Day trippin' to the ER . . .

Brought Bob into the ER this morning, as he has been incredibly restless for the past few days, irritable—well, anxious, really . . .hasn't slept well at all, and his appetite hasn't been great, along with nausea that ebbs and flows in intensity (but no vomiting, thankfully . . . ) Didn't feel he could wait till the Masonic clinic's regular business hours to go in to see his doctor, and I'm glad he made the call.

Last night, he mentioned that we maybe we should be on standby to go in to the ER, because his symptoms were reminiscent of what happened six weeks ago. He thought he'd try to lay low, give it the night and see if the morning was any better. He woke me once at 2 a.m., to tell me he was having a hard time sleeping, that he felt restless, couldn't get comfortable, couldn't sit still, kind of like he wanted to crawl out of his skin. I asked if he wanted to go in right then, he said, no, he thought he would be able to wait till the morning; maybe he'd eventually become so exhausted that he'd just crash and eventually feel better in the a.m.

He wasn't better this morning, in fact, he felt worse. He woke me around 6 or so, saying it definitely felt like the symptoms he had six weeks ago were starting to return. I suggested he call the oncology on-call fellow (and I'm not just saying, "fellow," as opposed to "gal;" no, that would be fellow, as in "part of an elite group of learned people who work together as peers in the pursuit of knowledge or practice." And that would be lear-ned, as in two syllables, not one, a la Homer Simpson . . .those U peeps are quite lofty, being an educational hospital, y'know . . .), to tell him what's been going on, what our plan was, if there's anything else we could/should do . . .the on-call fellow said to definitely head in to the U, and that he'd alert the ER that we were on our way.

The events of six weeks ago are still quite raw in my mind, and even more so with Bob, so it was a relief to hear the on-call doc affirm our plan. Bob slowly climbed into the car, along with an overnight bag, just in case, and we buzzed down 94 for the eleventeen-thousandth time since all this began. A little more than 20 minutes later, I pulled into the ER lot, parked the car, whipped out the handicap permit and hung it on the rearview before retrieving Bob from the backseat. Not a whole lot going on around the ER on an early Sunday morning, I noted, as we walked into an eerie silent ER lobby. Other than a security guard and the triage nurse, no one else was visible in the joint. Again, I guess we planned our emergency at just the right time. . .

After getting checked in, Bob was escorted to a curtained room, told to change into a gown, and that the doctor would be with him shortly. Few minutes later, Doc showed up, ran down the requisite list of admitting questions, then got a condensed version of why we brought Bob in: that he was starting to exhibit some of the same signs and symptoms he had six weeks ago when Bob first started chemo, and we were trying to ward off another episode of that. Doc ordered IV fluids, pain meds and anti-nausea meds, along with blood work and a urine analysis. The whole process took nearly three hours, with taking blood and urine samples, waiting for test results, interpreting the results and acting accordingly. Bob's sodium levels looked great (thankfully), but his magnesium levels were low, not dangerously, but enough to possibly be causing some of the side effects he was experiencing—anxiety, restlessness and sleeplessness, confusion, trembling (not nearly the level of horrifying tremors he had back when he had his very first round of chemo), many very similar to the low sodium . . .

He was given an IV of magnesium, as well as an anti-nausea med via IV, which took about an hour to drip into Bob. I asked the doctor if anxiety in and of itself could be causing at least some of these problems, and if so, could Bob be given something to help him relax, possibly get some sleep . . . Doc concurred and said he'd prescribe Bob an anti-anxiety med, to take as needed while getting through this rough patch. He then said for us to follow up with Bob's primary doc at the U tomorrow, to see how the night went.

And with that, Bob was discharged and we were heading back on 94 toward home. This whole episode has me thinking hard about the psychological side effects of cancer, of chemotherapy. It's an issue that is not directly addressed—I mean, it's mentioned in all the literature—depression, anger, sadness, as the most obvious psychological reactions. But the anxiety, the restlessness, the listlessness that Bob is experiencing is nothing that I can comprehend, and is even hard for Bob to articulate. Pain, he can describe. Feelings are tough. Are they from the medications? Originating from the circumstance itself? From Bob's own thoughts and wonderings? Yes, yes, and yes, I'm sure is the answer, but they're also easy to disguise, camouflage, obliterate. Maybe not intentionally, but . . .

Tonight has been another "lay low" kind of night. Bob's slept on and off pretty much all day since we got back from the hospital. He did eat almost all of a grilled cheese and tomato soup for lunch, along with grapes; for dinner, he had pasta with butter (I'd made pasta with mushrooms, hot sausage, spinach and sundried tomatoes for dinner with my sister, Gretch, last night), peaches and a small handful of cashews (a good natural source of magnesium, I told him, after my lengthy internet search on "low magnesium levels." I'm also once again reminded how deep this thing runs, that this cancer not only has my husband's physical well-being in its grips, but his mind at times, as well. No matter how I try, no matter that I live with him and spend so many hours in the same room with him, day to day, week by week, month by month, there is no way I will ever begin to comprehend even one iota what Bob is going through . . . people constantly ask me, "Jen, how are you doing in the midst of all this?" Witnessing what I have to this point, nothing, absolutely nothing I experience in any way, shape or form even begins to compare to what Bob is dealing, with, on so many levels, facets . . . my job is a cakewalk in light of his . . .