Dying Is Not An Option – Install- 16
A few days before my appointment at the Mayo, I started coming down with that awful cold and flu that’s going around. Danny had been sick with it for about a week before I began showing symptoms and must have passed it on to me. I swear I used at least a dozen germ packs, praying I might avoid it, but oh no . . . I came down with it anyway. My appointment at the Mayo was on the 19th at 8:30 in the morning. We got up at five and arrived at the clinic in time for the blood work to be drawn.
At 10:30 (my appointment time) Doctor R. walked into the exam room, all cheerful and happy (as usual). After our usual friendly greetings, he immediately sat down at his computer and pulled up my blood work, then looked over at me with a puzzled expression on his face. “Are you taking anything extra besides your normal medications? Anything at all?” When I looked confused, he said, “Your blood work is actually really good. Better than your last visit.” I shook my head, puzzled, and told him, “Nope nothing new that I can think of. The nodes beneath my arms are actually getting larger and I am coming down with an awful head cold.”
“Ah Ha,” he said, snapping his fingers. “The flu!” He seemed to be genuinely relieved I was getting a cold. (God forbid that a miracle had occurred and I had been cured.) Then he explained that the blood work-up I’d had done at 8:30 wouldn’t accurately reflect my true blood levels because all the little fighter cells were amassing like crazy, getting ready to do battle with the presence of the invading infection. The blood levels would actually show up as much better than they were. (The foregoing were not his exact words . . . but close.)
Looking on the bright side of my visit, it wasn’t entirely a wasted trip. Doctor R. examined the progressing nodes, and informed me I’ll need to return again for scans and blood tests again in 2 months. He also carefully examined my lungs for pneumonia (as a precaution) and also informed me he had been carefully researching and thinking about a specialized treatment cocktail for me. I’ve voiced my reluctance (the past year and a half) about having the normal type of chemotherapy treatments for the advancing lymphoma. Dripping a poison cocktail into my veins is not my cup of tea. (I feel strongly that trying to poison a poison with a poison is not my deal!)
I also brought down some of my ‘Caterpillar Had A Dream’ books for him to pass along to the cancer kids at the Mayo, soooo . . . I feel like I may have accomplished a tiny bit of something. With Danny sicker than a dog, and me getting there rapidly, it would have been nice to know the blood level readings could be altered by a cold. But, we live and learn stuff for a reason. It’s now on my list of things to remember.
Speaking of things to remember and not soon to be forgotten– Here’s my advice for the year for those of you who share space with the male species of the planet. Those guys who may “yet” come down with a cold or the flu this season. This is very important, so pay attention. When your husband or mate becomes ill, try and remember that they’re the only person in the world that has ever been sick. The world is ordered to stop in its tracks and pay attention. No one, and I mean, no one, is as sick, grossly feeling as bad, cold to the touch, (or was that hot to the touch) as them. They cannot move, they cannot speak, and you are expected to read their minds telepathically and respond accordingly. Soup is the norm, so stock up. It is to be served on a tray, boiled to the “just right as Mom did” temperature, and placed ever so tenderly in front of them, at just the right moment, when they need it to soothe their hoarse windpipes. (The spoon should be the right size and warm to the touch.) A napkin is a must (as bodily weakness is evident) when the weighty spoon is hefted to the mouth and spillage may occur.
“I’m soooo sick,” is to be taken as the impending and final death rattle. Meds, such as day and nighttime cough syrups, are to be kept at the ready and in plentiful supply. Don’t dally, but rush with forceful purpose and administer the quieting syrup when the death rattle is heard. Pausing on your part leads to tantrums. Always, warm up the comforter before placing it on your mate, or the “feet” will never reach anything above minus 30 degrees. Never laugh in glee when you spot him with a hooded sweatshirt drawn tightly around the head, covered in massive comforters, and wailing in pain like a dying banshee. “ET Go Home!”
Accept that your animals are more important than anything you may have to offer as a human being. They warm his feet, don’t talk back (or laugh) and they kiss his pale face with compassion and pity, when . . . your thoughts have turned to strangulation, hexes, or poison. They also act as mediators when you can’t stand him anymore, and you can relay information through them . . . to him, via a note on their collar. Be forewarned! If you don’t have a spare bedroom, be prepared for the thunderous, most impossible sounds of maim and torture, and (surely) impending death, as the clearing of throat, hard breathing, moaning and groaning, and thrashing of legs cause even the dogs to vacate the bed in disgust, and wonder what to hell their master has been struck down by. (The bogeyman had invaded their pack leader’s body.) The pathetic ball of whining, hard to manage, terrible two-year-old child, couldn’t possibly be their stern, hard, loving, tough acting master-man. No sireeee, Bob!
Update: Danny is getting much better, and his cold and flu symptoms are decreasing. I went through the same symptoms as he did, though not at all as racking, complicated, noisy, or as intense as he suffered with his cold & flu. No sireeee, Bob!