Been a long time since I dropped the f-bomb in the hospital . . .

Long, long day at the office. . . got to the U around 8 am, stayed till after 7 pm . . . Penny and Jim came up for the day and kept us company, hung out, relieved me of mid-day doggie duties so I could stay with Bob when OT came in the afternoon, hung out some more . . . it's such a good feeling, to have family and friends around, to be here with us, envelop us with love and support, and I know Bob is so grateful and appreciative, too. . . makes him feel so good, so safe, to have his parents here. They've all been through so much together . . .

So, ummm, kinda started the day on a bad foot—okay, make that bad mouth—internal medicine, along with colorectal and orthopedics (and cardiology, peripherally) have all been following Bob closely, perhaps too closely, as everyone seems to have their theory, their suspicions, their "million-dollar answer" as to what's going on with Bob right now. In other words, no one really knows shit. But they're all willing to poke, prod, shovel drugs into him, subject him to test after test, a mad dash to be the one who comes up with The Answer. Can't tell you how many times the image of kidnapping Bob in the darkness of night and whisking him away to a Polynesian island has entered my mind . . .

Internal med doc comes in (same yahoo who spoke with us yesterday), and starts his spiel about what might be wrong with Bob. The more he talked, the dizzier I became, his words swirling and twirling around the room as though he were pulling out every possible thing he had learned in med school about the colorectal system, and heart attacks, and childhood cancer (he is internal medicine, after all) and how much of a "survivor" Bob is (gratuitous praise for good measure), and how it all may theoretically apply to Bob's situation, but none of it makes any sense. Nothing specific that pertains to Bob's vast and varied history, mind you, just textbook regurgitations, snippets of Bob's history, spining round and round, over and over . . . this man, in his fine Italian threads, his fashionable leather loafers, his perfectly coiffed hair, I think he's more in love with the image of being a doctor than actually being a doctor. . . "But I play one on TV . . ."

As Doc Suave (yup, that's the name I've just christened him with) goes on and on, talking about everything and telling us nothing, he suddenly, mid-soliloquy, becomes fixated on the fact that Bob has been on copious amounts of narcotics and that, ladies and gentlemen, is The Crux of the situation! Narcotics=constipation; Bob's current bowel situation=narcotics; therefore, Narcotics + bowel dysmotility (i.e.: shit just ain't moving)=Bob's problem! Solution: cessation of narcotics = problem solved! {{crowd roars . . .}}

As such, Doc Suave deduces, they must be more aggressive in getting Bob off the Dilauded and methadone. Bob protests. He's been having increased pain in his left side—his good side—over the past few days, sharp, intense pain that makes him cry out, implode . . . "Bob, you have to make a decision. If you want to get over this hump quickly, you're the only one who can decide how much pain you can reasonably tolerate, then we can move forward quickly. Or, you can continue to suffer and drag this out longer than necessary."

I look at Doc Suave like he's nuts. And basically tell him he's nuts. With an f-bomb flourish, for good measure. "It's no mystery Bob's on narcotics and lots of them, for a long time," I sputter, "and we're well aware of the side effects of them. And that, right now, post-surgery, he needs them. He's suffered with debilitating pain for damn near a year now—bedridden, for nearly a year! Don't tell him he has to chose between pain or clearing up your effing mystery disorder quickly . . . " Bob interjects with his own take on the situation, "I don't want to do anything in haste, based on a hunch . . ."

I continue, "I'd hope you guys would have figured into your equation all the narcotics and their side effects as you're trying to find out what's going on with Bob. If it's that easy, why not start with that? Why the CT scans? Why the antibiotics? Why all the tests?! Are you prepared to deal with the withdrawal that'll happen as a result of suddenly quitting the narcotics? I doubt it. You. Will. Not. Touch. Bob's. Pain. Medications. Period. Clearly, he still needs them, and Palliative care is the only team that will be doing any sort of tapering with them, if need be." Diarrhea of the mouth, can't stop it, can't make myself make any sense, hate, hate, hate the U of M right now, with every cell of my being . . .

Bob asks what are his alternatives, if Doc Suave truly feels he needs to get off the narcotics to help the situation along. Basically, Doc Suave tells him, well, nothing, as all heavy-duty pain meds, narcotics or no, cause bowel issues. . . so why the hell do you even bring this up, if there's no other solution to pain management, I cry. Literally. Start crying. F-bombs falling like walnuts off a tree . . .my in-laws right next to me, but all I can do is drop my head in my hands and cry.

Why keep playing games with his life? Why doesn't anyone just quit messing with him, take a step back and take everything into consideration, and go from there? Why doesn't anyone give him any hope, anything to cling to? Right now, his life is worse than it was pre-surgery. ZERO quality of life, completely bedridden, completely dependent on everyone around him to care for him. with no light at the end of the tunnel. Not even a pin poke.

Bob, in his deadpan manner, interrupts with, "I wish I could pay you guys by the day," looking directly at Doc Suave standing bedside. I stop crying and look at him, wondering if he was slipping into hallucinations at the most inappropriate time. He continues. "I'd get better results with all this shit, if you doctors actually had to earn your keep every day, based on your performance. . . "

****

So, colorectal team comes in later, tells us that the second CT scan confirmed that there is no leaking from his bowels, no apparent issues related to colorectal, no signs of internal infection . . . they just think that, due to the length and intensity of the surgery Bob had, it's just taking longer than normal for his systems to "wake up," so to speak.

