not surprising that thoughts of stabbing her in the neck with a penknife came
non-emotiveness, she with a weapon of self-righteousness, on whether or not I
could be released from the hospital tomorrow, I “played the tape,” followed the thought through to the end like video tape. I realized
that, huh, stabbing a doctor, or anyone for that matter, would likely inter me
for much longer than the length of treatment for an eye infection.
also spent much of Sunday afternoon in the ER. I have a stye in my eye, and
because of the compromised nature of my immune system as a result of this
month’s chemo, it became nuclear. I look as though I met Rocky Balboa’s right
hook in a dark alley. Or maybe it was a light alley, since this one really met
balloon underneath the right half of my face, even down to my neck. It’s
unpleasant to look upon, and worse to endure.
decreasing, the fatigue from the rancorous fever it brought on abating.
and have been, emotionally prepared to spend one week in the hospital per month for as long as these rounds of consolidated chemo have been going on, following the
near month-long initial round/internment.
box whose perforated opening I couldn’t find, and therefore whose box I ripped.
I paused, acknowledging the irrational reaction to an inanimate object, asked
myself why I was so angry, and in that pause, I began to cry.
in a judgmental way, just the simple, plain, sad way.)
friends, finally reaching one. And I sobbed on the phone to her, my isolation
began to abate, but the feeling of frustration, powerlessness, being OVER this whole “being a patient” thing did not.
not one iota of control over this situation. The eye infection, the alarming
beeping from the IV machine as it repeatedly announces itself for attention,
the doctor who opens the door and then says “Knock knock,” the necessity to
ring for water, for a towel, for a meal that has been nuked into oblivion, the impossibility of fresh air or sunshine, the tethering to a chaotic and
unpredictable schedule of lab draws, medication times, the measuring of my
heart rate, my temperature, even the volume of my pee.
oh snarky doctor, if I’d like a modicum of freedom, self-sufficiency, dignity.
eye-brows as you lean in with prodding and painful fingers to my face, and pose
as a question the statement, “I hear you want to go home, against doctor’s
flinching at her unreasonably forceful hands.
doctors have said otherwise?”
Two have said they don’t see a problem in me being released tomorrow, that I
can, indeed, do much of this at home. It was, in point of fact, a doctor who saw
me first thing in the morning who suggested that I could do all this at home in
the first place. He then told me not to mention he was the one who mentioned
it. He is a doctor I trust. He is in fact the doctor who gave me my diagnosis
of Leukemia when I was in ER at midnight just over four months ago. He’s been compassionate and an thoughtful listener and explainer. Plus, he’s
cute. For a married guy.
just want to ensure your health. They just want to make sure you are healthy.
import in their assessment. I am sorely sure that my emotional and spiritual
health is not.
as a friend came by with food and fellowship, and now those two “f”s have counterbalanced the
one in “f*ck you,” so, I’ve run out of resentment steam.
Luckily, my friends do have my emotional and spiritual health in mind.