Hospital Life, Two Years Ago

May 16, 2016
Outside my home office window the maple trees and flowering quinces are leafing out and the sun is shining. I plan to walk to my piano lesson three miles away. Today is going to be a good day.

One day last week, I pulled a disinfecting wipe out of the plastic cylindrical package. The scent yanks me into the past, caring for David, wiping down surfaces, bleaching dishes.

May 7-20, 2014

With all he has been through in the past 8 weeks, David retains his deep compassion. An inexperienced student removes his nose tube a few days after surgery. I quickly look away as I see David’s eyes open wider than I thought anatomically possible. As soon as it’s over, David asks the student: “Was that your first time?” The student rather sheepishly admits it is. “It didn’t hurt at all. It was weird, but it didn’t hurt.”

Drinking a glass of water as Dr. Mo talks with him, David asks, “Do you know how good a glass of water tastes?” Such gratitude and serenity as he savors each sip.

I walk the deserted indoor courtyard of Walter Reed’s outpatient building, cell phone pressed to my ear, crying my fears to Jim. Jim responses, “It’s sad; it doesn’t have to be scary.” That becomes my mantra.

  Three vials of cerebrospinal fluid are removed via lumbar puncture, to determine whether or not the leukemia has spread to the fluid. I didn't know white blood cells could do that. It's an anxious twenty-four hours, but the next day’s results show no leukemia in the fluid. In addition, the most recent bone marrow biopsy shows remission; the transplant can move ahead. We’ll be going home soon.

For the first time in seven weeks, David goes outside. I wheel him up to the hospital's 7th floor roof garden. Fresh air and sunshine. We stay about 10 minutes, sitting in the late afternoon shade of the building, surrounded by potted plants and trees. David soaks it in.

I am learning to interpret David’s slurred speech. I’ve become his voice: most of the medical staff can’t understand him. In the privacy of his room we hold hands, sometimes to comfort me, sometimes to comfort him. At his request I sleep two nights on the green vinyl couch in his room, awakened by the noisy 6 a.m. visit from the surgery team.

On May 17th a speech therapist visits. The exercises improve his speech a bit. Next day his speech is suddenly perfectly clear and the leg tremors are gone. David didn't practice that much; probably the Flagyl is finally out of his system. Unfortunately his vision is still impaired and reading, one of his favorite activities, is a chore. I stay overnight again. David appreciates it. It's a simple life, for both of us.