Instead of posting here yesterday, I woke in the hospital after an overnight stay. Day before yesterday, when I visited my oncologist’s clinic, they readily agreed to deliver a bag of IV fluid through my chest port. But, even though my condition improved considerably as a result, it was not enough; my oncologist had me admitted to the hospital. There, I had bag after bag (three or four, I think) of saline solution delivered to my dehydrated body. I was released sometime after noon yesterday so I could get my radiation treatment at the clinic across the parking lot. I return to the oncology clinic this afternoon, after another radiation treatment this morning, for more saline solution. No matter how hard it is for me to drink lots of water and eat adequate amounts of protein, I must do it to the extent I can. Hospital stays are unpleasant, regardless of how good the care that’s delivered.
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A few minutes ago, when I sat down at my desk and looked outside, the view was eerily beautiful. A thin fog enveloped the forest in a silver and grey mist, reducing the sun’s light to a glow. Very dark—almost black—tree trunks and branches against the muted background lent a surreal sense to the scene. I wish I could have captured the view; it could have been manipulated into a spectacular semi-abstract image. Now, though, the fog is gone. Light blue skies, punctuated with vague grey and white clouds, have changed the scene completely. Last night’s storms, with their blinding flashes of lightning and sinister growls of earth-shaking thunder, have moved on. Watching the changes in the sky and hearing chaotic noise drift into silence is akin to experiencing the progress of time. It wipes away the past and teases me with blurred glimpses into the future.
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One of the nurses who tended to me during my very brief hospital stay has been a nurse only a few years. Before that, he was a roughneck on oil rigs, earning $120,000 per year, far more than he does now. Even though he worked exceptionally long shifts (far longer than the 12-hour shifts he works now), he found long hours of offshore work as a crane operator easier to handle, sometimes, than his nursing shifts. The reason: as a nurse, he has to regularly deal with patients who are difficult, whereas as a crane operator he did not have to cope with such interactions. At 45 now, though, he is glad to be rid of those extremely long shifts and to be able to spend time with his family. When he started as a nurse, the camaraderie within his unit (the same one he is on now) was a delight that made him happy to have made the change. It’s interesting to me to listen to people express themselves the way he did. Random strangers can be engaging.
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I feel myself becoming more emotionally…psychologically…flexible. Whether the transformation is more like the corrosive decay of weakening metal or the loss of self-limiting rigidity of a protective shield, I do not know. I do not know, either, whether the change is positive or negative—or, for that matter, simply a neutral adjustment. Ultimately, it does not matter. It is what it is; subject to judgment or not.
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Mi novia is dealing with a lot of stress, one of which has to do with my illness and all its real or perceived demands. One way or another, I need to remove, or help remove, the weight of the strains from her shoulders. If I could enter a month-long sedation, that might help. But that’s probably not realistic. Perhaps I should take an incommunicado vacation. Sequester myself in a remote place for a while, giving her (and everyone else in my sphere) room to breathe. Everyone needs some form of pressure-relief-valve to remove the tensions imposed by living in this world. By now, we should have identified the one such valve that will work for everyone. But we haven’t.
