It Might Get Messy

Indeed. I saw doctors this week. Palliative care specialist Dr. S re-upped all my meds and ascertained that I need to find some way, somehow, to pump in more calories. My weight is down rather drastically, approaching 175 pounds, a benchmark I probably last passed in maybe fifth grade. At this point, it is mostly up to me to deal with this contretemps. The docs have done their part, giving me THC for appetite and Zofran to suppress spew. All we need now is for me to find some way to get on top of things and dump in sufficient United Nations Emergency Rations to boost my biomass. 

However. Those of you who know me will recognize that personal discipline is not my strong suit. Of course, since we’re dealing with life and death at this point, the consequences of being 61 years old and needing adult supervision are stark. I gotta eat or I’m gonna die. Duh. 

The big picture stands in chirpy, sunny contrast. I remain cancer-free. Dr. H did the due diligence, examining my throat since I continue to hack up copious quantities of bright, red blood from both my trach tube and mouth. A quick check with the endoscope revealed that there is no obvious malignancy, certainly nothing approaching the scale of carcinoma that would precipitate overt bleeding. What there IS, apparently, is irritated, inflamed tissues, a direct outcome of the radiation treatments.

Which were more than a year ago. I gather that this irritated, inflamed, bleeding mess is permanent. Dammit. I was assuming…or hoping, at least…that “recovery” from the cancers and their treatments would engender happy and healthy mucous membranes throughout my otopharyngeal infrastructure. 

Bummer. In any case, we did a sort of sea-trial practice run for THE BEEAAACCHHH [copyright, trademark] this weekend, spending a few days in sunny southeastern Virginia. This fantastic visit with old friends provided the opportunity for me to reality-check the hardware, logistics, and processes I’m going to need to survive two weeks on the Outer Banks. 

The shakedown cruise revealed some weaknesses in the functional systems. For one thing, there’s the sheer damned bulk of materials needed to support operations. Two and a half days away from home requires half a dozen rolls of paper towels, a 12 pack of Coca Cola (caffeine free, of course), several bottles of Gatorade, ditto for water, plus a case of rations, 4 carefully counted bottles of meds (broken down into morning and evening flights), a couple bottles of cough syrup, large and small beakers for dealing with liquids, syringes, tape, and other small items necessary to wrestle meds, food and water into my recalcitrant physical being. Plus I’ve generated a garbage bag-and-a-half of trash. Scaling this up from 2 days to 2 weeks is a little frightening, probably something like the panic that gripped Eisenhower when he realized how much shit he had to get onto the blood-and-ordnance-strewn beaches of Normandy to allow his troops to function after they fought their way past the coastal strand. 

Ah, and then there’s the saga of the feeding tube infrastructure. Dr. H and I talked this over. There aren’t a lot of options for responding to full-on failure of apparatus that lets me pour liquids directly into my gastrointestinal tract. Replacing the sturdy system I have installed now requires anesthetic surgery. Read “complicated and expensive”. So we agreed to try to make the existing system last as long as possible. This is ok, I’ve already established that the big home improvement warehouse stores can provide parts needed to keep the external components operating. And if the internal parts fail? Well, that’s a little tricky. If it happens on like a Saturday, it means waiting at least until Monday, and possibly longer, as surgery must be scheduled. This would mean hospital admittance for IV fluids to keep me from shriveling into a 175 pound raisin. Dr. H has an emergency system we can use for the short term, should the primary system fail. This is a weird little balloon and tubing mechanism that requires I inject myself through muscle into stomach wall with the balloon that will then be inflated once it’s inside. I have a vision of a bad World War Two movie here, with our hero the hard-luck corporal trapped behind enemy lines with a gashed belly and protruding intestines repairing things with only a bottle of Cognac, a bayonet, and a couple feet of parachute cord for tools. 

Anyway. The overall picture is positive. I’m cancer-free, and though crippled, able to function. Regaining strength is clearly going to be a longer, slower slog than I would like, but the key is that I’m healthy enough to actually regain strength. 

So, I just gotta get to work. I’m on it. With two weeks at the beach pictured firmly in my mind as motivation, I’m ready to do what needs to be done. Because Live ‘Em While You Got ‘Em is more than a slogan, it’s a life imperative. My love and gratitude to you all. Have a slammin’ week everybody!!!