How I Spent My Summer
I had plans for the summer. It promised to be a fun one. The Preakness was coming to town. And even though there was no way I could afford a ticket, I was looking forward to The Laurel History Boys’ pre-Preakness field trip to Laurel Park. The Main Street Festival was coming up—always a good time, as long as there aren’t any exploding propane tanks or anyone driving through the crowd. There were also baseball games to attend, especially the Chesapeake Baysox, the Orioles’ AA minor league team located in nearby Bowie. That was the idea for the summer anyway. Life had other plans.
I had a bout of cancer a few years back, colon cancer to be precise. (PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Get the damn colonoscopy). One operation (leaving me with a semi-colon), two rounds of chemotherapy, and a brief hospital stay later, all signs looked good. My doctor assured me my markers were way down. This was a very good sign, so everything looked good. Until it didn’t.
Earlier this year the markers that were going down started going up. A CT scan confirmed that the cancer had returned and moved to my liver. To be fair, knowing my liver, I would have moved too. Anyway, I wonder what color my ribbon should be.
This round of chemo was different than before; much stronger this time. It led to some bad side effects, including a dramatic weight loss. (My diet secret: I stopped eating. I do not recommend this.) This led to my being hospitalized—the official diagnosis was “failure to thrive.” While in the hospital I was occasionally unconscious, sometimes hallucinating, raving paranoid, and had a nosebleed that lasted two days. I was so weak I couldn’t lift my right leg. So yeah…I wasn’t thriving.
Late in my hospital stay, I had to face something that had only been hypothetical up to then. When I got to the point that I was actually awake and more or less aware, I was visited by a hospital administrator with a batch of forms to sign. Among them was the Do Not Resuscitate form. I was told that signing this was voluntary. It meant that no “heroic measures” would be made to extend my life, should said measures be required to do so. Phrases like “quality of life” and “vegetative state” were used.
Now I’ve always thought this was a good idea, in theory, anyway. I mean, I hate the idea of lying in a hospital bed while hooked up to a bunch of machines keeping me alive with no chance of recovery. On the other hand, does that mean if I have a heart attack everyone is going to stand around while I turn blue and die? Would it be too much to ask that they at least use those electric paddles I’ve seen in every hospital show on TV and shock my heart to start it beating again? What if I choked on a bit of food—would they do the Heimlich Maneuver on me or just sit back and say, “Well, he had a good life”? In the end, I did sign the document and was given a DNR wristband. Here’s hoping the staff knows the difference between heroic but futile attempts versus mundane, business-as-usual treatments.
I wasn’t in the hospital for that long. I was transferred to a “Skilled Nursing Facility” as they called it. When I arrived at the nursing home, I was in slightly better shape than when I first got to the hospital…which isn’t saying much. At least I was no longer a semi-conscious raving paranoid with a bloody nose, so I had that going for me. I was still a bit foggy. I stuck a Post-it note on my bulletin board with “blood clot” and “bedpan” written on it because I drew a blank every time I needed to use them in conversation.
The facility is nice. I was given a single room next to a patient who regularly growled and cursed at high volume. To my ears, he sounded like an R-rated Tasmanian Devil.
As far as the food goes, it was a mixed bag. When I first got there, I was considered a choking risk. Because of that, all my food was pureed. The problem here—if I didn’t have an appetite for regular food, I sure didn’t want to eat pureed food. Eventually I was allowed to have chopped food, which was a bit better. As I got stronger and my appetite returned, I was allowed to audition to eat regular food. I was given small amounts of real food under the watchful eye of the speech therapist. I had to eat the food and survive the experience. I passed with flying colors. I could now eat the regular, industrial strength, usually edible and sometimes tasty, food.
As far as the nurses, aides, therapists, and other medical personnel, all I can say is that they all treated me with uniform kindness, cheerfulness, and professionalism. There was an occasional problem with the language. They spoke English while I used the native language of my home: Planet Mewshaw. I had heard of chemo brain and now that I have experienced it firsthand, I am a believer. It was fun watching people’s responses as I referred to my blood clot as a grape—and I would rehearse before I asked a nurse for a bedpan. They were a great bunch of folks, but not a mind reader among them.
Shortly after I arrived, I began rehab. At first, I was so weak, due to muscle loss, that I couldn’t raise my right leg. I had a long way to go. I lost muscle when I stopped eating, and I lost around 50 pounds. Again, I do not recommend this approach to weight loss.
I’ve worked with several therapists. The goal was to be able to go home, and to function normally. My main issue was steps. I live in a townhouse with five floors, seven steps between each floor, so being able to take the stairs was a priority.
This is a good place to thank everyone who has helped me. Again, I had several therapists without whom I would have remained bedbound, depending upon the nurses and aides for sponge baths and bedpans. Speaking of nurses and aides (as I mentioned before), I was cared for by a large number of the staff with a professionalism that I greatly appreciated. I owe them all a debt of gratitude.
I also need to thank my family and friends. I have one brother and three sisters, all of whom visited. My three sisters—Betsy, Teeny, and Jean—all had experience dealing with the ill and infirm. In particular, Betsy, a retired nurse, was invaluable when I needed to have doctor-speak translated into plain English. I also had a number of friends, in-laws, nieces, and nephews visit, call, and send cards, making my time at the facility much more endurable.
Then there was my wife, Lee. She came by most days, ran errands for me, smuggled in snacks and soft drinks, all the while holding down the home front, preparing the house for my return, and all while working a part-time job.
I have a joke I tell when I thank someone. I’ll say that I am forever in their debt, then explain that it means I will never pay them back. In this case the joke is true—I am forever in debt to so many people, and I will never be able to repay them.
John Mewshaw has been a Laurel resident since 1986. A graduate of the University of Maryland, he has been an amateur photographer for as long as he can remember.
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