Thursday, June 24th, 2008

Tuesday, June 24th, 2008
It is Ryan’s 26th birthday. We are spending it in the hospital, where his wife of a little more than two years is battling for her life. It doesn’t seem right. Grandma and Grandpa take me to the hospital gift shop to buy Ryan a card. We spent Father’s Day here, too. It is not a great place to celebrate. I was supposed to be sent home days ago, but my white blood cell count has been too low, and I started running a fever. I have been taking antibiotics, getting blood transfusions and trying to walk as much as possible. When I creep down the hallway with my walker I feel like a ninety year old woman.

My port placement surgery is tomorrow. I am disgusted by the idea of having something under my skin for years to come. It takes me a long time to even be able to touch my port without shivering. My oncologist, Dr. Chugh, says it will save me a lot of pain. Eventually I come to realize that whether or not it has saved me pain, it has saved me a tremendous amount of time. I have a double lumen Port-a-Cath, which means they don’t have to stop pumping me full of fluids to begin my chemotherapy. The fluids add hours on to a chemo session. My hair is falling out and my brother Peter and I have made a pact to shave our heads as soon as I get home.

One day a lady from the hospital brings wigs for me to try on. They are very low quality, to the point of ridiculousness. They look like synthetic Barbie doll hair. It is a pretty traumatic experience; I have to pick the one that looks “best” on me when I can’t even bear to look in a mirror. I make my mom choose. While it is still on my head and I am beginning to cry my least favorite resident of all time walks in my room. Dr. Kim. She is Asian and does not speak English very well. She sees the wig and giggles, asking “what are you doing, why you try on wig?” My mom looks as though she is about to smack her. We are on the oncology floor. It is the least appropriate question I have ever heard. We have had problems with Dr. Kim in the past as well. On day my nose was bleeding and she stupidly asked me if I had been picking it.

No comments:

Post a Comment