Hospital 5

I've been having at least a glass of wine every night before I go to bed. Tonight, I shared a bottle with my brother. It's funny how people deal with grief. My brother, the geneticist, went online and came up with what he admits is a crazy idea about curing my mom's cancer. Something about mitochondria. He's going to talk to her oncologist about it tomorrow. And then we distracted each other with stories from our everyday lives.

Today was a strange day. Good and bad. My mom's pain was better ... or, rather, better-managed. She did a pretty good job of recognizing when she needed to take her pain meds. They've started giving her OxyContin (20 mg) and that seems to be working pretty well. Tomorrow, my brother and I will pick up a prescription for both oral diladin and oxycontin for her to take by mouth at home. Yes ... if all goes according to plan, she should be home tomorrow.

The ultrasound from yesterday showed that her kidneys are functioning okay. The doctor also ordered an ultrasound for her legs to determine whether she was developing any blood clots (her legs have been in pain for awhile now, too). No clots. She's eating a little bit better ... mainly because we make her. They've taken her off of her IV and are beginning to adjust her to what life will be like at home as opposed to in the hospital (hydration and pain meds by mouth instead of intravenously).

We did learn, though, that I was right ... her liver is failing. We don't know any details just yet--my mom has told her doctors that she wants to know as little information about her condition as possible. The only reason I was able to get confirmation about her liver was because I was standing outside the hospital with my aunt when her doctor walked by (following the doctor out of the room after an exam, after all ... impossible). So we know that the albumin infusions have done very little. We know that her spleen has become enlarged because her liver isn't functioning properly. My brother and I plan on finding out what the prognosis is when we pick up her prescriptions tomorrow. In some ways, that will determine how soon I'll come back here. In other ways. I know I'll come back on Sunday or Monday. My dad needs me. He's lost and heartbroken.

My mom use to tell me that friends are great ... but when it comes down to it, they have their own families, husbands, wives, children. Another way she tried to convince me to prioritize marriage. I don't blame her for being so mistaken. How could I? All the offers to drop everything to come see me ... to make arrangements to take care of my furry-ball-of-death-by-headbutts ... for knowing the fucked up variety of distractions and sympathies that I need ... and just, just, just--how??? I don't know how. Thank you, with the fullness of my full full full full heart.

Hospital 4

Mornings are always better. And then, just after lunch, it's a quick descent into pain.

No good news today. She continues to get her albumin infusions (the last one will happen at midnight tonight). The swelling hasn't gone down ... but, apparently, these things take time. The doctor ordered a CT scan on her chest this afternoon. My mom and I waited in the hallway while another patient finished up in the x-ray room. During that time, another patient came by--an emergency--so the technician came out and wheeled my mom's bed flush against the wall because she'd need to wait a little longer. She went in soon after.

I don't have exact details about what that scan showed. I had gone to my aunt's house (she lives a block away from the hospital) for a quick dinner and some rest and called my dad's cell phone to let him know that dinner was ready and he could come by for some food (we've been taking shifts). My mom got on the phone, sobbing. What I learned from her then was that the lesions in her lungs have also grown. Something about them being very close to the heart. She had been complaining about not being able to breathe earlier today. And she's been coughing up blood and bits of who knows what for the last few months. We returned to the hospital to comfort her. After another dose of diladin, she started to feel a little better. I think they should up the dose to every two hours.

She was also feeling some pain in her left kidney today. They'll do an ultrasound on it tomorrow morning. I'd just like her to come home. I pick up my brother from the airport tomorrow morning.

Me?

Well, I've been eating three meals a day, which (if you know me) I pretty much NEVER do. And yet I've lost weight.

I'm beginning to think I'll need to cancel my trip to Europe this summer. I have no idea right now about my mom's prognosis ... but I don't like the thought of being way over there. Could I possibly have a good time? Moreover, writing a presentation on Brain Fies' Mom's Cancer is just way too ridiculous. Somehow, I know that my research will, in the longrun, be okay. Right now, though, I don't know if I can do it.

I return to Seattle on Saturday, but I doubt I'll stay for very long at all. Any thoughts on what one does with a lonely prrr-monster? I'd like to bring her back with me, but I don't know if that's a possibility right now.

When my dad and I got home tonight, I poured myself a glass of wine and my dad heated up some dinner for himself. We sat in front of the TV and watched a stupid, fucking, bald Howie Mandell say, over and over again, DEAL OR NO DEAL. And for just a few minutes, both of us forgot about everything except the assbrain who passed up 113,000 bucks. We both said the Hindi word for "owl" (phoenetically, "oo-loo"). It's funny that over here owls are deemed as wise ... and over there, owls are used to describe idiocy.

I don't know where I'm getting this strength from. Probably inherited from my mom. Things are okay as long as my mind is occupied and my hands are busy. Things are okay when that doesn't happen, too ... except that my head feels like an inverted punching bag.

And thank you, dear hearts, for everything so much. I think I'll write a letter to Al Gore and demand that he run for president.

