Don't Let Me Die In A Motel 6 or One Woman's Struggle Through The Great Recession (25 page)

“I don’t think
this thing was put in right.”
The doctor, a macho guy she called by his last name only (“Hey
Johnson
!”) eventually came in.

“Yes, this was
not positioned
correctly.
Unfortunately, we can’t use it.”

Reader,
that’s how, over the course of the next
week
, I
had uncountable
IVs stuck
in
me, for
no reason
whatsoever.
There was nothing wrong with the port.
There was something wrong with the staff, because I’m going to tell you right now, and you should listen:
outside of an oncologist’s office,
no one knows a fucking thing about chemo ports.
USC
College of Nursing,
are you listening?
Harvard School of Medicine, take note!
Include this in your curriculum, and a
100,000
cancer patients will lay flowers at your feet.
After all,
we’re
the ones who hit the hospitals
regularly
, and since
we have a built-in device
, it sure as hell would be nice to
use
it!
P.S.:
getting an IV is about
ten
times
more painful than
the port.
Thank you.
End of rant.

I lay in
E.R.
all night
,
which is SOP in these places.
It took
six hours
for a doctor to give his OK for pain med
s
.
That morphine injection to the hip was the best thing to happen since
TOSH
.
Finally, at 2 A.M., I was wheeled into the hospital proper.
Thus began six days of fun,
punctuated
by a staff that
changed hourly
.
The first night, they began the antibiotics.
The IV bags
used
for chemo looked like
child’s play
in comparison.
Then, I had had four:
this time, there were
NINE
.
If
you
attached lights to all of them, that IV tree would have
given some family a lovely
Christmas.
They put me on the Big Guns:
Vancomycin
,
Flagyl
.
So many antibiotics that by the time I was released, I expected my skin to look like Grace Kelly’s.

Always, there was another nurse; another aide; another doctor.
Couldn't these people stay put?
Most of the nurses were nice – or maybe they
just
seemed that way in my
weakened,
drugged-up
state
.
As far as competent?
Well. . .

One Charge Nurse came in late at night, claiming I’d been given the OK to have an IV put in my
left arm
.
The arm that was
minus
thirteen lymph nodes.
Oops!
That could lead to big
-
time lymphedema, or swelling.
The IV was promptly removed.
My left arm started buzzing, from my elbow to my fingertips.
In fact, i
t’s doing it right now:
2.5
years later.

You’d think that giving an IV in a hospital would be pretty routine, right?
Not for me.
It would take two attempts
–
sometimes
th
ree
–
to jam that needle in, and after a few days
, they started running out of veins.
I had IVs
put
in my hand, until I felt
an agonizing
burning – the leaking of potassium.
I buzzed and buzzed until the nurse came
in
.
I had one male nurse on a Sunday who was so bad at putting the IV in,
and caused me so much pain,
that I
pushed
him across the room,
yelling, “STOP
!
That’s enough!”
For someone who couldn't eat, I still had enough strength to knock him
flat
on his ass.

I woke
up one morning to find Dr. Pilgrim at the foot of my bed.
I was touched.

“Doctor, what happened?”

He walked over to my side.
“Every year,
I have one
patient who has an extreme reaction to chemotherapy.
I’m afraid that you’re that one.”

“Naturally.”
Like that was a surprise?
“What happens now?”

“You rest.”

I did, because with nine IVs hooked up to you, your choices
are
somewhat limited.
Nigel, I have to say, came through like a trooper.
He stayed
every day
from mid-morning to nine o’ clock at night
.
Whether
this was from affection or a sense of duty,
I
don’t
know
.
But he suffered right alongside me.

My parents came to visit, worried as always.
My Dad, always sardonic, took a
photo
of the IV tree.
My Mom looked really
worn –
she
tried to be cheery in front of me, but I
could tell
how upset she was.
Believe me,
it’s easier being the patient than
the ones
who have to watch.

Even Rachel showed up.
Her visit was somewhat comical, since at
the
time, the staff decided that I was at high risk of infection, and
everyone who came in had to wear a Haz Mat suit. She looked pretty good
in hers
–
like an ATF agent
heading
out to bust
a meth lab.

