recovery

better.  i'm better and just in time to pack up our lives.  we found a way to ship some things to Uganda for pretty cheap.  so mostly books and some toys and all our pots and pans are going on a crate tomorrow.  the kids are kind of freaked out.  zoe especially.  she keeps saying 'you don't know how this feels! it's harder for me- because of my 'you know', my nonverbal learning disability!'  but i do know.  i know it's another step closer.  i know it's becoming more and more real. but for me it's more exciting and less scary than it is for her.

but yesterday when i was feeling so sick i kept thinking about how hard it will be when i get sick in uganda.  when i get sick far away from 'home' in a new 'home' with a few less of the comforts.  where ginger ale and chicken noodle soup aren't available 24 hours a day.  and where my mom is on the other side of the world- because when i'm sick, i still want my mom- or at least two husbands- one to take care of me and one to take care of the kids and do everything else life requires.  i also thought about how hard it would be to be old and sick- or to be chronically ill and then get sick on top of it. i thought of my patients- the ones i'd seen that day. 

mr. n who has such an amazing attitude despite someone neglecting to place a feeding tube before radiating his neck cancer so that he lost 40 pounds during treatment.  still smiling, full of hope and joy.

mr. a, lying cockeyed on his bed, saying 'come on in darlin' and have a seat' with his white hair sticking straight up, chatting on the phone with someone in costa rica.  he got divorced 10 years ago and moved to there at the age of 50, and has now returned to get treatment for his cancer.
'hey, i got to get off the phone, there's a nurse in here to see me.'
'doctor'
'oh- see- now i went and insulted her pretty lil' face- sayin' she a nurse'
a total character.

mr. p with end stage heart failure and schizo-affective disorder, staring straight ahead while i sit on his bed.  i ask him how he's feeling, how his breathing is today, if his feet are more swollen, if he's having any pain.  his answers are single words.  i'd never met him before- but his disconnect was bothering me.  i scootched closer and looked him right in the eye,
"are you sad?"
he laughed- 'yes. i am.'
i asked where he was from, how long he'd been in atlanta, and a few other questions.  he made a few comments that sounded off and since i'd just helped him into a wheelchair, i was worried he'd get up with out help and fall.
"mr. p, are you confused?"
he laughed again, "not anymore than usual."
"ok- just promise me you won't get up out of this chair with out help. i don't want you to fall."
"i promise."

mr.s and his wife of 56 years, 4th admission for pneumonia and a copd exacerbation, sharing how they've driven 100 miles to the VA every thursday for 12 years for his post traumatic stress disorder group for WW2 and korean war vets.  still coming- even that far- even with his oxygen- even though moving steals his breath.

i really hope i didn't get any of these guys sick.  i look back on my hours with them and see in each a lesson.  mr. n,  choosing optimism.  mr. a, living life to the fullest.  mr. p, engaging in his own way.  mr. s, perseverance.  but how could i forget, mr. r.  from mr. r, i learned the lesson again of treading lightly, and the importance of hope, and non abandonment.

mr. r was there last month when i was last on call.  he was there in march with what he thought was possibly a curable cancer- getting radiation and chemo.  he'd gone to a rehab center to get stronger and was then to come back for more chemotherapy.  but instead he came back with a bad infection and a big swollen shoulder.  it turns out that his cancer had spread. yesterday morning, he'd just heard the news before i came into his room.  those moments when life changes forever. the cosmic shift.  i sat with him for a long time.  i didn't say much - i just waited- i let him talk- and cry- and be still.  i was frustrated.  the news was kind of dumped on him.  there wasn't a plan given, there wasn't a way for him to frame it, and he was all alone, in his bed, with a sore shoulder and rain outside.  he was talking about going home to die.  he was talking no hope. he was assuming this was his very end.  he asked me to give him something to 'knock him our for a while'.  when i did talk, i told him he wasn't alone, we needed to find a way for him to frame this, we needed to know what the options were, we needed to hear from oncology.  i told him i would treat his pain, and his anxiety, and that i would stay with him, but i wasn't going to 'knock him out for a while'.  even those few words gave him a new context- a bit of hope.

in my own little 24 hours of illness i learned to be so thankful for health and recovery. , as we all live and learn together on this great spinning world.