The second Sunday in January
2000 remains hazy in my memory except for the midnight hours. Tired and weak
with the unrelenting diarrhea, I spent most of the night up and down and in and
out of the bathroom. It was not a pretty sight and at one point I remember so
well I was too weak to replace the Depends I knew I needed so my long-suffering
husband did it or me. If that’s not an expression of love I don’t know what is.
Monday morning I knew I
couldn’t make it to work so had Larry call my doctor and make an appointment
for me and I called my friend and superior at work, Carol, and relayed the
information to her. I’d purchased a couple of wigs in December knowing I would
need them later. I still had my hair but no energy to fix it so slapped a wig
on my head and off we went to Dr. Lee’s office.
The first thing he asked me
was why I didn’t keep my appointment on Friday for my second chemo drip. I’d
completely spaced it out. In fact I had very little memory of that week—most of
what I know today has been told to me by friends and Larry. It appears I faithfully
went to work every day, taught my Wednesday night Bible study, Sunday morning
Bible study and evidently did okay. I don’t remember doing either.
The second question Dr. Lee
asked me after carefully observing me, “Do you want to go to the hospital?” I
prefer to avoid hospitals as much as possible but I heard myself say, “Oh, I
really want to.” I did? Yes, I just wanted to lie down and lay aside all
responsibility.
While Larry drove me to the
hospital only a few blocks away the doctor called and gave instructions for my
arrival. We drove up to the entrance and parked in a “No Parking” zone. Larry
helped me through the sliding doors where I was met with a wheelchair—which looked
so good to me—and a nurse whisked me up to my room while Larry filled out the
admittance papers.
The nurse gave me a hospital
gown—you know the kind—and told me not to put a diaper back on. I told her that
wasn’t a good idea but she warmly assured me they’d have no problem cleaning me
up if I had an accident. If I had an
accident—she should have said when I
had an accident.
I’m an independent sort,
which sometimes gets me into a lot of trouble. I gratefully laid back on the
clean, cool sheets and the crinkly bed mat under my rear. Immediately I knew I
needed to quickly get to the bathroom. They hadn’t hooked me up to the IV yet
so I hastened as fast as I could in my weakened condition. I made it to the
bathroom but unfortunately had an “accident” before I got to the toilet and
worse than that I slipped in the mess, fell down and hit my head on the wall.
And, of course, I couldn’t get up or reach the call button. The good thing was
they hadn’t finished getting me set up so a nurse came bustling in shortly. She
stopped dead still when she saw me and I saw a deep frown and her arms akimbo
as she looked down on me.
She called for more nurses
and they got me up, cleaned me up and someone conferred with the doctor who
said to take me to x-ray to check my head for any damage. Actually the only
damage was to my ego. Then when they brought me back from x-ray the nurse
tucked me into bed, raised the bars on the bedside and said, “Mrs. Luke, you
are not to get out of this bed
unless a nurse is in the room with you.” I responded with a meek, “Okay.” She
hooked me up to the IV to start the antibiotics I needed and I gave myself up
to the comfort of the bed.
I didn’t know they’d put me
in Isolation until that night. Everyone coming into my room had to put on a
blue gown, shower cap, slippers and mask. It turns out the chemo compromised my
entire immune system. One of my nurses explained the garb was to protect me
from their germs not the other way around.
That night, knowing I was at
death’s door, I longed to sleep but couldn’t.
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