A beautiful, cold, November weekend . . .

Saturday, November 27, 2010

Happy Thanksgiving everyone, a few days late! We had a really nice turkey dinner at Bethesda, despite its source being the hospital kitchen. They must pull out all stops for this one meal—we were treated to turkey and all the trimmin's—mashed 'taters, sweet 'taters, dressing, cranberries, at least three kinds of pie . . .

Penny and Jim came up Thursday morning, stayed till late Friday afternoon. They were going to try to be here Wednesday, but southern MN was pelted with the freezing rain we were supposed to get, so they stayed put till traveling was safer. We, thankfully, didn't get the freezing stuff that threatened to coat the metro area with a thick glaze of ice. Just an inch or so of snow that started late Wednesday afternoon and ended sometime early Thursday morning.

Nuisance snow, I call it—not enough to justify firing up the snow blower, but enough to warrant shoveling, to keep it from turning into an icy under-layer if driven over. Which wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing in my world, if we had a short, flat driveway. But we don't. We have a long, U-shaped drive, with steep inclines on both ends, which turn into slick ramps when ice builds up on them, and I'd never get out of this joint if that happened. Which did end up happening, because I didn't get a chance to start shoveling until Friday morning, and by then, the thin layer of snow had been driven over several times, pressed into sleek tracks of ice.

So grateful to have Penny and Jim here, to help me shovel and chisel my way out, or I'd be stuck here till spring thaw. . . Jim helped shovel and break up the compacted snow while Penny stayed inside, doing some last-minute cleaning for a showing of the house on Friday . . . where would I be, without those two . . .

We got to Bethesda before noon on Thursday; Bob got a hall pass to leave his room and join us down in Bethesda's on-site cafe for the holiday meal. The cafe usually has a fairly decent offering of grub— for some reason, often a helluva lot better than what the patients are served, though they come from the same kitchen. Usually at least 2-3 main entrees and sides to choose from, along with various grill items and a fairly impressive salad bar and sandwich bar, and the patients always have the option to order meals from the cafe if the hospital menu isn't appealing.

On Thanksgiving, though, it was just turkey dinner (with a vegetarian lasagna option for non-meat eaters/non-turkey lovers). The four of us loaded our plates and brought them to a table in the dining room, where we ate in the cozy confines of the cafe. There were some staff members enjoying the meal, and a few other families, also celebrating the holiday with their own loved one/patient. One family, in particular, caught my attention; a big group, 10-12 people gathered around several cafeteria tables that had been pushed together to make one long one. Grandpa and grandma-types all the way down to kid-types. The guest of honor, the one toward whom everyone directed their attention, was a woman seated the head of the table. She was in a high-tech wheel-chair, wearing a protective helmet (could be for a number of reasons—perhaps she has severe seizures, maybe a serious fall-risk); she appeared to be paralyzed, at least to some degree . . . Her hands looked weak and atrophied, both were encased in some sort of brace, up to the forearm. The braces seemed to hold her hands straight, to prevent them from contracting, curling up toward her wrists. I could see that when she talked, it was a labored effort. . .

Another couple at this large gathering had two infant car carriers, each with a tiny baby inside. The babies were passed around to the guests and eventually brought to the head of the table, where the woman in the wheel chair sat. I saw her tip her head and smile at the babies, as they sat in their carriers in front of here, but she couldn't even so much as reach out to touch them, just smile.

A few PTs who were also in the cafe, came over to ooohhh and aaaaahhhh over the babies. I overheard the woman who was hauling one of the carriers, the one whom I'd assumed was the mom, reach over and rub the shoulder of the woman sitting in the wheelchair and say, "Mary here is their mom—they're twins, seven weeks old . . . "

Wow . . . I couldn't get my mind off that scene all day . . . still thinking about it . . . I've seen Mary before, in the PT room when Bob has had therapy; someone is usually with her, a family member, but I've never seen the babies before. All day long, I wondered what could have happened to Mary. Did she have a stroke while giving birth? Was it a terrible accident that severely injured her and sent her into early labor? Of course, I couldn't expect a staff member at the hospital to divulge such private info, as much as I wanted to know (though, if we had been at the U and had been a roommate of Mary's, we would've known her medical story inside and out, thanks to the parade of docs who exercise complete disregard of a patient's privacy, blabbing personal medical info, as though no one else were in the room . . .) Mary probably has yet to hold those sweet bundles of love in her arms . . . or maybe she has. Perhaps, in the privacy of her room, when she's lying in bed, someone brings the babies to her and lays them on her chest and lifts her arms for her, to encircle the tiny bodies. So Mary can feel the warmth of their skin and they can feel the beating of her heart, so each knows that they are of one another, that they belong to each other . . .

