Tests, tests and more tests . . .

So, has everyone shoveled their way out of the MOAS's yet? (As you can see, I'm resorting to acronyms, since being back at the U. In case you don't know, MOAS is short for Mother Of All Storms. I made it up, but you can use it, if you wish). I am eternally grateful for a few neighbors who helped rescue me from the canyon of snow that is now our yard. I feel like we live in an arctic fortress . . . Our snowblower now doesn't work, not sure what's up with that; fired right up with the first big storm we had. Now, nothing. Our neighbor across the street, a retired mechanic, has been working on it, hoping to have it up and running again for the next round. If not, I am SOL . . .

Sitting and waiting, here at the U, goin' on a week now, for all the latest scans and tests to be done. "As long as we have you here," has its pluses and minuses. Since last Monday night (when he first got here), Bob's had an ultrasound on his leg, an MRA, an MRI, is going down, as I type, for another ultrasound on his lower extremities . . . he'll be getting a PET scan in the next day or so—it's scheduled for Wednesday, but if a cancellation happens, he may get in sooner. Trouble is, he can't eat or drink anything but water six hours prior, so it's hard, if not impossible, to plan for a cancellation, like what happened this morning. I told him to just starve himself from now till Wednesday, in the event another cancellation opportunity pops up, we can seize it. He looked at me, with a Tootsie Pop hanging from his mouth. Yeah, right.

Beats being shuttled back and forth from Bethesda to the U for all these followup procedures, but also means a lot of sitting around, doing nothing. Not even PT or OT, believe it or not. They did come in and assess Bob last Friday, but we haven't seen 'em since. I'm tellin' ya, the U's therapy programs are slipping. Our last gigs here, they were the first ones knocking on the door, trying to get in to see Bob. Even when he was in the ICU, with tubes running in and out of every orifice, therapy popped in, crackin' the whip, "Hey Bob! Let's get you moving! I know you're unconscious at the moment so we're kinda limited in what we can do, but every little bit helps!" I'm sure the weather has them a bit short-staffed, but I'm just not used to being neglected like this (from them, anyhow). . .

The ultrasounds are being done to monitor the clot (DVT) in Bob's right leg, and to check out his left leg, as that's showing some signs of swelling as of the past few days, as well. His right leg is still absolutely ginormous and to me, looked even more swollen today, if that's possible. We've been told that it can take months for the swelling of a DVT to go away, so they aren't too alarmed that it's been like this for a month now, but did order another ultrasound, to monitor the progress of the clots.

Overall, I think Bob looks more "puffy," in the face and abdomen, as well as the legs, and mentioned it to the doctor rounding this a.m. Docs said it's most likely due to the additional, continuous fluids Bob's been getting for the past week, so they've discontinued the IV fluids (under the condition that Bob be diligent about drinking adequate water/fluids on his own), and are confident much of the extra swelling will dissipate.

The fluids were being given because Bob's blood pressure had been quite low and his heart rate has been running high, though that's been an ongoing thing since his first heart attack, maybe longer, even. . . another li'l conundrum in the big complicated picture, trying to balance all that, and ruling out all other possible causes, as well (thyroid, steriods, the fact that Bob is super-deconditioned, being ill for so long, all of the above, none of the above) . . . he's super-sensitive to his blood-pressure meds—a little too much makes his BP plummet (as does dehydration), but the cardiologists' general consensus is that he needs to be on them as his heart heals. He's been so susceptible to dehydration, which can add to the low BP/high heart-rates, among other even more serious side effects. A never-ending balancing act. . .

An MRA is like an MRI, but is used to view the vascular system of the body. Doc Writes-On-Her-Pants ordered it, because eventually, she will be the one in charge of what will be done with Bob's wound, be it a flap procedure or something else. She needs to see what the blood supply in the tissue surrounding the wound is like, if it's healthy and adequate to be able to sustain a flap. There are many reasons to do this particular procedure; in Bob's case, it would be done to help with the final healing of his deep wound. Doc WOHP would use healthy tissue, with its own blood supply still intact (the big diff between a graft and a flap; a graft doesn't have its own active blood supply) from an area near the wound site to "fill in" the remaining spaces in the wound. A healthy blood supply is needed for the procedure, hence the MRA, to see if the tissue surrounding Bob's wound site could provide this. The things I learn when sitting for hours and days in a hospital . . .

The colorectal team ordered the MRI, because they want as much information as they can get about the wound site, so when they do decide what to do (they will be part of that team), it's based on sound, solid information. They also finally got the CT scan from Bethesda, so those scans, along with the PET, should give the teams what they need to figure out the next step.

The PET scan is the one I'm most worried about. This is the test that will tell us what the unidentified tissue mass (I'm going to give that my own acronym, UTM) in Bob's wound is, hopefully. PET scans detect cancer cells (among other things), and will hopefully rule out that the UTM is more cancer. . . funny (not in a ha-ha way . . . ), that it never occurred to me that the mass could be more cancer, and I've been watching it grow, have seen it from day one, every time dressing changes were being done at Bethesda. No one else ever suggested that possibility, no one else ever seemed too concerned about it; in fact, most anyone who's ever looked at Bob's wound site has gushed on and on about how "beautiful!" and "clean!" and "healthy!" his incision site is. Even when I have been pointing out, all along, ummmm, that big lump there—is it supposed to be like that?! All along, have been assured that things looked just great! That at some point, someone will have to figure out just what that mass is, and what to do with it, but for now, we were told, things are progressing just fine! So maybe that's why I never questioned it . . . you think by now, I would know better. . .

And maybe it is just that, fine. As I've said before, the hardest thing in the world to do is to not freak about the unknown, all year long, that's been my mantra, whether or not I've always been good at heeding it. Doesn't help, and is wasted energy. But this time, it's hard, harder than it's been all year, for me to adopt that mentality. Lots of deep breathes are being taken over here, lots of tears being squelched, lots of thoughts being shoved back to the far corners of my mind. . .

Quite honestly, I believe Bob is handling all this better than I am. Right now, the UTM is an unknown, and until we know more, there's nothing to get worked up about, is how he's essentially responding to it. In fact, his spirits have been pretty upbeat. He has his fave rocker chick-nurse on staff tonight, and has been joking with her and the rest of the staff all day (this afternoon, when the cardiology team was discussing, very seriously, the potential cause of his rapid heart rate, Bob piped in, "Hey! I'm just very excited to be here again!"), very engaging, responsive, interactive more than I've seen in so very long . . .

I need to take his lead . . . or maybe some of the meds he's on . . . deep breath . . .