Good news: Mike's condition is holding steady.
Bad news: He is increasingly desperate for his condition to change. This is a brutal physical, and spiritual journey. His blood sugar count was 124. The limit is 120, so he received an insulin shot.
Last night I snuck some meat into the ashram. I took it to my room and put it in the refrigerator that's there. Since they run a Bnb, I assume they can expect people not to be strictly vegetarian, but I didn't dare ask.
When I went down to breakfast, I discovered that breakfast wasn't served until 8:30, once the morning meditation was over. Up to now, I have been assuming breakfast was set out at 6 or 6:30. I had to wait for 15 minutes. I sat with Abby, a convert to Krishna visiting from England. She's a little flaky. Most of the folks there aren't. I think she is the youngest one. Most are middle-aged.
I asked Abby how a temple member named Steve was doing. He's been in the hospital in an induced coma. I'm not quite sure why he was there in the first place. She told me that there were 20 people in his hospital room singing Hare Krishna to him. If he died, it would be a beautiful way to leave this world. If he survived, he would have a wonderful memory. I'm thinking: those poor nurses and other patients. Unless this man has a wing to himself, the whole floor must be reverberating with these folks' voices.
It is 'freezing' cold here, meaning it is in the low 50s, and people are bundled up. I have a shirt and two sweatshirts on at all times.
Hare Krishna's 'take care' of their deities. I asked one of the women what that meant. She said they wash them, dress them, and feed them. They have an incredibly life-like statue of their guru, who brought this sect of Hinduism to the US. He had a wool hat on today.
After breakfast, I set out to find a Safeway. Thank you, Lady, Gaga for making travel in an unfamiliar place doable. While I started out looking for a Safeway, I found a Long's Drugs, which was even better. I was looking for the eye wipes Sandor and Meaali'inani, the optometrists, had recommended. I also needed some Salon Pas for my strained back. Yah, I did something to when lifting Mike's leg up in the air. I can't believe how totally limp his limbs are. He doesn't have the energy to help me at all. I also got some Tylenol and KT tape. Then I picked up some Hersey's with almonds, my go-to dessert these days. They were on sale; two king-sized ones with whole almonds. Yum.
Whenever I buy chocolate candy, I think of a conversation I had with my mom in the 70s. I called her. She declared," I'm so depressed." Now, this was not my mom; we didn't discuss emotions. "Why, mom?" I say in alarm. "Oh, A&P had a sale on Cadbury chocolate bars." "Yeah?" "I bought three of them." Yah?" "And I ate all of them. I'm so depressed."
When I arrived at the hospital, I saw the merchants who set up food tables with local foods as they do every Wednesday. It's pretty amazing. I got down there late, and nearly all the tables were packed up to go home, except this one. They had short ribs and vegetables with rice. I grabbed it. Because it was their last serving, they heaped my container up way beyond what I would be able to eat in one sitting. My intention is to eat what's left for lunch today. I hope it's still good. It's so cold out, it barely needs additional refrigeration. If not, I'll toss it and buy a sandwich at the food stand that is there every Monday through Friday or go to the hospital cafeteria. The cafeteria food is good, but again, they give too much. Many of the folks in Hawaii are supersized. Think of Israel Kamakawi' Ole, the guy who created that incredible version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." (If you're not familiar with it, find it on YouTube.) Maybe not quite as fat as Iz, but that general direction. I see a lot of it here at the hospital.
I had called Mike before I left the ashram. A nurse who was with him said, "He doesn't want to talk to you now; he is having dialysis. Call back later" I thought that's pretty funny. It sounds like he can take care of himself.
When I got to the hospital, he was crying, "I give up! I give up! This is no way to live." At some point in the morning, he actually asked me to end his life. I laughed and said, "No way. I'm looking forward to meeting the person you are going to be when you come out of this experience. If we were traveling in Europe, you wouldn't be reading and working on preparing for teaching. You'd be taking in the sites and learning from what you see. This is a different kind of journey, one you didn't plan for or ever want. But you're stuck on this journey. Learn as you go along as you would with any other journey. Learn as you go along!"
I remind him of all the academic subjects he has studied, which have addressed this very problem. In philosophy, he has learned about the Existential prison. We're all trapped; we have to make our peace by accepting the world we are born into. (Now, this doesn't mean fatalism, were you accept unpleasant conditions you can change. Think of the serenity prayer. Or my uncle's version of the army clean-up philosophy of life: move everything that can be moved; what you can't move, paint green and call good. I suspect I've mentioned this last one before.) Mike had studied Loyola; he is currently studying to be a certified spiritual director at the Mercy Center in SF. Yes, this is his 40 days in the desert. Hopefully, it is no more than 40 days.