I send a pathetic little prayer upward and outward, toward Mary and her family, with the deepest hope that she makes a full recovery, so she will one day cradle those tiny babies in her arms . . . and am reminded, with glaring clarity, I, as so many people who know Bob, am at loss for words . . . I do the same, with endless patients I see at Bethesda—the young man (late teens? Maybe 20, at the oldest?) in the wheelchair, appears to be quadriplegic, with three very devoted sisters and parents, who are always by his side, in therapy, in the hallways . . . or the handsome young man who is in a body brace and a very complicated-looking wheelchair, with legs so thin and frail, always sporting a protective helmet, always seems to be sleeping when he comes down to therapy (once in a while I see his eyes open, but have yet to see evidence that he can speak). Or the man with two prothetic legs, trying to learn to walk again, or the woman with the short, spiky hair (is that how she wears it? Is it chemo-induced? was it cut for a surgery?), who looks around the room as she waits her turn for therapy, who sometimes makes sad eye contact with me, sometimes crying softly as her PT softly strokes her arm, gently coaxing her to please try to do the exercises he's asking her to perform . . . I am helpless, even neck-deep in our own shit, at a loss . . .

It's an emotional place, Bethesda. I'll never know the stories behind the broken bodies and souls and lives of those who share the the space Bob has called home for over a month. . . I met a woman in the elevator, on my way up to Bob's room yesterday. I've seen her several times. She's often standing outside a room down the hall from Bob's, gazing out the window. I say hi to her as I enter the elevator. Your home away from home, too, huh? I say. She gives a little laugh. "Yeah, my husband has been here for five weeks; was in the hospital for a month before this . . . " I respond with a weak, knowing smile. I could have said, We're going on seven weeks here; my husband's been in the hospital for three months . . . but I don't.

It's a funny phenomenon, I've noticed, in hospitals. Toss someone a little line and the stories come tumbling out, in a deluge . . . everyone's story is the worst story ever, in their world. And in their world, maybe in the whole wide world, it is true . . . stories of accidents, illness, horrible tragedies that no one could have predicted, planned for. . . to ask about it is like pricking a balloon and bursting the pent-up pressure, usually . . . but I don't respond like that. I can't. Because if I did, I don't know if I'd be able to stop. Besides, the elevator reaches our destination—third floor—quickly, and the doors open to let us out before I can begin. Saved by the bell. I smile, though not really smiling, knowing, as I feel like I'm the author of measuring life in increments of days in ICU or weeks in the hospital . . . But I don't offer much more. "Try to have a good day," she says, as she exits, and again, I know exactly what she means. You, too, I say, as we exit, toward the rooms where our husbands are waiting.

A few days ago, on Thanksgiving day, I believe, Bob told me he got chewed out by his nurse. What?? Why?!? I asked, alarmed. "Because I got up and went to the bathroom by myself. Twice." Shut the hell up! I burst out laughing. You did not! "Did too. I had to go, and didn't want to wait around for someone to show up and help me." Well, even though your nurse was probably mortified, she was also probably secretly ecstatic at your defiance, I say. It's a sign of of progress! "Whatever." he said. "I just had to go. She told me to promise never do that again, I told her I couldn't do that . . ."

The other day, Bob walked up a whole flight of stairs, 10 steps, and came back down again. His PT was by his side, but was just spotting him, not doing any of the work. We both looked at Bob in awe when he had finished. "I think you're holding out on us, Bob," she said. "I'm gonna have to come up with harder things for you to do. Even with your big ol' leg, you're surprising me how strong and mobile you're getting. . ." He also practiced getting in and out of a car (made it look like a piece of cake) . . .one of these days, we'll practice getting into the Jeep, as it's higher than the car that's used in PT. . .

Doc Writes-On-Her-Pants (the plastic surgeon from the U) paid a visit to Bob yesterday. She assessed the wound site, and has started a game plan for what to do next, and has arranged for an appointment with the colorectal surgeon who was part of his main surgery team, and will be contacting the orthopedic team, as well. All the components that are entwined with what's going on with the wound and what to do next. Overall, Doc WOHP was thoroughly impressed with how much it's filled in and closed in, in the six weeks Bob's been at Bethesda. She said it looks really good, but now she needs to come up with a plan for the final stages of healing. There is some issue with the exposed bowels in the surgery site that needs to be addressed; hence the re-involvement of the colorectal team.

We have so many followup appointments in the coming weeks, it makes my head spin, but also makes me feel that things are falling into place, that Bob is that much closer to home, but that also that a plan is being mapped out, for continued progress, as we make those plans to get him home.