Disillusionment? Or Enlightenment?

One of my best friends was admitted unexpectedly to the hospital Friday-before-last.  His mysterious symptoms were baffling a week’s worth of doctors enough to trigger admittance orders.  Over the phone (just minutes after his wife sent out the bat signal via Facebook), she described to me the symptoms.  With my medical-doctorate-degree-in-training, I immediately assessed the situation as “OH CRAP!” and cleared my schedule.  Of course my thoughts slid right down that slippery slope.  The quick slide to crisis felt comfortable, like coming home.  (And it makes me sad to realize that.)

When Maggie was first diagnosed, we spent (if I recall) 14 consecutive days in the hospital.  Over the next two years, we spent another 12 more days, giving me more experience there than I’d prefer.  My weeks spent as an guest in a place designed for examinations, not comfort, trained me for survival in a less-than-friendly, sterile climate.  I knew what my friend and my friend’s wife were in for and what would best prepare them for their time.  So I packed a hospital kit, both for the patient and his wife.

The trip to the hospital was easy.  The turn into the hospital parking lot was not so easy.  Then autopilot took over: push the little parking ticket button, in through the emergency entrance, through the secret door to the main hospital, through the winding halls to the back elevators….  Inside the elevator I pressed ‘5.’  But I looked hard at the ‘7’ button.  The 7th floor at Seton is the cancer floor, sort of.  Turn left off the elevators and you head to the baby wing.  Turn right, and you head to the cancer wing.  Life and death sharing a floor – life’s bookends, yet again.  (Back during our initial stay, I spent many an elevator ride feigning smiles and pulling punches while trying very hard not to punch at all.)

My visit with my friend was short and sweet.  I remember all too clearly both how nice it was to get a visit but also how awkward an extended visit would turn.  Multiple short visits were the key.  And food.  Always bring food.  So I brought Taco Deli breakfast tacos.  Everyone, including the nursing staff, was happy about Taco Deli. (Pro tip: Always bring extra flowers, candy and food for the staff.  A happy staff makes for a better hospital visit.)

My friend was released after two days with a green light and a nice bill to pay.

Not that long ago while things were pretty darn bad for Maggie and me, my grandmother told me she was sad that I was learning about things I shouldn’t have to know about for a long time.  I’ve often wondered if, because I’ve seen how things can end, my perspective has been negatively affected, or at least had some of the magic rubbed off.  Will I ever again be able to innocently approach life with giggles and stars in my eyes?  Will the mystery of love and life charm my heart again?  Or will I be a “been there, done that” person who slides quickly into comfort with how quickly life can end?  Or am I free now to jump in and be fully immersed in what life has to offer, knowing that I've survived the unthinkable and that my fear of death has been forever vanquished?

My friend, the one who was in the hospital a few days ago, the one for whom I was imagining the worst outcomes, is currently traveling around Italy with his wife and another couple.  They left two days after he was released from the hospital.  The pictures they are posting on Facebook are amazing.  (The picture for this post is one of their pictures from their trip.)

Spider Cracks

It’s almost midnight and she lies in a hospital bed at the all-too-familiar emergency room.  Tears emerge as the nurse pushes the needle into her arm - in order to find a “good” vain for the IV.  This is the nurse’s second attempt, the first one only producing a puncture that will be sore for days.

I stand hopeless next to the bed, lightheaded with dueling emotions of anger and concern.  I hate being in the hospital, hate seeing her in pain, sick, scared.  The nurse finds the vain she is looking for and finishes up.  She starts to walk out the room as she says, “We just need to do a couple of tests Mr. Croke; this IV should stop the vomiting.” She walks past me; her scent is sweet and uplifting, it doesn’t fit the atmosphere of the room.  “She’s a brave little girl.” the nurse adds as she disappears through the curtain.  I sit on the bed next to my six-year-old daughter.  She looks so much like Lisa right now - something about being in pain that matures ones face by 10 years. 

As I look at my daughter, my mind keeps replacing her with Lisa.  I touch Kelly to comfort her, but rubbing her cheek transports me back to four years ago and I'm in the same ER, looking at all the tubes and machines around my wife.  The smell of disinfectant is still the same, it starts with a pungent odor you can taste in the back of your mouth and soon evolves to a smell that is disturbingly comforting.    

 I shake my head to bring myself back to the present - if anyone were to see me right now, they’d think I had bees in my ears.  I see Kelly trying to rest, but she won’t take her gaze off the needle that stays inserted in her arm. With a quick breath, she sucks in air through her teeth to express discomfort.  My imagination once again replaces Kelly with Lisa and she says, “You would think if they can invent a motorized body board, someone could invent an IV without needles.  You know, create some patch that could administer the fluid.”   I shake my head once again to break my imaginary conversation. I summon all my focus to stay in this world with Kelly.  I was hoping these images of Lisa in the hospital would fade as time went on, but seeing how my mind keeps replacing Kelly with Lisa, I come to a stark realization that my journey will never end, only evolve.

We are a thin plane of glass and the death of a loved one is a rock hitting us square in the middle.  Sure you can patch where the rock made the mark, but that won’t address the hundreds of spider cracks that have formed around the hole, finding its way to every corner of the plane, each crack a different issue.  While Kelly’s ER visit turned out to be nothing more than a spastic stomach flu that anti-nausea medicine fixed, the whole experience had lasting effects that kept me up for more than a few nights.  It looks like I haven’t fully addressed the last few weeks of Lisa in hospice.

So, if you see me walking down the street and I look like I am down.  Chances are something happened that either reminded me of Lisa, or made me go back to a darker time. I hope my above story will explain that if you approach me, and say, “Why don’t you go to a movie, try to take your mind off things.”  I may respond, “Okay, maybe I will,” but my face will show, “Thanks for trying, but there are still a few more spider cracks I need to repair that a movie won’t help fix.”

Not meant to be doing this alone

photo from here

My son needs to have an endoscopy done under general anaesthetic next week.

I have not told the small boy yet.

It's a relatively minor procedure as these things go, but the thought of my little 7 year old man being probed and prodded whilst knocked out terrifies me.

The specialist who is doing this exploratory procedure will hopefully have some answers to help the boy who has had reflux since he was a baby.... reflux that has grown worse over the past two years and which sees him vomit several times a day, or constantly need to spit out mouthfuls of semi-digested food.

It could be a reaction to grief. It could be an allergy. It could be cancer. It could be habit.

... but the surgery was not deemed "urgent" so I think the paediatric gastroenterologist is leaning toward allergy and is ruling out other causes.

That worry aside, I have another worry ..... my parents are going interstate the following day (my brother's wife is sick and they need to help them).

Which means that if there are complications .... we are on our own.

There should be two parents around to organise the logistics of getting one child to hospital by 6:30am and the other to school by 8am.

There should be two parents to share the worry and talk it through out of earshot of the small boy and his sister.

There should be two parents who can hug each other tight and mutter that everything will be fine.

....and there should be two parents who can make this child feel protected, safe and OK about going to hospital

I am not meant to be doing this alone....