Although this morning, when I asked him if the fact that I loved him was helpful, as he was wresting with his despair, he said, "No!!" Then I lectured him, telling him that he can't kill himself here. If he pulls anything out, he'll wind up back in the ICU, intubated and tied down. That will be worse than now. When I asked him if I'm a tough broad, he nodded yes. When I ask him if that's a good thing, he nodded yes. I believe that most of his rants are just complaining so he feels he is doing something about his condition. There really isn't much else he can do.
I have made it clear to Mike that he can hoot and holler as much as he likes. He can even run wanting to die past me periodically. I'm good with all that. He really has no control over his own life. His situation is miserable, and he doesn't even have a clear-cut enemy to resist against. Except for a jerk here and there, he is surrounded by kindness and good intentions - and yet he suffers.
I hoped this morning and continue to hope that his 'giving up' is a good sign, a letting go of control and expectations that his body do what he thinks it should do without being asked or attended to. When I first heard him cry, "I give up!" I thought yeah, we're making progress. Giving up is the first step to acceptance and peace. When I do work as a healer, I often get the image of someone just sitting down on a curb in resignation. I call it the "Oh, shit!" moment. I have found that for others as well as myself, it is the start of a dramatic upturn in . . .. . I don't know what to call it. It isn't a change in a person's fortune, because it isn't external. I think it is just that we stop pursuing something we think we want and look around at what is. I find such moments amazing experiences. Very healing.
So, the bad news is that he's had it, but the good news is that he is glad to hear me read the cards people send, he requests a bath and a shave, he says it is good that I am tough with him and it helps that I tell him he is truly suffering and he's not exaggerating his condition. I can't wait to see who he will be when this is over. His own spiritual development should be off the charts. I am excited about this outcome. I look forward to his sharing his deepened spirituality with one and all.
Today, he asked to listen to Beethoven. I got the 6th on YouTube. I became too much for him. I think he found it overstimulating. I put on some soothing music instead. He never complained about that. I remember that his first night out of the ICU and in telemetry, he had a nightmare about Beethoven. Sounds right to me. The man's life was a nightmare.
Today cards arrived from Amy from Licking Heights, Dorothy, my sister, and a package Judy Chapute, with something for me thrown in. Having some concrete knowledge that we are in your thoughts is helpful to me, and to Mike.
This morning the hospitalist on duty, Dr. X, walked in the room, looked me straight in the eye, and said," Do you remember me?" "No." "Well, I'm hearing you are complaining to the nurses that you are not being fully informed. Do you remember the conversation we had a week ago? I told you that your husband had pneumonia." The conversation went on in this vein.
I was irate because why would he expect me to remember him or what he said to me. He even told me that when he was updating me, I told him," No, more. I can't absorb any more information."
I don't know what the good doctor is about, but his manner of approaching me was totally inappropriate. If he said to me, "Hi, Mrs. Ross. How are you doing today? "for starters, that would have been good. If he said, "I want to talk to you about your husband's condition," that would have been good. Instead, we had a long discussion about my inability to remember him and what he said.
He made a point of telling me he had fully informed me. Since he said there were "complaints!" I asked him how many. He said there had been two. I know of one incident that would fit this description. I don't know what the other is.
One I remembered, besides being told he had was suffering from respiratory failure, was the morning I called the hospital and was told that my husband was back on the bi-pap breather. I was shocked by that. Yes, it said on the board, nasal cannula and bi-pap as needed, but I don't really know what that means, or even really pay attention to it. I just know that he was on the bi-pap in the ICU, and this doesn't sound good.
When I get to the hospital, I ask a nurse why he is on the bi-pap. I was alarmed, and she reacted to that alarm. No, I did not scream. She said something and then blurted out, "He has respiratory failure," as if I should know this. I pointed out to the good doctor that while I understood he had aspiration induced pneumonia (means he inhaled something into his lungs he shouldn't have and his lungs are flooding with liquid to get it out), I didn't realize this meant respiratory failure.
The good doctor seems to think I should know what all the medical jargon means, be able to understand it from what he has already said. Oh, boy. I pointed out to him that I was under enormous stress at the time he talked to me a week ago. I still felt like the inside of an ashtray after a whole night of smoking. I signaled my stress by telling him I couldn't absorb any more information. I pointed out that I was in shock and the grieving party. I actually said grieving widow since Mike still has only d a 50-60% chance of living, and at the time in the ICU, it was even less. A gentler approach would be vastly more appropriate.