"The intestines, the bowels, the stomach, are all very sensitive and when disrupted, as what happens with a surgery—and yours was particularly stressful, given the duration and all that was involved—they're not very happy about the disturbances, and essentially stop working as a response." Okay, keep talking . . .

"You had an incredibly intense surgery, Bob," the colorectal doc continues. "It's normal for surgery, especially that type of surgery, to disrupt things for quite a while, though I've never seen one like yours before . . .but, given that there seems to be no signs of infection or other internal distresses, it's likely just a matter of time to get things moving again. But, the good thing is, based on all our tests, the CT scans, your symptoms, that your NG tube is producing very little volume from your stomach, which could mean it's moving things along on its own. . . your white blood cell count has dropped significantly, you aren't running a temp any more—it appears that things are moving along in your system, just not at full capacity, yet. . ." blood pressure coming down, heart rate slowing . . . those stats would be mine . . .

"We believe it's just that your body needs more time to 'wake up' from the trauma of the surgery, needs just a little more time. You have your PICC line, and we'll begin the IV nourishment today and will continue that even after the NG tube is removed, which will hopefully be tomorrow, until we know you're tolerating and absorbing solid foods well . . . "

Straightforward, to the point. Nothing certain, nothing specific, but nothing off-the-wall or utterly implausible . . . thorough, yet not info-overload . . . he suggested leaving the NG tube in for the night, but just capping it off (instead of leaving it connected to the suction device in the wall that pulls the junk from his stomach). That way, they can tell if Bob's stomach is moving things along on its own, or if it's filling up, not passing anything along to the intestines. If yes, the NG tube can be removed and food can slowly be introduced into Bob's diet. If not, the NG tube stays until another solution is found.

As organic, "whole foods," nutritionally-hell-bent as I have been of late, I'm thinking that after all this shit, all this literal and figurative shit that Bob's been dragged through for nearly a year, his first "real" meal will be a New York strip, garlic mashed 'taters, a side of buttery billy-club asparagus . . . and a HUGE glass of cabernet . . . Or, maybe he'd want a hoppy microbrew . . . .

We have a meeting with the orthopedic team tomorrow, hopefully, to shed some light from their perspective, to give us their take on the current situation. This was by request from yours truly. The way I see it is, they put Bob in this predicament, they need to tell us what appears to be "normal," and what seems to be really "off, " pertaining to this type of surgery . . . that, and we still need to hear the results of the final pathology on the bone samples sent to the lab during Bob's surgery. At that time, nearly two weeks ago, we were told that there may possibly be cancer left in his pelvis. . . the ortho surgeon took as much bone as he could without compromising the structure of his pelvis, but hadn't yet confirmed if they'd removed all the cancer or not. Shit like that is what keeps me from sleeping at night . . .

On a happy note, did I mention how much I love, love, love my in-laws?!? That they will buzz up here on a moment's notice, sit with Bob and me, help us out in so countless ways, whether it's continuing the "golf picks" (or whatever the hell it is that Jim and Bob do with the golf tourneys), or passing along the little "Lucky Strike Extras" that Penny slips into my purse or my hand, silencing the transaction with a "shut the hell up" look, slick as a drug deal on University avenue . . . Jim and Penny are proud new owners of fancy-schmancy cell phones with slide-out keyboards and have gone from techno-zeros to techno-heros in short order, texting like teenagers, even hip on the lingo, using "u" and "r" in place of the real words . . . those two never sit still, never let life pass them by, even in the throes of crisis . . .

Or, that I worship and adore my family and all the friends, who wrap us up in love, support, words of encouragement, strength, and laughter. . . who do what they can, to help carry us through . . . it's been a while since I gave a shout-out to all the peeps who send e-mails,"snail mail" letters, voice mails, facebook posts, blog comments, text messages . . the precious thoughts, prayers, pixie dust, visits, crayola artwork, doggie-letting-out favors, the flowers, the chocolate treats, the donations, the veggies that show up on our doorstep . . .

I can't keep up, I know I've forgotten something . . . I completely and utterly hate our life right now, but what keeps me going is the beautiful souls that continue to support us, encourage us, pray for us, send up thoughts and prayers.

That, and Bob's tenacious spirit, his immense strength . . . any day I start to feel sorry for myself, that my life sucks and blah, blah, blah, I think of Bob. All he's been through and will continue to go through, for months on end. His nurses day, all the time, he never complains. Even when his pain is at his worst, his outlook bleak, his frustrations off the charts, he somehow manages to channel it . . . Now, whose life sucks?

. . . and my doggies, and the sunsets, and the hummingbirds at the feeder, and the cool nights that almost push me over the edge to fire up the furnace (but not quite) . . . all those things, and so much more, mean the world to me, fuel my fire, and Bob's too. . . I don't think Bob's consciously aware of the extent of his "army of angels" who are behind him (I don't even think I know), but I do know he knows it, deep in his heart, burrowed in his mind, planted into his subconscious. I know so many people feel so helpless, so at a loss of words, to "do something" to help us. I feel as helpless as anyone, even being by his side. But believe me, sending up a little peaceful, loving thought, prayer, whatever you want to call it, means the world. We feel 'em all . . .

LOVE! to all . . . rock on.