Gary wanted to role play. “Put on a little nurse’s outfit,” he said, in puffs, pants, and grunts. But excruciating pain ruined the moment. He hurt so bad that he was doubled over.
I’ve seen my husband heat up a paper clip and use it to pierce his black and swelling thumbnail during construction accidents. The smell of burning flesh and a little trail of black smoke has left me with a sensory memory that’s hard to eradicate. Another time, I watched his hand balloon up and turn a bleached shade of pale because of a nasty chemical in tile grout. Both times, he kept right on working and didn’t even consult a nurse.
But his pain last week was incomprehensible.
“Take him to the ER,” our friend Doug told me over the phone. He’s a doctor, and I trust him. I manhandled Gary into the car and raced to our local hospital where a meticulous young man took down information. “Could I get your social?” he asked. “Your height and weight?” I thought Gary was going to barf all over the desk.
We learned later that my husband has a kidney stone. But things got complicated. Fluids backed up where there shouldn’t be fluids, and a hole punched through where there shouldn’t be holes. He had a procedure that went badly, and all the while, his pain required Dilaudid (hydromorphone), a medication that is several times more powerful than morphine. Gary started talking to himself in a way that would have been funny in other circumstances.
On day four at the hospital, a posse of doctors paraded out of his room, and a woman in a blue suit strolled in. While narcotic painkillers dripped into my husband’s system, she asked how we wanted to handle the bill and helpfully explained a plan that’d allow us to extend payments into the distant future. “Interest-free!” she cooed with the enthusiasm of a used car salesman. “The room itself is $5,500 a night.” I glanced at industrial equipment perched on white roofing material and wondered if we could get a better view. “That doesn’t include any of the actual medical care.”
I almost asked her to hook me up to Dilaudid as well. “One of us needs a job,” Gary mumbled. We pay over $2,000 a month for health insurance, but apparently, it’s not enough.
Meanwhile, Lauren is getting ready for her first day of high school. “I need new shoes, Mom,” she told me. For the first time all summer, I glanced at her sneakers. They look like something you’d find in a dumpster near a fast food restaurant in a bad neighborhood. I didn’t mention it, but she needs a haircut, too. We’d planned to do the back-to-school rituals during our last week of summer break, but fires broke out near our property in Northern California and then this happened.
Somewhere in our crazy mix of events, it occurred to me that this is what life looks like from the other side of the sick bed. I knew my husband did an extraordinary job of keeping a handle on things while I was in treatment for breast cancer, but this week, I had a taste of what my treatment must have been like for him.
We’re out of toilet paper, my clothes smell, and I thought I was going to run out of gas when I backed out the driveway this morning. Bills are piling up on my desk, and eating out of a paper bag just doesn’t work for me.
While I ran back and forth to the hospital, Lauren helped out around the house. “Wow,” she said one night over dinner. “You really have to keep up with housework, or it caves in on you.” I looked at the countertop where she’d made spaghetti sauce and smiled. It looked like a crime scene. I guess she’s learning a few lessons through this experience, too.
When I reflect on my journey with breast cancer and my peek into the medical world this week, I’m struck by a remarkable certainty. Our system, flawed though it is, is amazing. It’s full of people, machines, and procedures dedicated to making us well. I feel fortunate to be the recipient of these miracles, first as a patient, and now as a caregiver.
Yes, I’m tired. My laundry is piled high, and my energy is running low. But my husband and I get to watch our daughter go to her first day of high school. Even though she’ll be wearing a brand new cheerleading uniform, she’s too young to understand how much there really is to cheer about.
Note: Breast Cancer News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Breast Cancer News, or its parent company, BioNews Services, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to breast cancer.
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