He repeated, "I just want to know if you remember me." That put me over the edge. I said, "Do you have any idea how many doctors, nurses, aides, cleaners, etc, etc, I have met in the past week? Why should I remember you? Are you that special?" Those of you who know me well can imagine my gesticulations. He said, "I can get you another doctor." I think I had already told him I was going to complain about his manner with me. I called it an assault. That perked up his ears.
I have no questions about his medical competence. He suggested that Mike not get the CT scan today because the dye needed could cause some damage to the kidneys. He talked about scheduling the CT scan for Saturday right before his next dialysis treatment. The dialysis will pull the dye out of his system. That sounds like a great idea.
Mike seems to have enjoyed the battle royal. I was concerned that it might add to his stress because he hates to hear people fight. If I'm sharp with someone, he says, "Be gentle!" I turned to him after the good doctor left and asked, "Was that fun?" He nodded yes with a big smile on his face. While he is increasingly tired, he is still aware of what is going on around him. He knew exactly what was happening.
There are some losers here who have no idea how to relate to people who are in distress, both patients and their loved ones, but for the most part, people here are fantastic. One dialysis nurse just sits there and watches her computer; another will be sure Mike is comfortable. Today's floor nurse remembered my instructions to put the lamb's wool socks Dorothy sent on Mike's during dialysis before I arrived. An aide knelt down and put socks on my cold feet. I can't reach my left foot to wash it, scratch it, or put on a sock or shoe. The dialysis nurse today placed my Salon Pas patch on my aching back. Some nurses and aides turn him regularly, wash him regularly, check on him regularly, and are quick to get there when one of the bells goes off, indicating an infusion is done or blocked. Also, the doctors, for the most part, with the glaring exception of Dr. X, are kind and considerate.
The physical therapist came in and assessed him and gave me advice on how to work with him. Her first piece of advice was "RAISE THE BED!" so you don't have to bend over. Wow! Who thought of that?! Probably wouldn't have the backache I have now had I thought of it. She went through range of motion exercises and some light strengthening exercises. He could do much more than I thought he could. She showed me how to do things in a gentler way than I was doing it, and others in a more strenuous way. She was sweet and looked just like our Aya from church.
As I'm preparing to leave, I asked Mike if he knows that I love him. He said yes. Our usual good-night drill is, "Do you know that I love you? ""Do you know I adore you? Do you know the best part about you?" He says yes to all three questions; the answer to the last question is that the best part about him is that he is mine.
He complained he had to pee again. I went out to get the nurse, telling her that I thought he needed more Tylenol. I am associating his need to pee now with general discomfort that can be predicted by his last dose of intravenous Tylenol. The nurse came in to talk to him. Asked him what was bothering him. He mentioned that he was cold all the time, and he couldn't get up. He didn't say that he had to pee but couldn't and was hungry but couldn't eat. I wasn't so calm when she was asking all those stupid questions instead of just giving him the damn Tylenol. I was afraid he would say that he wasn't in a lot of pain. But he said his pain level was at a 6 out of 10. I would think he would have a new definition of pain after his experience with the onset of pancreatitis. He described that pain as a 30 on a scale of 1 to10.
As I am about to leave for the night, he cries again, "I give up." Hopefully, he is surrendering and finding acceptance of his condition. I can handle his cries of, "I give up," even "Help me!" and "Fast. Somebody do something fast!' But when he says, "Don't leave me alone," when I have to go to take care of myself, that's hard.
The closing act tonight was something else. He said, "I'm not a person anymore." Boy, did my wise witch kick in. I told him he is always a person, no matter what condition he's in. I told him he thinks his personhood comes from his academic skills alone, who he is as a learned man and a teacher. I gave him a piece of my mind.
I reminded him that other aspects to him are worthwhile developing. I quoted, misquoted, part of a poem by Yeats that I said at David and Carolyn Tilove's wedding.
Some men loved her for her fair face.
Some men loved her for her glad grace.
But one man loved her for her pilgrim soul
And the thousand faces of her changing moods.
(Misquote credited to a college roommate of mine, Carol Barter. )
I said you love me for my pilgrim soul, don't you? He nodded. I love you for yours. Find your other parts.
I asked him if that was interesting. He said yes. I kissed him once more on the forehead and headed to the ashram.
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