First Night Watch:
10:45 p.m. He gets up to pee.
I have rehearsed this in my mind. First, I need to extricate myself from the somewhat dysfunctional recliner chair the nurses dragged into the room for me to sleep in.
Next, a stumbling dash to the other side of the bed in time to unplug his medication "tree" and help him out of bed, first wrapping up the cord, and moving his bedside table to just the right angle so that he can easily get up.
What am I saying? Easily? Nothing is easy for him any more.
When we get him back into bed, I stroke his head. That is when I feel the shock of the tumour. My heart stops. I kiss his forehead. I draw the flannel sheet up to his waist, the way he likes it.
And then I pray, silently, intensely. Please God, make a miracle, or take him quickly home.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Cancer, Complications, And A Lonely Night Watch.
Sometime after or during his first radiation treatments, pneumonia sets in to complicate his cancer. And then a heart arrhythmia was detected. It wasn't hard to note; the pulse below his diaphram beat with alarming rapidity. This puts him in ICU and results in the prescription of more drugs.
That night he experiences frightening hallucinations. Fiercely anxious, he watches as the hospital room transforms into a vast warehouse with stacks of papers, all of which he realizes to his dismay, require his immediate attention.
He relates to us in his shallow breathless voice, how much these nightsweats upset him: "And I had nobody, see? I had no phone, no cell. I couldn't even call anybody to come." Just recalling the incident clearly leaves him shaken.
Fortunately, he was alert enough to go to the patient lounge. Here he kept a lonely watch as the clock slowly tracked the time from 2:30 to 9:30 a.m. . Sooner or later, he believed, someone he recognized, knew and loved would come and rescue him.
If only our rescue could have been complete!
That night he experiences frightening hallucinations. Fiercely anxious, he watches as the hospital room transforms into a vast warehouse with stacks of papers, all of which he realizes to his dismay, require his immediate attention.
He relates to us in his shallow breathless voice, how much these nightsweats upset him: "And I had nobody, see? I had no phone, no cell. I couldn't even call anybody to come." Just recalling the incident clearly leaves him shaken.
Fortunately, he was alert enough to go to the patient lounge. Here he kept a lonely watch as the clock slowly tracked the time from 2:30 to 9:30 a.m. . Sooner or later, he believed, someone he recognized, knew and loved would come and rescue him.
If only our rescue could have been complete!
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
The Colonization of My Brother by Cancer.
My brother, Jack, was diagnosed with lung cancer on June 3, 2011. He passed away on July 1. These are notes from my journal during that time.
I want them to give my brother oxygen, but everyone says his oxygen levels are fine. I don't care about "levels". I just know he breathes easier with the oxygen.
And it is terrible to hear his laboured breathing; to see his diaphragm, stomach and chest labour with every shallow breath, to watch as he poufs out his cheeks with his exhalations like a jogger in a marathon, this man for whom sleep is now an exhausting undertaking.
There are cancerous tumours on his lungs, close to his heart, on his ribs. Within days of those discoveries we learn the cancer has invaded his lymph nodes and liver. This gives us some idea of how aggressively the cancer is colonizing his body.
If only there are no complications, he might have a chance. With cancer, they say, you can never tell, so we remain hopeful, the family coming and going, sitting restively by his bedside, then getting up to leave and give someone else the privilege for awhile.
I want them to give my brother oxygen, but everyone says his oxygen levels are fine. I don't care about "levels". I just know he breathes easier with the oxygen.
And it is terrible to hear his laboured breathing; to see his diaphragm, stomach and chest labour with every shallow breath, to watch as he poufs out his cheeks with his exhalations like a jogger in a marathon, this man for whom sleep is now an exhausting undertaking.
There are cancerous tumours on his lungs, close to his heart, on his ribs. Within days of those discoveries we learn the cancer has invaded his lymph nodes and liver. This gives us some idea of how aggressively the cancer is colonizing his body.
If only there are no complications, he might have a chance. With cancer, they say, you can never tell, so we remain hopeful, the family coming and going, sitting restively by his bedside, then getting up to leave and give someone else the privilege for awhile.
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