Now, early September, the lawns are still green, still used by runners, walkers, groups of impromtu soccer games . . . the river still moves barges along, coaxes an ocassional rowing team downstream, ripples and shimmers in the afternoon sun. . . but the sun sets earlier, the nights call for sweaters, the smells in the air are different, in changing with the seasons. I sit alone on our deck tonight, think about Bob, lying alone in his hospital bed, countless nights in a hospital bed, so far away. Everything, is so far away.
Bob did advance to "real" food today, with slight restrictions, and dammit, I can't remember what they call his new diet. I kept calling it low resolution, but that's not right. . . it's. . . it's . . . ummmm . . . low . . . low . . . {she heads over to Google . . . types low res—first entry to pop up below her typing is: low residue diet. That's it!} Seriously, Low residue?!? WTF? I mean, if I really think about it, I get it, but that's probably why the term grosses me out. Some things don't need to be thought so hard about. . .
It's basically a low-fiber diet, with a few more restrictions, as the idea is to slowly introduce foods into his system, to minimize adverse side effects: stress on the bowels, abdominal pain/distention, diarrhea, etc. Therefore, no whole grains, no fiber-rich fruits or veggies (e.g. apples)—in other words, arguably the worst diet on the face of the earth. Pretty much any sort of processed crap is allowed: refined pastas, breads, etc., white rice, sugary juices, jello . . . man, I get the "philosophy" behind it, but it churns my stomach anyhow. I keep telling myself it's only temporary. . . so, Bob had a pancake, a 1/2 a yogurt and a few pieces of melon for breakfast (not eating much, so maybe that's a good thing; he is still getting IV nutrition along with the other food, to keep his nutrient intake up). Breakfast was followed by three sessions of OT/PT (spread out throughout the day, with maybe an hour and 1/2 to 2 hours between) which kicked his ass, knocked him out over the lunch hour so he missed that. Every day, I see the smallest of improvements, an increase in mobility, strength, endurance. Not huge strides, and right now, to Bob, seems like the most tedious, painstakingly thing he's ever done, and surely must think at this rate, he'll never get anywhere . . .
Penny and Jim came up for the day, spent the morning and most of the afternoon with us, and left around 6 or so, to attend a niece's wedding in the western metro region. We also had guests this afternoon in the form of my brother Kurt and his family, who had come up for the U of M v. South Dakota game at the swanky new stadium. They stopped by after the game. Was so good to see the crew, and if my memory serves me well (which I can't say it does, as I forgot my keys in Bob's room on my way to go let the dogs out this afternoon—got all the way to the ramp before I realized it, had to run back, calling Penny on the way to meet me in the lobby for the Key Handoff, then back at the ramp, where I'd forgotten which floor I parked on, wandered around for a good 10 minutes, pressing the lock button on my key chain, blindly following the faint beeping echoing through the ramp . . .) Anyhooooo, I don't think Kurt, Teresa and the kids have seen Bob since all this began. Been over a year, I'd guess . . . despite being wiped out with the PT/OT ass-woopin' sessions, Bob still managed to give the kids a little grief as only he can, chatted a bit with K & T, then promptly fell asleep. . .even though he's not great company right now, I know the little visits do him well—diversions from the monotony of the hospital, new faces that are a change from my ol' mug, day in and day out . . .
Dinner tonight was Bob's favorite from the kitchens U of M food service—parmesan crusted cod, with mashed taters and mushy veggie blend (the mushed veggies are not a favorite—that was my idea, thinking he should add 'em in for color and and an extra dose of nutrition. Bad idea. Had I known that all color, taste and nutrition would be blasted right out of the veggies before serving to patients, I'd have passed . . .). After dinner, we got Bob back into a wheelchair for a ride; went down to the main lobby and outside for a breath of fresh air. The cluster of buildings that surround the U of M hospital create a wind-tunnel effect, and if there's a breeze, there are days where one feels the need for rocks in the pockets when the wind picks up velocity and races around the nooks and crannies of the structures, gaining circular momentum as it passes through . . . tonight was one of those nights. Not the worst I've ever seen, but enough that if one is in just a flimsy hospital gown and lap blanket, it was a tad breezy . . . we went back inside and sat by the fireplace in the lobby, people watching, making small talk.
I'd told Bob I ran into his favorite nurse from 7D the night before, the sweet rocker chick who took such good care of him . . . (all the nurses we've encountered at the U have taken such good care of Bob—I can't think of one who hasn't—but I believe sweet Rocker Chick holds a special place because she was his nurse in the wee hours when he'd had his heart attack back in March . . . he credits her calm, yet swift actions for saving his life. That, and he's always had a thing for rocker chicks. . . ). I glance at the clock on the wall, it's twenty to seven. "Maybe we'll see her tonight—she's doing her streak of 12 hour days and starts at 7 pm . . ." not a few minutes later, a figure sneaks up behind Bob and taps him on the shoulder. Rocker Chick! I know it made Bob's night to see her; we bs'd with her for a few minutes before she had to be on her way to work. We decided to call it a night, as well.
I was able to get Bob from the wheelchair to the bed, the brace off and him into bed by myself. Well, not really "by myself," as Bob did most of the work, I just stood by as spotter, really. I cheered him on, gave him a big high five, he gave me a look that said, "Shut the hell up." I get it. He's in a tough place right now. And rightly so. Facing the realities of what his new reality will be. Right now, his right leg doesn't work, his left side is fraught with excruciating pain, he's still so weak, body's plumbing ain't working the way it used to and don't know if it ever will . . . right now, the surgery's promise of a bright, new future ain't looking great yet, but we're only two weeks out. . . still lots of uncertainties . . .
Who am I to tell him to keep fighting, to cheer him on with all the little baby steps I see? I am in no place, have no point of reference, by which to compare to all he's suffered through, and continues to suffer. I have two legs that work, I can get in and out of bed without three people hovering, grabbing, pulling, pushing, twisting into place. I have bowels that work, can get in a car and drive, go back to work when I want to, can eat what I want, can fall asleep for hours straight . . . He's entitled to the anger, the pity, sorrow, the grieving, and needs to allow that to come out, too . . . all part of the process . . . I still, truly, in my heart, he will come out of this in amazing ways. But it's gonna take a helluva lot of work on his part. That's the hard part. For all the cheering, encouraging, pep-talks I try to give him, I'm not the one doing the hard work. I get the shut-the-hell-up look. Completely. And don't blame him.
I was watching a news program on TV the other night; not really paying attention, until two US soldiers who'd served in Iraq came on, one was a young man who'd had both legs blown off during his tour . . . spent 22 months in rehab at Walter Reed . . . two artificial titanium legs now propel him to run, to water ski . . . and I thought, someone like that young man needs to be giving Bob pep talks, someone who's been through war. Or, perhaps the man I saw as I waited for the light to turn green near the hospital today, in a wheel chair, making a wheelchair to van transfer. By himself. And he was the driver . . . whatever his story is—accident? Genetics? Disease?
A soldier of war. A survivor of a horrific accident, disease, faulty genetics. . . . Guess in Bob's story, he's kinda been through all that, in the past year. Fighting a one man war, caused by the accident of faulty genetics, of disease . . . hence, the "shut the hell up" look. On second thought, I will never, truly get it.
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