. Then I’ll call you back.” With the casual way she said that, I have to believe that angels in Heaven can also walk freely in the presence of God.

Liz called back a few hours later and told me that Doc had indeed not been given all the details. She also said I was to start antibiotics, and that they would call the prescription in.

Whew! That’s more like what I expected of my hero guy! And best of all, he didnt blow me off!

It is utterly foolish to put such stock in another human being, but you know what? I can cheerfully live with any mistake he might make, if that ever happens. What I couldnt deal with as easily is finding out he didnt really care after all.

So... These last four days have been hell on earth. Think of the worst flu you’ve had and multiply it by five or six. Then add all the fun and frolic the usual chemo brings to the party. I’m reluctant to up the dose of drugs because of the risks involved to my liver, and the only real way I can get away from the discomfort for a while is to sleep.

Thus, I’ll be offline until I get back on track, dodging the pain and nausea, and thinking about how even in the darkest days, there is always something good to be found. And especially thinking about how we all need a hero we can count on sometimes.

Thanks Doc! You are aces, man.

Patric

Sunday, November 22, 2009

Abscess makes the heart grow fonder

6:00 am:

Alarm goes off. Time for another round of antibiotics. Check the swelling. What the hell is that black line??

Oh... I get it. Sharp stabbing bolts of pain = living flesh separating. Now I understand. Sigh.

8:00 am:

Wake up again. Black line is now revealed as a deep pocket, capped with a layer of skin that is so thin it’s transparent. A hint of yellow mars the ebony sheen.

“Stand back, Ethyl! She’s gonna blow!” (Video available upon request.)

The back pressure is sufficient to create a fountain about 6 inches high which slows to a seemingly never ending rivulet of fascinating colors and smells.

Fine by me, because the pressure is gone.

It’s true. What makes pain feel so good is when it stops.

11:00 am:

Tell Papa to eat fast cuz I have to go to the emergency room.

12:30 pm:

Standing in the emergency room bare-assed in a johnny showing the morning video to a nurse who squealed “Oh I love abscesses!” Seemed only fair to indulge her.

1:30 pm:

Pumped full of high-test antibiotics and even higher-test painkillers while the doctor on call does an ultrasound to see what he’s gonna be cutting into. “That’s a lymph node!” (Duh) “I need to talk to your surgeon before I go cutting into that!”

Nurse takes a pint of blood for five different cultures. She’s messy. (Pictures available upon request.)

1:45 pm:

The trauma surgeon who did the second biopsy peers around the corner, smiling but business-like. She flips back the johnny. “Oh my goodness! That’s an angry red! What happened?”

I tell her.

Surgeon proceeds to dig into the gaping hole with a swab, none too gently.

“Ease down, butch! That’s live skin you’re tearing. Have you considered using a knife?”

“No, this’ll be fine.”

Apparently the higher-test painkillers are no match for her thoroughness. Youch!

2:00 pm:

Trauma surgeon packs a two inch long, 3/8 inch deep gash with gauze. “Change this twice a day. Can you do that?” (Duh. Standing on my head.)

3:45 pm:

Papa peers around the curtain. Still ten minutes to go on the IV pushing antibiotics.

“I asked them to tell me what your prognosis was, and they said you were just getting started. I’ve been waiting and waiting!” (Duh. Now you know how I feel waiting six hours on your sorry butt the last time
you
were admitted to emergency.)

4:05 pm:

Stand up to get dressed and water runs down my leg like a mini cataract. Mop that up, put on my pants, and in seconds I have a big fat wet spot.

4:25 pm:

Filling a prescription at Shopko. No shoppers, I did not pee my pants.

All the lovely drugs are wearing off. Damn.

5:15 pm:

Arrive home, just as angry and unsettled as when I left.

I hate my life.

Patric

Monday, November 23, 2009

Double Standards

Warning:
What will follow is likely to be maudlin tripe, so feel free to stop reading here and move on to something even more interesting. I understand the annual paint drying contest is currently underway. That would be a good alternative. :)

Today, beyond all expectation, was a happy day; for about twenty minutes. After all, I’d not been stoned (on pain meds) since 4pm the previous day, and I woke up feeling rather normal for a change. I’ll say here and now it was awesome. :)

Apparently, the rest of me woke up some twenty minutes late. I can relate to that, since I’ve always been a night owl. Stands to reason whatever’s currently chewing on my carcass (and half the time I cant tell if its cancer or cure) would be equally prone to sleeping in.