As it turned out, t
his was another hospital fuck-up.
When Dr. Pilgrim showed up next, he told the nurse, annoyed, that my
infection was self-contained
and I was under no threat from anyone
.
Out
went the protective clothing --
in came the C-DIFF stool samples.
C-DIFF is a nasty bug often picked up in hospitals.
It can
really mess with your
kishkas
.
I didn’t think I had it because – surprise! – my inner demons had been
s
ummon
ed
by
Doctor Chemo.
Despite my lack of medical training, i
t turned out I
was right.

The days passed slowly, punctuated (or
was that
punctured
?
) by multiple IVs, the taking of blood
each
day
at 5 A.M. (
Why?
) and a diet so bland it
made
regular
hospital
food
taste
like
Vindaloo curry
.
It didn’t matter
anyway
.
I couldn't
eat
.
All it took was a single
cracker
to
s
end
me
vaulting towar
d the bathroom, the IV tree in tow like a vertical ball and chain
.
The upside of
chemo
?
I lost twenty-three pounds.
T
he downside:
I got b
etter, and gained it all back.
But p
lease l
ook for my future bestseller:
The
Cancer
Patient’s Guide To Weight Loss
!
I can see the tagline
now
:
“
IT REALLY WORKS!
AND
If you’re lucky, you won’t lose it all!
”

As always,
my hospital stay involved
a comic moment.
And a
s
always, mine involved nudity. I was standing by my bed, finishing off a sponge bath.
The towels they supply you are the size of a
Chihuahua
. There was a knock at the door.

“Who is it?”

“Nutrition,”
a guy answered
,
followed
by his appearance
.
He almost dropped his tray.
He
’s probably
still
i
n recovery
from
the sight of 40DDD
s
aiming
straight
for
his head.

When I wasn’t providing a peep show,
I had a lot of time to think
.
And wh
at I thought about the most was
how much I hated chemo.
This “technology” had been discovered
during
World War I
(!)
, when they found that those who were gassed experienced slow
ed
cell growth.
What a great idea!
Infuse toxic chemicals,
now banned by
U.N.
treaty
, into a patient’s vein to kill those fast-growing cells!
Unfortunately, this treatment could not be targeted.
In fact, the cancer cells being gunned for, the so called “micro”
-
cancers, might not even
be present.
Medicine
could
be killing people
in search of
a
n
elusive
ghost
.
Yet, if
Casper
did
exist,
then
chemo could keep you alive.
This
was
“
modern
”
cancer treatment.
A vestige from The Great War,
like spiked helmets
and
bayonets
.
Over the trenches, boys! 
Screw your courage to the sticking
place
, for w
e may never return.

My last day in the hospital, I found the strength to walk down the hall.
I stopped before a floor-to-ceiling window, gazing at the pharmacy below.
It was something to once again feel the sun on my skin.
I’d been out of the light
for
so long
that I
stood there as long as I could.

Prior to
my
dismissal
,
I made Nigel go
out
to get two Cupid’s hot dogs.
This is what I’d been craving, all those days when I couldn't eat.
Of course, he
whined
about it
,
but finally did
my
will
.
Guys,
listen up
:
t
his is
the basis of
a
long-lasting
marriage.

I
returned to the
Oakwoods
accompanied by a
friend:
a portable IV.
They
wanted to keep the drugs
flowing, without
paying
for a hospital room.
Once again, I
set sail for th
e
Brave New World: 
Do It Yourself Healthcare!
I a
ccepted delivery of
IV
bags,
putting them in the fridge.
Nigel
learned how to flush the
line
, and even to remove the needle.
We got to program the
small device
, which detonated every eight hours; got to
wait for
the drop-in nurse, a
Filipino guy as big as a
Raiders
lineman
.
True to form, he fumbled the chemo port.
So it was IV’s all the way, for anot
her fun
two weeks.
Ever go
out to a restaurant attached to an IV?
It’s a re
al conversation-starter, and a
sure
w
ay
to
get
attention
.
Highly recommended, and your insurance barely has to pay!