Hospital 3

When we got to the hospital this morning, she looked good. Or better, maybe. Her face was less swollen. She was completely lucid. Joking. Happy. I had every reason to believe they would send her home today. I was even contemplating just keeping my ticket and coming home to Seattle tomorrow.

After lunch, though, she slowly started getting worse. The pain returned. She didn't describe it as pain, though. More like a weird discomfort that she had never felt before. The gastroenterologist came by and explained that my mom's albumin levels were very low, causing edema in her feet, thighs, abdomen, and face. This swelling, in part, was what was causing the pain in her stomach--his diagnosis. She is now receiving albumin infusions to get those levels up to something like normal.

The oncologist also came by and explained that much of her discomfort is being caused by her liver mets (where her cancer has metastasized). We didn't get too much information, here ... my mom wanted to remain largely in the dark. She did ask, "More than 30% of it [the liver] is covered?" And the doctor said, "Oh yes"--as if to suggest that the percentage is much higher than that. He said that once the albumin infusions are completed, he would see about sending her home. He's going to give her some oral diladin (the pain medication she's been on--a form of morphine) to help with the pain.

Basically, though, the disease is running its course. What a stupid expression. As if it's a short distance runner.

I secretly think (and, now, not so secretly, I guess) that my mom's liver is failing her. Apparently, albumin is formed in the liver. I learned this online. There's something very wrong about that.

I extended my visit to Saturday. My brother arrives on Thursday.

Whoever said that blood is thicker than water is an idiot. I don't mean to suggest that my family hasn't been incredibly supportive of each other these past few days ... but just that I seem to have found the most amazing collection of friends ever. Thank you for all your phone calls and e-mails. I'll need to break down soon--and I feel okay with that only because of you.

On a lighter note ... as I was driving to the hospital this morning, I had this thought about how weird it was that the streets in this town are so familiar to me. I lived here more than ten years ago ... and feel so very little connection with any of it anymore. But I knew exactly how to get from one place to another--which streets to avoid; which shortcuts to take.

On an even lighter note ... I am totally okay with that remake of "Goodbye to You" on that commercial for something or other. But only because it reminds me of the original.

Ugh, that's kinda sick, huh? I didn't mean it that way ...

Hospital 2

Still no diagnosis. Three days in the hospital, and still no diagnosis.

Her CT scan showed what we kind of knew--the cancer in her liver has spread. But that's not what's causing the stomach pains. No bowel obstruction. And everything else looked fine, apparently. Still, she needs morphine injections every three hours.

Tomorrow, a gastroenterologist will come by to see her. He can give us some answers, right? I mean, he wears a toupee and everything!

Chances are I'll need to extend my trip by a few days. I'll learn more tomorrow.

Please call me, e-mail me, distract me with all things everyday and polka-dotty.

Finally--It was oddly comforting when the doctor told us about his son (or maybe daughter ... I can't remember) who lives in North Carolina and my mom responded that her son lives in North Carolina and they talked about grandchildren and what they look like and so so so many things and then as he was leaving, she echoed through the room, "But my DAUUGGHTER isn't married yet!!!!" Comforting because familiar? Something.

Hospital

Friday evening, my mom went to the emergency room. I got a call from my dad while I was having dinner at a friend's house. They told me not to worry. Not to rush. Finish up. There was nothing urgent. It was just that the pain that she had been feeling in her stomach for the last couple weeks had become unbearable.

She's still there this evening ... and we have no clear sense of when they'll release her. Last night, they gave her two units of blood. Her hemoglobin was low. They've also been pumping her up with intravenous antibiotics, which seem to have helped to lower the fever she's been running for the last few weeks. Every four hours, they've been administering pain medications for her stomach. They were helping up until a few hours ago, when her body suddenly decided that it just wanted to feel the pain. They gave her a different pain med and that seems to be working for now. The on-call doctor thinks she might have a bowel obstruction, so tomorrow morning she'll get a CT scan done on her abdomen. Also, she stopped taking her chemo.

That's it for now. I have many observations in my head all swimming around like fish gone mad, but I can't write them down right now. They feel better all crazy and zigzag zigzag than they would all organized and then, then, then, then.

One thing, though--I hate that the doctors are all acting like it's time it's time it's time to go so let it happen. FUCK them.

33

I got a Bush press conference for my birthday. He was on the TV going "blah blah blah blah" when I came downstairs for breakfast.

*blows party favor*

Sylvia Cat (edited)

It's not totally clear yet ... but that title is actually punny. Like think of Sylvia Plath. Except if Sylvia Plath were a cat. And if "cat" and "Plath" were the same word. Um, yeah.

Okay, anyway ...

