We walked into the biggest hospital room I have ever seen. I actually thought it was a room for two patients and we would have only half (which kind of ticked me off--sick people need their privacy). Then someone explained that the whole room was for us. In addition to Ken's bed, it had a huge bathroom, two sinks w/ mirrors, two doors, a small couch, several chairs, and a full-sized bed for ME. It even had a microwave and mini-fridge. I was kind of stunned. It just so happened that Jayne, my best friend's sister, worked in admitting at Erlanger. When she found out what day Ken was having his surgery, she pulled strings with her co-workers so that they would save that "rock-star room" for us. Bless you, Jayne.
Ken was in A LOT of pain. He wasn't talking. And the room was full of people who wanted to wish him well. It's so hard to tell such sweet, thoughtful people that they need to leave, but that's kind of what I ended up doing. Of course, Ken's parents and brothers all stayed. Every time he asked me for something, one of them would jump up and do it instead. I know they were only trying to help, but Ken wanted me to take care of him. I let them see to him for a while, but I could tell he was getting frutstrated, so I dropped a few BIG hints about how tired he was and that he needed to rest and maybe they could come back tomorrow. One by one, they left.
Finally it was just me and Ken. Or I should say it was me, Ken and the telephone. It rang almost constantly for a couple of hours with people wanting to know how the surgery went. I learned a valuable lesson that night. Always bring a phone extension cord with you if you are going to be staying in the hospital for any length of time (the ones they give you are only about three feet long). That way, you can move the phone to the other side of the room and it won't be ringing right at the paitent's head all the time. I think that first night, I finally ended up disconnecting the phone because it was upsetting Ken so badly.
The next morning, a new doctor, Larry Schlabach, came in and introduced himself to us. He was a medical oncologist and would be Ken's primary oncologist. He told us that Ken's cancer was so advanced and spread out that there wasn't really much they could do. Radiation wasn't an option because they would have to radiate his entire abdomen, which by itself, could be fatal. Surgery wasn't an option because the cancer was stage 4 and was probably in other areas of his body and in his lymph system already. He said that they would try some chemotherapy, see how Ken did, and then decide what to do from there. As I look back on it now, Dr. Schlabach didn't believe that Ken would live through the chemo in the first place. I asked him how long we could expect Ken to live. He said he didn't like to give time-frame prognoses because every patient is different and ultimately, it wasn't in his hands anyway, but in God's hands (it was comforting to know that he was a Christian).
So, over the next couple of days, the nurses showed me how to take care of Ken's feeding tube site and how to hook up the bag for his feedings (which ended up not being very helpful, because the hospital pumps are different from the ones they send to your home). Hospital social workers came and arranged for the equipment we would need when we got home. . . hospital bed, feeding pump and pole, feeding bags and tubing, cans of liquid nourishment, wound care supplies. . . all that stuff I had never seen before but would become an integral part of our lives over the next two years. It was a frightening time, to be sure.
Dr. Schlabach decided that they would give Ken his first chemo treatment at the hospital the day before we went home so they could make sure he wouldn't have any severe reactions to the meds. They started the pre-meds at about six in the morning. About an hour later, they started the chemo. It was two different kinds of chemo (funny, I would have thought that the names of the meds would be burned into my memory forever, but today, I can't remember). There was so little research on Linitus Plastica that there was not really a proven protocol for it. So, they just picked two of the strongest chemo meds they had and tried that. They were so strong that they had to be dripped extremely slowly. The treatments would last about 8 hours each. If they dripped them any faster, one of the meds could cause Ken to lose his hearing and the other one could shut his kidneys down. I remember looking at the IV thinking, I should be happy that those meds are going to try to save my husband's life, but at the same time, I realized that what was flowing into his vein was pure poison. Yes, it might kill the cancer cells, but what else would it be killing as well?
OK, it finally came up.
ReplyDeleteEnjoyed your sharing Wed. night.