There’s a vibe in the soup … and there is more than a pinch of hubris
Did I really start the last post saying we have had no recent medical dramas and we were trying out living life as ‘normal’?
Well, that will teach us.
Here is the update:
Our Hero, typically, is determined that he will continue to work. He has a mural to paint for some valued clients and there are still those bills to be paid. Despite my reservations, he insists on driving himself for the several hundred miles to, at least, begin the job.
He packs all his medications into the car, including the oxygen tank for the cluster headaches. On route he picks up a very good friend who has volunteered to help.
I am left tending to The Hounds (all in an interesting hormonal condition), The Ancient Aga, the still sulking Septic Tank and a load of worry.
All seems to be going well for the first day. The following morning, however, I hear that Our Hero has been admitted to A and E in Dunfermaline hospital because he has been retching up copious volumes of blood. Fortunately our friend, who has recently returned from dodging tear gas canisters in Israeli occupied Palestine, is just the sort of person needed to cope with this sort of crisis. She copes with aplomb.
Of course, I want to be there immediately and immediately I am worried that I will not be able to get him home. But being the meddlesome wife that I am, I also want to make sure that the hospital fully understands his condition and the unconventional treatment regime he has been on, and ensure that when they get the endoscope down they will know what they are looking at.
I ring the hospital and ask to speak to the consultant. No response. There is no response several times, although I speak to some very nice nurses.
I ring our maverick surgeon who assures me that if it was a major blood vessel which had burst Our Hero would not be with us. He adds that whoever does the endoscopy on A and E probably won’t know what they are looking at anyway. He will be ‘on call’ should anyone want to talk to him.
When The Hounds and I eventually arrive at the hospital, Our Hero, although very frail, is evidently out of immediate danger. Propped up in the hospital bed, wearing the bilious green and yellow hospital gown, with his new chemo-induced thick dark eyebrows he looks a little like the wolf disguised as Red Riding Hood’s grandmother – a grandmother with very bad taste in night attire. And this is a wolf who has not had a good snack on anything for a very long time.
He is trying his best to look friendly, but is clearly very frustrated that he is there at all. And I know that if it were not for all the tubes attached to his very thin arms, he would like to be scooped up and taken home. (And I think I could carry him now and would have scooped him up if it had been possible.)
I am told he almost bolted when the palliative pain team arrived and he probably would have done so had he not been attached to all those tubes. That word ‘palliative’ does seem to have that effect on him. And why would it not? I am also told that he clearly has been putting up with a lot of pain. Well, I know that, and so does the oncologist.
I do see a consultant, after three or four days. It is an Upper GI surgeon – a rare breed and one we have not come across on our ‘journey’. He talks about ‘teams,’ and what ‘their’ team would do. I say we have no ‘team’ – there is the oncologist, with whom we have fallen out, and the GP. We exchange some ideas about the statistics on this cancer.
He then goes on to tell me about all the ways in which those with oesophageal cancer might die and that a major blood vessel bursting is probably a good way to go compared to couple of alternatives that are truly horrendous.
I already knew about some of the horrible ways of dying that might be coming. Our Hero still doesn’t.
Despite my brave attempts at being in control, I am afraid my palms are sweating somewhat when the Upper GI man shakes hands at the end of this meeting and he drops my hand as if he had just grappled with a wet haddock.
But we are home now.
The GP’s surgery has already been in touch – they have spoken to one of the doctors in the palliative care team who have been on the phone. There is a CT scan being arranged. Our Hero has patches of some opiate substitute, as well as liquid morphine and liquid paracetamol to control the pain.
The GPs are talking about the Macmillan nurse.
At the mere mention of Macmillan, Our Hero again looks as if he wants to bolt.
The good news is that according to the Upper GI man there is some dead tissue in the oesophagus which suggests that the photodynamic therapy is/was doing its job.
In the meantime, after two endoscopies, it is back to clear chicken soup. Our Hero is even struggling with that at the moment.
But he is better than yesterday ... So, we will keep hoping.
Bring on the vibes …
PS The staff at Queen Margaret’s Hospital in Dunfermaline were wonderful. Thank you.
