Some days I’m just not as cool as I would like to be…a patient’s guide.

I’ve been poked, prodded, xrayed, cat scanned, operated on, radiated, examined and infused. I am guinea pig. I am a patient.

Once a month I spend a couple hours sitting in a foam green reclining chair having an immunosuppressant shot through my veins. The nurses find a vein, we both hope for a one-poke success rate and we get to the business of giving me a—wait for it—$14,000 medication in a small baggy the size of a sandwich Ziploc.   Like having a Hyundai for your veins. It chills me a little so I take advantage of the warm blankets they have, open some carefully chosen snacks and entertain myself for the next 2 hours.

Sometime a close friend comes. A small, selective group of individuals have been allowed to observe this, to be welcomed into that part of my life. I like it when they come.   I like pulling back the curtain on that part of my life. It is the part they have only heard me reference in conversation. I like when they hear one of the nurses walk by and yell, “Hey Hot Pants!” to me.

Today I was solo. Solitude in the hospital is often interrupted by bells in the hallways, nurses conversations at the stations outside my room door and the alarm bells that go off on the IV machine’s mechanics. That’ll give you a jolt. When people say, “I’m so sorry you have to do that.” I point out that I get to sit quietly in a chair for 2 hours and pretty much not move.

Forced Be Still time.

And then there are days like today.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have someone ram a bar of soap under the surface of your forearm? Ever wondered what it would feel like to notice that your wrist was suddenly aching more than the typical irritation of where the IV goes in? I know.

I pulled the gauze and tape back, trying to get the tug and pull on my skin to ease, hoping that would help the ache. When I pulled it back, there sat a lump on my forearm, right near my wrist. It was the size of a bar of soap. My eyes bugged and seen it been there me quickly turned to freaked out me.

I grabbed the button to call the nurses and pressed, hearing the beep start outside my door. 2 nurses came in and saw the enormous lump on my arm. They seemed unfazed by it, calling it an infiltration and explaining that the medication apparently had escaped my veins and was now making the lump in my arm. Did they not see the grotesque bulge? Would it have killed them to summon some horror or gasp at the weirdness? Something? Something to act like it was a little bit worthy of a small freak out?

Next time I’m going to heed the self-help books and ask for what I need. It will sound something like this, “Nurse…I need you to say, ‘Holy crap, that’s a biggie. No wonder you panicked and knocked the empty Coke can off the chair’s tray. Let’s just put some heat on that and give it some time to go down.’”

Either that or they could have opened with, “That is an alien baby inside there so we’re going to need you to put this heat on it to make the birth easier.”

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I’m Right Where I Left Me

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Coming Back

Being back on the rugged Washington Coast at the ocean after 6 years, disease, an oxygen tank and a life overhaul was like wrapping up in a comfortable warm blanket.  Walking the beach, a grin glued to my face, I looked up at the trees on the ocean. These trees are badass.  They lean recklessly into the wind.  Their branches sparse and thick.  Not a place for spindly branches with the protection of the forest. Trees on the ocean need to be able to stomach the wind and the salt water and be the first line of whatever came off the Pacific.  These were Don’t screw with me trees.  These trees were tested.  They weren’t as full or even as the ones further back in the rainforest.  But they had seen worse.

Me and those trees.  Worn and beaten. A little worse for wear.  Still standing.