A New Path to the Waterfall
Dad’s oncologist called (tongue-twister-time again) with updates on the MRI and CT scans.
The Good: Dad doesn’t have spinal compression, so that’s a relief. A bullet dodged is a bullet dodged, no matter the other shrapnel scattered about. We have to be thankful for any little thing.
The Bad: Dad’s bladder is being jammed up by his enlarged prostate, so he needs, as he called it, “the RotoRooter treatment,” or surgery to bore a new path to the waterfall, as it were. (sorry, Raymond Carver. No offense.) Don’t know when that will happen, but urgh.
The I’m Not Sure, But It Doesn’t Sound Promising: Dad was so loopy with painkillers and fatigue yesterday that every time a nurse called about his MRI or CT scan, he retained little of what she told him. So he diligently kept me up to date with the calls, but couldn’t quite explain what the calls were about.
Needless to say, I called her myself and gathered this information:
While he has no spinal compression, he does have an area of concern near his spine around the lower/middle part of his back (specifically at T10 for those chiropractor’s in the audience). Because of this, the doctor is referring Dad to radiation oncology, where presumably they will be trying to blast whatever creature is living there back to Kingdom Come. Of course radiation is no picnic either, but in a battle between Evil Klingon in the Spine and Radioactive Ray of Dooooooom, oddly the radioactive adversary seems like the better bet. Strange days when you think radiation is a good idea.
The doctors are also putting Dad on steroids, so if I discover that he’s flipping back and forth between the Home and Garden channel to cater to the needs of his hormone therapy and the Mr. Universe Pageant I will truly freak out.
The Jesus-Christ, Kick a Man While He’s Down, Why Don’t You?: MRI’s. Dad came out of a full day of medical tests and scans looking a whiter shade of pale, and I’ve never seen him so weary. I would request of any medical technician or doctor or nurse who requests such a beast for a patient already compromised that he or she have had one themselves so that they know of what they speak. In fact, I want placards and badges and trophies that identify them as having suffered it themselves up on the wall with all the other medical cred they collect.
Well, dear friends, here we are. I think we can say that we’re crossing the Rubicon; there are no more days when we won’t consider the pluses and minuses of each stage of his care. He’s good, if weary, we’re good, if weary, but his health…not so good.
Love to you all, Q
Popularity: 15% [?]
Dear Q, It is sad that our lives become focused on tests,tests, and moe tests, no matter how useful they are. But there are no tests to measure the love that so many of us feel for your Dad, and for his family. It is simply A LOT. Know that. And know, too, that I will be there, or here, in any capacity you need. Love, Sarah
Thanks, Sarah! We’re soldiering on, which is what you do, but it’s definitely not romantic. We’re in it for sure, and we’re now familiar with most, if not quite all, the departments that OHSU has to offer those with Klingons.
Better is the love part. I like that part best. And Dad is happy to know that he’s on the giving and receiving end no matter what level of silliness the painkillers sink him to.
On the other hand, conversations are completely entertaining with him these days!
Love to you, Sarah. Talk soon, I’m sure!
Well, it looks like it’s time for another footnote. It’s the day after our visit to view the Bone Scan results. For me the consult was mostly upbeat. Still groggy from Oxycodone, I was queried about side effects, other than the desire to curl up like a puppy in the corner and sleep. Well, there’s that dryness in the mouth that made it difficult to answer the question. Yes, strange taste, food not appealing. Constipation? You bet! Taking stool softener, 1-3 per day. “Don’t worry” says Dr. Hung, “You can’t OD on diarrhea!” “How much Oxycodone?” 3-4 a day. “Don’t worry about that–you won’t OD on Oxycodone either. Har de har har.”
Thus reassured we were walked through the bone scan results, looked at the little dark spot we are targeting-the one spot where the tentacle of the alien is nudging at the wall of the spinal column from without. So, tomorrow (Thursday): the Simulation: they will draw a little diagrammatic map on my tummy, lay me in a kind of cradle and align their sights with the help of laser beams to find the target area and apply a kind of semi-permanent tattoo to mark the spot where, on the following week they’ll zap me Monday through Friday for about 15 minutes, ditto the following week and call me cooked. Atoms for Peace indeed. No extravegant claims, just the promise of alleviated pain in the back. Perhaps a temporary goodby to the Oxycodone woozies; charming though they might be it will be good to remember my name and the day of the week and how they might be related to life on this earth.
Another way to return to earth, the trip down to the Other OHSU on the tram. Great view, quiet talk with Q about our visit, home feeling a little better, but indubitably plugged up from the waist down. (I will spare the reader the intimate details of my eventual liberation from intestinal blockage, only to say, I could feel the restraining ropes falling away as I levitated a few meters when the ballast was finally tossed overboard.) I did laundry, finally solved the Sunday Times puzzle, which kept me feeling as if it were somehow still the weekend. Still no irresistable pull toward the Oxycodone bottle. “Why is this damned Tuesday TV show on Sunday night?” was the main problem rattling in my still foggy brain as I toddled off to bed. A couple of drenching hotflashes got me up in the middle of the night. Very early rising, no drugs, shower, breakfast, no drugs, a nap, no drugs, call from Q. no drugs. Pee-stream feels more normal, made a list of to-dos, no drugs. I feel pretty normal, almost like before. I am sure it’s Wednesday today, tomorrow is Thurdsay and I will “simulate” radiation treatment. No desire for drugs, think I may go to the White Bird concert after all tonight. And STILL NO DRUGS! Marvels of modern medicine. Dad is back again, for a little while at least. And running very mundane errands. Hoorah!
Hey, Pop! I put this up as a post on the front page. Love, Q