My cat knows when I'm about to leave town. I don't know how, but she does. It must be something I'm giving off ... a certain kind of nervousness. She gets morose. Her head hangs low. She won't leave my side. She looks at me like she does when I'm eating ice cream--a slow and solemn stare. When the suitcase finally comes out, it's all over. Then she's like, "See, I KNEW it." When I was packing for Mexico, she spent the afternoon sitting in the suitcase. I don't think it was that she wanted to come with me ... but more that she knew I couldn't finish packing if she sat there, determined, on top of the socks and t-shirts. When I lifted her up and put her on the bed, she must have thought, "Drat! Foiled again!" (I really do hope cats say or, at the very least, think "drat"--because it rhymes with cat, and rat ... and cats should only speak in words that end in -at.)

For the last few days, Kittie has been unbearably pathetic. The stares. The listlessness. The WOE IS ME of it all. What's so heartbreaking is when I toss her ball past her and you can tell that she only decides to chase after it to humor me. Or when I give her a treat and you can tell she doesn't REALLY want it. "How could you DO this to me?!!" "Why do you HAVE to leave?" It's interesting that she knows the difference between a long work day and a full-fledged trip.

(And, wait, I guess she'd say something more like, "What! Cat at flat?!! SHAT!!!")

While I was doing the dishes earlier this evening, I noticed that Kittie was sitting in the corner of the kitchen--tucked into a small space between the wall and the radiator box. I gave her a couple of, "Hi Kittie!"s and then turned back to do the dishes. When I turned back to look at her, I couldn't see her head. She had also coiled herself up into a tiny ball. I said, "Kittie ..." I said, "Kittie ..." again. Nothing. "Kittie ..." Still, nothing. I washed the soap from my hands and went over to her. She had put her head through a gap at the bottom of the radiator box. NOW does the title make sense?

She mewed cutely when I went up to pet her ... withdrawing her head. I don't think that she was trying to commit caticide or anything ... but, you know, I thought the story would make for a good blogpost.

And, plus, I wanted to be able to create some way to talk about how scared I am about this trip to California, and thought it would be easier if I did so through my funny little cat. I don't know what to expect. I know I can't prepare myself. The greater part of this weekend, I was able to get my mind off of it all by working and thinking, thinking, thinking of other things (you know who you are, and thank you, sweet). I was able to fool myself, but clearly my cat saw right through me.

Not with the head in the radiator theatrics. That was just funny.

Summer Reading #1

Joann Sfar's recent graphic novel, Vampire Loves, introduces readers to the life and loves of Ferdinand the vampire, a rather unlikely bloodsucker, sucker of blood, he that thirsteth after blood. While true that Ferdinand shares a resemblance to Nosferatu (he, too, is greyish-purple, bald, and sports pointy ears), he is something of an awkward and aloof vampire, content to watch the bull ride by, rather than to take it by the horns. It's not that he's inactive or dull at all. In fact, life and lifeforms of all kinds (phantoms, ents, humans, etc.) find him, fall in love with him, and compel him to battle mummies, capture murderers, appease crying golems, go dancing^*--and--kiss kiss kiss kiss. KISSSSSS.

We could easily tsk Ferdinand's flighty approach to life and love, but we never do. Ferdinand does have a conscience (a little green blob that occasionally floats around his head) ... and so we might be tempted to think that he has moral fiber, soul, good sense, discretion. Yet that's not what keeps us from passing judgment on him. Indeed, Ferdinand never poses as one of those bleeding heart vampires whose foolish behavior we can pity or forgive; and, more to the point, he loses his conscience about three-quarters of the way through the book to a lisping monster determined to make a meal out of him--and he's still the same Ferdinand, stumbling playfully through life. And that's the thing: What makes Ferdinand so irresistable is that he's so incredibly ... human. We've probably been him ... and, at one point or another, we've also probably been those phantoms, ents, and humans that choose to love him ... or leave him. Rather than serving as a metaphor for some vague aspect of humanity as many vampires do, Ferdinand plays out his humanity. Day by day, come what may. Unlucky in love, perhaps. Some hurt feeling, certainly. But he moves forward, without regret, or lessons learned, or tra la la la now what? even.

He does miss his mommy. There IS that ...

In any case, you should read this book because it's sweet, charming, funny, and incredibly smart. It's one of those books that you read when you feel like you need something that might untangle the jumble of feelings you have inside ... and one of those books that, upon reading, makes you feel just a little annoyed, but mostly overjoyed and relieved, because you realize that the jumble of feelings inside you makes perfect sense, just as it is.

^*Yes, of COURSE, going dancing is as weird a thing as battling mummies!

Today's to do list

1. Clean kitchen
2. Take out trash and recycling
3. dust/vacuum/mop
4. overhaul bathroom
5. straighten out bedroom
6. do 734892q loads of laundry
7. grade remaining finals
8. grade 5-10 Writing and Culture papers
9. Shower
10. pay bills
11. eat sushi
12. feel really bad about not doing 1-10
13. turn that frown upside down
14. Use new-found energy to construct amazingly lifelike Mita-bot
15. Name Mita-bot "Mita Ma-bot-o" (thank you, Alison--a step up from Mita Mop-ato, no?)
16. Program Mita Ma-bot-o with detailed instructions for next 100 years
17. Move to Mexico
18. bake cake
19. Mmmm.