Safe As Houses
“Reality denied comes back to haunt.”
Philip K. Dick, from Flow My Tears, the Policeman Said
Jenny is home. I am so grateful. Discharged some time after noon, she was wheeled from inpatient down to oncology, where I was waiting, having arrived about 10-15 minutes earlier. Thanking the transporter, I wheeled Jenny to the far end of the waiting area, her preferred place to sit, before seeing Dr. P. She told me a bit about her morning, and we waited. She is gaunt. Flat Stanley could be mistaken for her twin. She is weak. She has hard breathing simply thinking about walking. She was transported by wheelchair to oncology, as I said, which isn't unusual. But she stayed in the chair, when we went to the room, rising to transfer to one of the seats in the exam room. She managed, unsteadily, to move to the exam table about two minutes after we were put in the room, and fell asleep almost instantaneously.
Picozzi came. Jenny awoke on his arrival and moved to the chair she had been sitting in earlier, me hyper-vigilant, hands hovering around her front and back, to prevent falling.
Dr. P. expressed frustration that the GI docs didn't do the colonoscopy, but then said we will wait and see how the next several days go before deciding whether he would order one. After finding out about her low blood pressure, he suggested--actually told her--she would receive a bolus of water. Chemo is put off for a week and a day, so Jenny gets another rest. I am glad, because her neuropathy is so awful, she cannot feel any of her toes on either foot. Also the CT showed:
- Worsening metastatic disease with increased size of numerous hepatic metastases. One of these metastases in the posterior right hepatic lobe has a suggestion of a fluid fluid level which may be secondary to internal hemorrhage and/or necrosis of the tumor
- Mildly increased size of locally invasive pancreatic body mass.
- New small volume ascites, nonspecific given no peritoneal nodules demonstrated.
I could write a treatise on hospital time, but suffice it to say what was supposed to be an hour at hospital, didn't end until 4:30 or so.
While we were in either the first or second exam room, Jenny said out loud, "I can't believe I am going to die." I said, "I can't either." She expressed that she was shocked at my response. "You were supposed to say I am not going to die." I looked at her, I hope my expression appeared to be compassion, because that is what I felt. Not pity. This train she is riding is the same one each of us will ride if we are unlucky enough to not die peacefully in our sleep or suddenly in a car accident. I feel so terrible for this untenable, ceaseless series of sufferings that pile on her each day. Every time I think we have reached the bottom of the barrel, PDAC says, "Hold my beer."
I told her, "If you say things you expect me to respond to, I am going to answer honestly, I am sorry if it upsets you." I need her to embrace the reality. This train has one stop, one destinaton, and the station is fast approaching.
We got home about 5:30, I had to swing by Bartell's to pick up the new lower dose fentanyl patch, and the fixings for vanilla milkshakes at Dr. P's direction. There are no such thing as bad calories, he said, when you are trying to put on weight. . . Jenny was very proud of herself for eating solid food for breakfast, I assumed that her full breakfast of solids might result in me losing my lunch.
At home, Jenny was out of sorts, perking up for a bit with Leiney's love and attention. I gave her all the mail she had missed while gone, with at least a dozen birthday cards and several packages. She was occupied with that so didn't notice Leiney and I picking up the house in preparation for the big surprise. But, Moni, with Silja in tow, came much sooner than we expected. So the house wasn't perfect, but it was clean enough. The look on Jenny's face as Silja walked in the door. It reflected surprise, shock, and sadness at the recognition of and the realization as to why her friend from Duisberg, Germany would fly half way around the world to see her. Silja ran to Jenny's place on the couch, and the two embraced. Jenny was sobbing. They were not tears of joy, but of fear.
Moni and Silja were only here briefly. They will be back tomorrow, for the day.
We watched The Morning Show, Jenny, Leiney and I. Then Jenny wanted to take a bath. Despite promising me earlier in the day to only go up and down the stairs on her bottom, Jenny insisted on walking up the stairs. I was the helicopter spouse. She was fine she said, as we reached the top of the stairs and entered her bedroom. She leaned into her bed on both hands, turned in a
Paris, 2018.
way that was clearly intended to hide her exhaustion, and then laid down. We spoke of logisitics and tools. She needed a towel, they were in the dryer. I gathered underwear for her and her pajamas. She got up, intending to undress, as I went to run the bathwater. I tried to convince her a shower while sitting on the shower chair would be a better plan. She, didn't agree.
A thump. Loud. Followed by a scream, I came around the corner from the bathroom to find Jenny had fallen, fallen hard on her neck. She was unable to move, half naked, and screaming. Leiney was there almost as soon as I was. She asked for something to cover her up. I grabbed first a towel then a blanket, doing my best to cover her. She had her hands on her neck, her face buried in the carpet, in pain. It was raw. Leiney said, I am going to call 911. I stopped her, knowing Jenny far too well to think that plan held any merit. She would not be going back to hospital. I asked Jenny if she wanted me to take her to the ER, and she confirmed my surmise, no hospital. I got her up and to the bed.. After 10 minutes, she was ready to try again. Leiney ran the bath, and I offered to help get her up. She insisted she isn't disabled (my internal Magic 8 ball kept coming up, "Don't Count On It"), and managed to finish undressing, however unsteadily. We got her into the bath.
As she soaked, I went downstairs and retrieved two dining room chairs, one for her bedroom, and one for use in the bathroom, for when she needed to rest moving from one room to the other--about a distance of 10 feet.
I got back upstairs, and she was crying hysterically and complaining of back pain. I leaned over behind her, wrapped my arms around her shoulders and held her. Her crying increased. When I asked why she was crying, she said to me, "I am going to die." "I know," I said, "I am so sorry." "You are going to have the kids. You are going to have the house. You are going to have the dogs. I am going to be dead." She is mad at me. She is mad at me for not being the one dying. It is human, but I couldn't help think, "It feels good to be loved."
Her back was hurting terribly from the fall. She was miserable. She was wishing it was me instead of her dying, which I wish at times as well. She was tired, upset, and in pain. And then, she asked for a barf bag, and threw up all the food in her stomach. I went to the garage, threw the used barf bag away, and returned upstairs and caressed her back, got her out of the tub, dressed her in her night clothes, and shepherded her into bed. Safe. Safe as houses.
The perfect ending to a perfect day.
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