36 - stop caffeine, stop alcohol?
… there's only so much you can do to a man. You know, you can do a great deal. You could steal from them time and ability and possibility but you can't erase that thing, that spirit.
—Hasham Matar, NPR Interview: On The Power Of Libyan Fiction
~~~
Took the day off for the “procedure;” and a Yellow Cab over to Thornton Hospital.
It was a long wait in the prep room. They set the injector site for the anesthesia on my hand, and I waited nearly an hour. I brought a book but didn’t open it. Just sat there, lost in thought, Camille in my mind. Nurses in their scrubs, the computers, the needles, the antiseptic, the nurse chit-chat outside, the smell of the place; whenever I’m in her environs all I can see, hear, feel and think about, is her.
Finally I am escorted out. The nurse running the afternoon show doesn’t seem to know the details of my situation, she says the doctor’s just going to take a look with the scope, that dilation is unlikely. And I’m thinking, well you’ve got that wrong. My esophagus is already narrowed to 14mm and that’s why I’m here for the Upper Endoscopy, to get the stricture expanded. I kept my mouth shut.
In the procedure room I get up on the bed, my gastroenterologist comes in, young, handsome and eyes all asparkle. He said it would be a few minutes that the anesthesia wouldn’t take long, and I’d be out. My first appointment with him, scheduled after the Barium Swallow, went well. He was reassuring and detailed in his description of the how and what of the Endoscopy. Felt fortunate right off, brilliant and committed was my first impression. “I can trust this guy.”
The last thing I remember before going under, a nurse comes strolling in, playful and confident, she touches my hand and asks if I’m ready to do this. She’s blonde, and I smile, thinking about Camille’s comrades at the Cancer Center, “blondes helping blondes; blondes sticking together.” I’m on my left side, as instructed. She has attached all of the monitoring devices/pads, and a technician arrives, fiddling with the computer in front of me, and while I’m watching him set up, the two of them are in a light banter, flirtatious, and the injection is made, and as I fade out, I’m smiling, the two of them cracking me up….
~~~
I awake in a fog and my GI Doc is upbeat but stern. He says he was able to expand the stricture to 20mm, but said he was troubled by the inflammation up and down. There were “duodenal erosions” as well as the polyp. Said he removed it and that it would be biopsied. He gave me some instructions and recommendations. Of course I’m still out of it, nothing really registering. I shook his hand and thanked him.
Was feeling better, ready to get the hell out of there. My ride showed up and I took my gown off and put my shirt back on. Not sure The Dawg had ever been in a hospital, 27 years young, he seemed nonplussed. I sat back down in the chair next to the bed, was fiddling with my ‘Droid when the nurse came in and gave me the discharge report. “Splendid.” I went to stand up and nearly fell over, teetering as I walked toward the door. The nurse said, “Hold on, hold on. You’re not walking. Let me get a wheelchair.”
“I’m good, I’m good,” somewhat piqued. The Dawg smiled and took orders from the nurse. She told him to go get the car and they’d wheel me to the curb. I resisted, “No, really, I’m good.” She took no guff, another nurse showed up with the wheelchair, and she said, “Now sit down!”
~~~
The whole time in chemotherapy I never felt the way I felt in that moment. Sure, chemo kicked my ass, side effects delayed until late Saturday. Sundays always the worst. Curled up on the bed, you can barely move. No appetite, always thinking, just put me out of my misery. But this, the first time I had to be in a wheelchair. Didn’t like the feeling, didn’t like the idea that I was losing control, that my body was turning on me. At work the next day Dawg said I was slow to form my words on the drive home, and that my eyes were all weird and he hoped I wasn’t going to toss my cookies. And he kidded me about the nurse, said I was near belligerent, “I thought she was going to smack you.”
Got home and crashed, face down on the bed. I woke up and Camille was laying right next, propped up, reading the discharge report. She seemed sad. I moved closer to her, put my arm around her waist and nestled my face into her fleshy hip and stomach.
“Have you read this?” I told her I hadn’t, that the Doc had given me a rundown when I came to, that I was to stop drinking coffee and booze for a while, said I’d hear back on the biopsy.
“I don’t think it’s for a while.” I roused myself and sat up. “Let me see.” She gives me the report and runs her hand across my forehead, brushing the hair out of my face.
“Well shit, there’s no qualification, no ‘in the interim.’ Clear as day. Fuck. So, now I remember, what’s this, ‘duodenal erosions,’ that doesn’t sound good.”
“It’s related to the inflammation, the erosive esophagitis. Actually, it’s another way of saying peptic ulcers. Caffeine and alcohol produce acid in the stomach, that’s why he’s saying you need to stop; they’re contributing to the reflux and inflammation, it’s what caused the stricture.”
“He’s saying no food before bed, at least three hours. And what’s a “wedge pillow"? Jesus…. What the hell, I thought the Upper GI Series results were good, that everything was fine.” Told her I’d email him tomorrow, Triple M too. Get clarification. Said my workout day at the Y was tomorrow, “Do you think I shouldn’t go?” She said I’d be okay.
“How’d your day go? How was the training?”
“Fine,” then she launched, ripping on this doctor who had written an order for her to deliver a half dozen fleet enemas over three hours. I laughed.
She goes off, asking if I could imagine persuading someone to let you stick six bottles of salt water up their ass, and oh yeah, that someone happens to be an old bitty who routinely digs her ungodly long and nasty looking fingernails into your arm every time you try to feed her. And of course, the asshole doctor yells at her when she reports the enemas were not completed. It’s a simple task, he rants, rudely and insensitively asking her if she’s incompetent. She shook her head in disgust. I expect she smirked. Damn.
She asked me if I wanted anything. “Nah, I’m wiped. Think I’ll just hunker down and read. You going to study?”
“Yep.” I pulled her down and gave her a kiss, and reached around and grabbed her butt. “Hey!” and she slapped my head.
She walked out of the room and I got all melancholy, she’s in her prime and I’m fucking falling apart. Stop caffeine, stop alcohol? I mean FUCK. What was I thinking when I romanced her? And what was she thinking? And what the hell happens when what you want, what you’ve imagined will happen, doesn’t, when more of the unexpected comes your way? When the curve balls keep coming, sprinkled in with high hard ones, and… She’s young, too young, and I’m a horse’s ass.
Reading Beckett’s Three Novels:... Just started the second. Now I’ve got four books going. Brown’s The Gifts of Imperfection, Shields and Morrow’s book on the “inevitable,” and Chin’s This Side of Doctoring: Reflections From Women in Medicine. Fell asleep on these words from Beckett:
“… it is just as well to let myself die, quietly, without rushing things. Something must have changed. I will not weigh upon the balance any more, one way or the other…. Throes are the only trouble, I must be on my guard against the throes.”
Wednesday, May 25, 2011 at 6:20AM 
Reader Comments (2)
Reality check...is your lifestyle killing you slowly? If so, time to change lifestyles. All those earthly pleasures must change. You can do it. Find another way of pleasing yourself. There are so many ways. Friends can help.
Chemo wreaked havoc... that's my take. Still righting the ship. Body's still in repair, still renewing itself.
Yes, pleasure's all round, not just in a glass of Junipero Gin or 30-year old Tawny port. And hey, a large, decaf, 4-shot, iced Americano works for me, so I will not miss the caffeine. Don't need the pick me up either, have that naturally. LOL