(posted by Bob)
Suddenly I had nothing to do. A busy life seemed to have faded away like morning dew. Linda carried away my clothes and shoes and left me in a hospital suit that left my butt hanging out. (I think she wanted to make sure that I didn’t make a break for it.) I asked her to call Dunbar and tell them I was going to miss my shift. Thursday was a bank service day, with all the coins and cash delivered by the hand truck load, and the boss needed to find a replacement before everyone who was available would be lying low to let this little gift drift by. Unbeknownst to me, Linda told Dunbar that I would not be returning to work—ever.
My sons showed up in lock step with Linda, with their faces of horror badly hidden. I’d seen these faces before when I went to visit my father as he lay dying in the hospital. My first reaction was hoping to be as courageous as my father. It lasted until I wondered, without saying to Linda, “What the hell did you tell the boys?“
Adam, my youngest son, had brought the cards. Eric, my middle son, rounded up the chairs so we could play euchre. I tried not to call either of them by name. It was not that I didn’t remember who they were. I knew them like parts of my own body, remembered their lives—when they were born, when they took their first steps, and all the way to their college graduations—I just couldn’t get the pronunciation of their names correct. My oldest son, Sean, was in Michigan. I couldn’t call up his name, it started with an ess and all esses had taken a bus to parts unknown. Sean, much later (and after Adam and Eric had helped me find my missing letters), told me he had thought that he was on his way to my funeral.
Euchre is the famed “easy“ card game. Used only half the cards. How can it be that hard? And a game that was played at blinding speed with different “bowers” at each hand. Simple! Linda remained distracted, even though we slowed the game down to a walk. My sons and I ignored the elephant in the room. Linda could not get the circus out of her mind. I sat next to her and helped her with her cards even though she was my son’s card partner.
We passed the night until at last I was alone. I thought about what a mess I had just made of all our lives. The nurses kept bringing in the dexamethasone and the anti-seizure drugs as the night passed. By morning I was in an emotional crisis over breakfast corn flakes. The surgeon arrived shortly after and found me in tears over being unable to read. I still couldn’t give a name to the hospital where I was—despite that for five years I had picked up their bank services and delivered their change.
Linda and my sons arrived before lunch. Adam had brought the Scrabble game. I could make up some short words. When my sons were growing up the Scrabble dictionary was left open on the table and fair to peruse—the idea being that it was more important to learn new words than to challenge the other players. Good for me just now!
On Friday Linda had to go to work. My son Adam arrived early in time to interrogate the surgeon, Dr. Alexander, for me. Adam is a RPSGT sleep technician—the guy that wires up your head and reads your brain squiggles while you’re asleep. Turns out that the doctor Adam worked for was Dr. Alexander’s friend. The best of all worlds! Adam could ask the questions for words I could not call up and he spoke the short term words used by the medical gang. Dr. Alexander’s reputation made me very lucky to have him—and it didn’t hurt that he was going to get to show off for his pals.
After all the drugs I felt like I was stoned. Like I was not quite awake, or my brain was just not in tune. My blood sugar had rocketed off to 300 and plus. I am eating—the diabetic meal—at five thousand calories (according to the printout that came with them) like a lumberjack, but I was losing weight because my body had decided to consume itself instead of the food I was eating. They’d put me on insulin. I had abandoned the bed for a chair during the day and started walking laps around the ward ostensibly to get my own coffee, but we were struggling to get the numbers below 200.
All nature of plans needed to be made. My son Eric arrived after lunch and Linda arrived after work. I signed some checks for Linda and told her what bills I needed to pay. My van needed a heater core. I told my sons to clean it out and Linda to call the Kidney Fund to pick it up. Without a job I couldn’t afford the repair. I told Adam to pick up my Gold Cup Colt and take it home. If anything happened to me, Sean, my oldest son, would have to make do with my Glock. If I died, I told them to have me cremated and keep me in a jar over the fireplace. Adam said that I had had other plans. He was right. “There’s no money for anything else,” I said. I thought that that was the end of the subject.
It was not!
Sunday was a good day. Round nine or so my sons loaded up the cards, Scrabble game, and the DVD battery player and promised to bring back the toys when I was back in my room. Linda and I were both exhausted. In the hospital you aren’t allowed sleep. Linda had been burning up the computer at home and was staying the night with me, being that Monday morning my surgery was to begin early. Linda announced that she thought that she should have a power of attorney and a living will.
For me, that just about cut it.
If I had thought for one fast hot second that I was coming out of surgery dead, or as a doorstop, I would not have stayed the first day. Linda had been hanging crepe since the emergency hospital. She thought that I was on death’s door and told everyone else the same thing. I had told myself that that was just ”her way.” She always expected the worst and believed it, but now I was hot and heartbroken (being fired up on five days of dexamethasone didn’t help.)
Yes, I had thought about this. I did talk about how to dispose of my body in front of my sons, so that there was never any doubt. For me, that was like taking your foot off the gas if the green light was getting a little stale.
Once upon a time in my past life I would have looked at the MRI, put on my shoes, gone home, and bought a case of beer to drink while I watched the sun set. Linda had made my life sweet. When we found each other were both in personal wreckage. I wanted to us to have some time for us.
“If you can’t talk or walk,” said Linda. “You may not want to go on with the treatments.”
“That’s not going to happen,” I said. “I knew I was in trouble and that is why I asked you to go to the doctor with me. I know where I’m at now. I did this for us, to have time. Because I love you. After the surgery, we are going to do all of the treatment. For us to have each other. “
***
Linda remembers the talking about the living will and power of attorney before I talked to my sons. She thinks it was Friday and there are good reasons.
I don’t remember it that way—but!—I had a knot the size of a golf ball in my brain and I was stoned hospital Rx happy (or maybe not so happy.)
Nonetheless, the rest got covered and by Sunday night we watched Fox News for the reports on Hurricane Irene. Linda settled in to spend the night with me, before the surgery on Monday. We snuggled together in the bed as long as we could. The nurse couldn’t find Linda a cot. She finally wrapped up in a blanket and slept badly in a chair.