Day Three at MUSC 10/09

Woke up at 6:30 to a nurse on one side hanging an IV bag, and a nurse on the other side taking vitals and checking blood sugar. Someone finally put a sign on the door during Day Two that said "No Vitals between 11pm and 6am"--after this morning, someone wrote the number 7 over the number 6 in pen...and it wasn't me!!

Breakfast arrived. Only things edible were a so-so bowl of grits--definitely not a Jethro bowl from the Little Cafe--and a tiny banana nut muffin. Ahhh...banana. Managed a quick shower. Decided I had just enough time to hightail it down for a steaming cup of water to make my tea. Got back. Finished the muffin while it was steeping. Doctor arrived. And I'm not talking about David Tennant.

Doc asks, "Did you see the results of your PFT?"

"Yes, and I'm pretty pissed off about it."

"Why?" she asked. "Because the number was so low?"

"No. Because it was exactly the same as it was 48hrs before, but some idiot read the chart wrong and ordered another test anyway, and then the PFT department, who knew I'd just had the test, didn't bother to just print out the results or call someone and they ran the test again anyway."

Her eyes got wide. Her smile faded.

"I ordered that test."

Inside.....I laughed maniacally. Had I called her an idiot to her face?

At that moment, my CF doc walked in, following up on his promise from Day Two to fix things and check on me. First doc took responsibility for the PFT error, the one that I plan on making MUSC eat. CF doc and I visit for about an hour. All the while I know my cup of tea is growing cold. What a waste of a teabag.

CF doc explains typically they prefer to do a full 14 day course of antibiotics. I tell him "that ain't gonna happen." He offers up a repeat PFT on Wednesday to see if anything has changed, and then creating a new game plan at that point. I counter with, "what if the numbers don't improve? Then what? Do I stay longer to see if it will get any better? I can't stay here indefinitely. Or do we say that it must be where I'm at now, as far as lung function goes and just go home?" Cf doc and I go point for point, round and round, like haggling for a used car, or two lawyers working out a plea bargain. We sat in two chairs facing one another. Back and forth, calmly, intelligently. We agree to repeat the test on Wednesday, leaning towards a course of action I can do at home. I tell him, "take Sunday to think on it, and bring me your offer on Monday." He smiled. This is why I like this doctor. Communication, understanding, and willingness to compromise.

He leaves and I run for more hot water.

I steep the tea bag. Respiratory Therapist walks in. BAH!! Turns out she is originally from England, understands the importance of tea. Allows me time to chug what I've got.

We had a lovely time during therapy. I say "lovely" because it was a word she used frequently and it sounded...well...lovely. It makes me happy. I tell her of Rylie's affinity for using a British accent when saying the words banana or doctor. She is amused by my love of Doctor Who. We talk of fish n' chips and malt vinegar.

Lunch arrives at 11:30 and I am already into my DW dvds and bananagrams. Once again, I dominate. My other self just can't hack a good word game.

What to do, what to do.

Day Three was completely boring. Well, not totally boring. Well, somewhat boring, save for the excitement of my other neighbor dying. Yes. That's 2 in less than 24 hours. I ask if I can change units as this one seems to be bad luck. They laugh at me. I close my door and back away s..l..o..w..l..y.

I watched many, many episodes of DW. I noticed my elbows are dry ("moisturize me!!") I read my book some more (The Art of Racing in the Rain) Watched more DW. Laughed at the fact that the doctors around here are basically invisible, they never show up, at least not like you'd expect. In fact, my other "visitor" came a week early just to spice up my visit. And it brought along cramps and cravings just to make it all comforting and homey like. I feel special!

Very nice Brit returns for afternoon treatment. She notices I'm watching DW. Informs me of some other specials that David Tennant has appeared on recently. Fills my head with googling ideas to get me through the weekend. We talk of the wonder that was Tennant and Patrick Stewart performing RSC Hamlet. We laugh about Gordon Ramsey, How Clean is My House, more tea and lovely chips. I like this woman. Further cementing our powerball winning plans.

Dinner arrives. At 4:30. Who eats at 4:30. Perhaps it was dinner time in jolly old London town? 4:30. You know that means I'll be starving by...wait...NOW. I trek down to the parking lot scary cafeteria tent for hot water and snacks. I exit the building and am greeted by a wall of hot humid air, it literally made my throat clamp shut. How do people live in Charleston? The traffic is ridiculous, the humidity is awful. I just don't like it at all. I digress...

The area you have to traverse to enter scary tent is the campus smoking area. It is full. I make my way through the cloud of cancer and humidity and enter the tent. Tent is nearing closing time. There is nothing to eat in there. I buy--what else--a banana, get my hot water, and suddenly am very happy to have found Ocean Spray Cran Grape! Am happy again.

Exit the tent to discover it is now raining. Crap. Well, not actually raining crap. That was earlier in the day when I walked through a raging flock of pigeons reminiscent of the Birds. The hot water was worth it. But it was indeed raining and I was in my favorite flannel jim jam bottoms, which are a tad bit too long to begin with and walking in flip flops meant I would occasionally step on the heels. Yuck.

I spray the room with Love's Baby Soft, cause why not? It dawns on me that I have not turned on the television all day. Not once. Not even for a minute. That hasn't happened in ages. Decide to get on the internet even though it's hours earlier than I usually get on here. That's how bored I am. Looking to speed up time. Not working really.

My sutures are beginning to itch around my PICC site. There is major bruising. My arm still aches and has a radiating pain down through my wrist from when she hit a nerve while doing the procedure. In all the years nearly 10 PICC lines I've had, I've never had that happen. Not a fun feeling. I would not recommend it. Well....truthfully, it hurt and it was scary, but in hindsight it was sort of exciting and definitely got the adrenaline going. Had I known it was going to have such a residual effect I wouldn't have laughed it off at the time.

Is my arm hair getting longer? Or maybe it's darker. No, I think it's longer. Could it be both? Maybe I'm pale, that combined with the lighting makes my arm hair seem odd. Nah. My arm hair is changing.

I feel like opening my door and yelling, "Seven O'Clock and alllllllll's weeeeeelll."

Have you seen what they use to take dead bodies out of hospital rooms now? It used to be they'd throw a sheet over the corpse and wheel it out. Sometimes you'd see a standard issue zip front body bag. Nope. This looks like the top to a giant shoe box and it is wrapped in this black material of sorts that resembles a body bag. They take the big box top and put it over the bed. It's nuts! I've been surrounded by all things zombie in the last six months. World War Z, the Zombie Survival Guide, Zombieland, Supernatural 2 episodes ago, Smallville's most recent episode, etc. I have neighboring patients dropping like flies and all they can do is put a box over them? Dude! Use the bag! Zip that thing up! I hate to be disrespectful, but I mean, really. I'd like to think when I'm gone someone will at least secure me lest I come back to bite my family.

Did you know that dead bodies release gases? They do. They will move and they will moan and they will burp and fart. It's fracked up.

Uh-oh.

This place is getting to me. It's only Day Three and I'm showing signs of going psycho.

But really...they actually fart, it's true.

I wonder if the nurses would be mad if I slept with the dresser in front of my door?