September 16, 2018
It’s been thirty days since transplant.
In these thirty days, I have learned the route from the apartment to the hospital so well that I could almost do it in my sleep...and nearly did on our Day 7 4AM run to the ER. I have shopped at four different Kr*ger stores, one Spr*uts, one Ald*, two different P*blix locations, two W*lMarts, and a T*rget. Because I can. It’s like a grocery store wonderland around here. A couple of short cuts and alternate routes have been discovered, which is a very handy thing when dealing with the traffic in my temporary neck of the woods.
In these thirty days, I have been forced to breach MILove’s privacy on so many levels. The nature of the beast...part of the routine between caregiver and patient...but it doesn’t negate the awkwardness. We have negotiated new boundaries for our relationship. At the risk of being repetitive: the nature of the beast...part of the routine between caregiver and patient...but it doesn’t negate the awkwardness. We have settled into a routine, dictated by clinic appointments and the waxing/waning of her energy level.
In these thirty days, she has swallowed several handfuls of pills at various points in the day. I have counted and recounted those pills...double checked myself, second guessed myself because something didn’t look right...even though it was. I have bolted out of bed in the wee hours of the morning because the image of a halved pill screamed through my dreaming brain. “It’s half a pill, not a whole pill!” Only to remember that the half pill is no longer part of the rotation. I have wished for a pill bank that I could label myself because the labels from the manufacturer don’t match our schedule. The “noon” compartment is actually taken at 10AM and that offends my OCD tendencies which, apparently, are more plentiful and particular than I previously I realized. We have had daily conversations with doctors, nurses, and pharmacists about the medications...their purposes and side effects.
In these thirty days, we have come face to face with how little control actually rests in our hands. Days are monopolized by clinic visits. Social interactions are limited to clinic visits because of the risk of exposure to infection. Phone communication with family and friends is sporadic and unreliable because cell reception in our apartment is insanely unreliable. Mr. Snark looked up the real estate value of some of the homes in this part of Guitar City…$700,000 and beyond. A couple of weeks ago, I looked like a complete nut job roaming up and down the sidewalk, trying to find strong enough signal to have a conversation with my dad. No P*blix grocery store closer than two hours from my SMALLtown home, but I have phone signal out the wazoo.
In these thirty days, I have decided that Sundays are the hardest. Sunday morning corporate worship is no longer a viable option. Cold and flu season is upon us and while her immune system is stronger than it was on Day 7, it’s still not ready to do full on battle. Both of us miss our church families and taking part in large group worship...in person. We miss singing in our respective choirs. We miss the shared energy and the shared experience of being in physical proximity of our faith family. We are thankful for technology that connects to a local church we’ve adopted as our church home away from church home or with my home church...or with any church we want to access, but it’s just not the same.
In these thirty days, we have cried, sighed; laughed and waited for her to engraft. We’ve prayed, played (multiple rounds of Hand & Foot), discussed...now and then even cussed. I’ve questioned. We’ve both consented. We’ve ranted and recanted (because remembering EVERYTHING about ALL of this is almost impossible). We have recited (her medications and medical history to date) and gotten excited; walked and talked. We’ve cleaned and leaned (on the everlasting arms), napped and mapped (our way here and there). Vitals tracked, bags daily packed...and repacked (sometimes the big tote bag, sometimes the small one). Meals cooked. Appointments booked. We’ve hung onto hope (IN CHRIST ALONE), which is the knot at the end of the rope.
In case anyone is counting, 100-30=70.
It’s been thirty days since transplant.
In these thirty days, I have learned the route from the apartment to the hospital so well that I could almost do it in my sleep...and nearly did on our Day 7 4AM run to the ER. I have shopped at four different Kr*ger stores, one Spr*uts, one Ald*, two different P*blix locations, two W*lMarts, and a T*rget. Because I can. It’s like a grocery store wonderland around here. A couple of short cuts and alternate routes have been discovered, which is a very handy thing when dealing with the traffic in my temporary neck of the woods.
In these thirty days, I have been forced to breach MILove’s privacy on so many levels. The nature of the beast...part of the routine between caregiver and patient...but it doesn’t negate the awkwardness. We have negotiated new boundaries for our relationship. At the risk of being repetitive: the nature of the beast...part of the routine between caregiver and patient...but it doesn’t negate the awkwardness. We have settled into a routine, dictated by clinic appointments and the waxing/waning of her energy level.
In these thirty days, she has swallowed several handfuls of pills at various points in the day. I have counted and recounted those pills...double checked myself, second guessed myself because something didn’t look right...even though it was. I have bolted out of bed in the wee hours of the morning because the image of a halved pill screamed through my dreaming brain. “It’s half a pill, not a whole pill!” Only to remember that the half pill is no longer part of the rotation. I have wished for a pill bank that I could label myself because the labels from the manufacturer don’t match our schedule. The “noon” compartment is actually taken at 10AM and that offends my OCD tendencies which, apparently, are more plentiful and particular than I previously I realized. We have had daily conversations with doctors, nurses, and pharmacists about the medications...their purposes and side effects.
In these thirty days, we have come face to face with how little control actually rests in our hands. Days are monopolized by clinic visits. Social interactions are limited to clinic visits because of the risk of exposure to infection. Phone communication with family and friends is sporadic and unreliable because cell reception in our apartment is insanely unreliable. Mr. Snark looked up the real estate value of some of the homes in this part of Guitar City…$700,000 and beyond. A couple of weeks ago, I looked like a complete nut job roaming up and down the sidewalk, trying to find strong enough signal to have a conversation with my dad. No P*blix grocery store closer than two hours from my SMALLtown home, but I have phone signal out the wazoo.
In these thirty days, I have decided that Sundays are the hardest. Sunday morning corporate worship is no longer a viable option. Cold and flu season is upon us and while her immune system is stronger than it was on Day 7, it’s still not ready to do full on battle. Both of us miss our church families and taking part in large group worship...in person. We miss singing in our respective choirs. We miss the shared energy and the shared experience of being in physical proximity of our faith family. We are thankful for technology that connects to a local church we’ve adopted as our church home away from church home or with my home church...or with any church we want to access, but it’s just not the same.
In these thirty days, we have cried, sighed; laughed and waited for her to engraft. We’ve prayed, played (multiple rounds of Hand & Foot), discussed...now and then even cussed. I’ve questioned. We’ve both consented. We’ve ranted and recanted (because remembering EVERYTHING about ALL of this is almost impossible). We have recited (her medications and medical history to date) and gotten excited; walked and talked. We’ve cleaned and leaned (on the everlasting arms), napped and mapped (our way here and there). Vitals tracked, bags daily packed...and repacked (sometimes the big tote bag, sometimes the small one). Meals cooked. Appointments booked. We’ve hung onto hope (IN CHRIST ALONE), which is the knot at the end of the rope.
In case anyone is counting, 100-30=70.
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