Eeh, what the hell. Slog another pain pill and everything will be fine. So I did. :)

I can accept a chemically induced happy day.

Sometimes the distinctions between artificial and natural can only be measured by perception.

I got a gift today. A phone call that just ticked me seven shades of pink. Cant divulge details of course, but the sheer novelty ws enough to keep me bouncing all day, which was good because I got to participate in Z.A. Maxwell’s count down chat.

I even managed to hang in until Family Unit was released for sale, at which point everybody suddenly disappeared. One presumes they flooded the Loose Id website to buy it. :)

As I crashed, I listened to what I can only assume are drug induced aural hallucinations.

People’s voices, random bits of conversation all jumbled together like I was far away from the source, and the occasional errant breeze would carry the sound just enough to hear. The sounds carried me into dreams both bizarre and surreal. How often does one get to dream of being awake, dreaming on one eye while the other eye looks upon the waking world, and the images are superimposed?

Rather creepy, that. :)

Sadly, all vestiges of happy were eaten away by the time I woke, hours ago, and I was back you plain ol’ cranky me. Prickly, contentious, and sullen, at least it’s familiar territory. That happy guy makes me want to claw my own face off. :)

Thus, it was the prickly guy who answered yet another “How are you doing?” message.

Man, how I have come to hate that question, as much for it’s innocence as for it’s insistence. It’s one of those rare questions that means nothing but good, is a benchmark of good will, and solicits only caring.

And yet, hearing it makes me cringe, every time. I hate not being able to say “I’m fine! The sun is shining and birdies are chirping outside my window. It’s a glorious day!” which is of course what the questioner wants to hear. The window of opportunity to actually say that is so bloody rare and short, I almost always disappoint them, and by extension, myself.

So when I got the question again, the prickly guy answered, “I’m still alive.”

Not terribly poetic, and certainly not upbeat, at least it was not the usual litany of problems.

What I got back was the usual, “I’m glad.” and that got me thinking.

So many people say that and I usually grin and wave it off. Conditioned to accept it, you might say.

But there are thankfully rare times *I* am not glad, and without fail, every time I say that I get hit with the always popular “Dont say that!” spoken as though disobedience of the command were unimaginable.

Wait, whoa. You arent allowed to tell me how to think. What’s the deal? Why cant I be allowed to feel crappy enough that a dirt nap would be preferable?

Why ask the question if you are unwilling to accept all possible answers?

Sorry folks, I’m a package deal, and yes, sometimes my thoughts are morbid like that. Fine and dandy that you dont agree with them, but you simply dont get to tell me I’m not allowed to think them. It comes a little too close to “It’s okay to be gay, as long as you keep it hidden.”

Is that stretching things too much? I dont know. I’m an observer that’s too close to what he’s observing to see the whole scope. Someone else will have to adjudicate that one.

In the meantime, dont ask if you dont *really* want to know. You may not like the answer. :)

Patric

When Angels Fall

ZA Maxfield

Once, you asked me what manner of being I am. I told you then, because you could never understand, I simply am.

I am lighter than air. I am denser than gold. I am taller than your largest building, and I can fit inside the crystalline structure of the finest flake of snow. I am immense, yet I could dance with my peers on the head of a pin.

But I won’t. Dancing on the heads of pins seems like an extraordinary waste of time, unless you ask it of me.

I suppose it never occurred to you that I do everything you ask of me and more because in all the worlds you are the only one to whom I will ever say, “I am yours.”

Why?

When you were very young you found a yellow pup and coaxed it to you, luring it with soft sounds and gentle hands. You knew everything it would ever be, just as I know the whole truth of you. You didn’t wait for it to grow or prove itself; you simply knew that you would be there for him in all his moments, from the first time he pushed his damp black nose into your palm to the very last time he lifted his gray muzzle from his paws and you saw farewell in his sad brown eyes.

This is what you are to me. You are mine. I have foreseen it. 

My peers are everywhere around me, just as yours surround you. Waking, sleeping, working, playing. Yet in the entire universe there is only we.

And today… Since you’ve chosen today —this very moment— to step through a rotting board and slip into an abandoned mine, this is the day we begin…

When Kip hit the damp ground beneath what appeared to be a hole of rotting wood planks and thin earth, he got the breath knocked out of him so hard that he guessed he’d blacked out. The next thing he knew he was leaning against something warm and soft, and emitting what sounded like frightened huffs of breath.