medication – Use What Exists

The Road is Now Calling, And I Must Away.

I wrote this on Friday night, July 30^th before I went to bed. I kept delaying putting my head to pillow; not ready yet for this last night to end. This past weekend was bittersweet. We held my mom’s one year memorial service; her final instructions to me and the Greek tradition now fulfilled. While we raised a glass in her memory, I looked around the circle of friends and family gathered in our garden, glasses in hand waiting for our son Richard to speak, as he so eloquently does. They’ve all been on this rollercoaster journey with us since Rich’s first diagnosis in 2004. As have those who couldn’t join us but have sent their messages of love and support. For seventeen years we’ve been surrounded by a family created over the years who have kept us afloat mentally, physically, and spiritually. They have celebrated and cried with us. It’s hard to relocate far from their warmth although we know it, and they, will be with us always wherever we are. So below are my thoughts on that last night as I walked through the house with only the lights from the street coming through the windows. As I did, the final song of Peter Jackson’s movies ran through my head. Although this is not the last goodbye, they did seem fitting.

July 30^th, 11pm:

It’s a bit surreal. As I have been since Covid started, I was working remotely. Only today the house is near to empty. The rugs, lamps, photos, furniture is for the most part gone. What made this house our home for the last thirty-odd years is on its way to Rochester, NY. There waits our new house. In the area of the city known as the South Wedge, we can walk to the river, parks, pubs and restaurants. Initially it was to be our getaway-near-to-the-kids; a charming 1888 brick townhouse that would host grandkid sleepovers and visiting guests.

And then the reality hit. Rich’s health is better up there. The brick house has always been a two family. Our space on the first floor offers one level living. Without those stairs, Rich’s BP remains steady even as we tackle the expected projects to make this place our own. We’ve tested this for months, alternating weeks up and weeks on Long Island. Every time, within 24 hours of being downstate, Rich’s BP would drop. There is no way to live on one level in this cape style house without some major changes. Our heart failure guru said it best: “You’ve found the problem and you found the solution. You need to implement it.”

News travelled fast. An hour later, we’re at the office of our kidney failure guru. “I hear you’re moving.”

And so here we sit in a near empty house. To our chagrin, we find even the toilet paper has been packed and shipped. The time between decision and today has flown by. What we refused to consider a few months ago is now a reality.

Our files from NSUH will be transferred to University of Rochester Hospital system. What a read that will be, to be brought up to date for our new health care group! Appointments and meetings will take place in the coming months as we learn to navigate this new mental and physical reality.

Tomorrow at 6am we load up the car with some things that we didn’t trust to a truck and for the last time as Long Island homeowners, we cross the bridges and head up to our future.

…Many places I have been
Many sorrows I have seen
But I don’t regret
Nor will I forget
All who took that road with me

To these memories I will hold
With your blessing I will go
To turn at last to paths that lead home
And though where the road then takes me
I cannot tell
We came all this way
But now comes the day
To bid you farewell

I bid you all a very fond farewell

(Billy Boyd, The Last Goodbye)

Don’t fight forces, use them.

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As we drove out of Belfast for the last time six months ago, we passed under a sculpture of a sphere within a sphere. Two geodesic wire creations, one nestled within the other. The guys had gotten waylaid on their way to park the car as we checked into our hotel and this was a landmark that they recognized. I couldn’t help but think what that visionary, designer of the geodesic dome, Buckminster Fuller would have thought. His words are the title of this post. Smart man, B.

That the sculpture, named RISE, represents a new chapter and seems to be apropos today as well.

When Rich first went through chemo in 2004, he was advised by an oncology nurse to keep moving… whatever he could do, keep moving. She went on to explain that he would feel better and could help with side effects.

As always, Rich took this to heart and, once he wasn’t able to work any longer, he walked. He walked the trails at our nearby park as the neuropathy took hold and he couldn’t feel his feet. He kept walking those paths until the numbness was up to his knees. He said, “It’s not very busy at the park when I go. If I fell, I don’t know how I could get help!” So, he began walking our neighborhood instead. When that got to be too tough, he walked our small garden. He walked laps throughout the house. He kept walking.

When we began our journey again ten years later, he walked. He walked from the train to the office. When again he had to stop working, he continued his walks at home. Whenever in the hospital, we walked the halls. The nurse had said to keep moving and move he did.

When we entered the stem cell isolation unit, he walked, counting his laps and trying to improve each day. For four weeks we strolled up and down the hallway within a hallway, marking our pace and distance. In all that time, one day he missed walking. One day, when his counts were the lowest and his stomach was protesting the assault of the beneficial poisons. But always he remembered… keep moving. With a shaky hand, he reached for the two bottles of ensure that were on his meal trays and began arm exercises using those bottles as weights. Keep moving.

That has been his way throughout our journey.

Movement will help. Push past the fatigue and fog and keep moving. Leg lifts in the recliner, exercises with a walker, using household objects to work the arms.

And then congestive heart failure comes to roost and he’s limited. Limited in what he can lift, push, pull, carry. Inclines can’t be traversed. Care to be taken.

The universe has changed the rules and accepting these changes is hard. The ramifications of pushing past is no longer simply a day of rest and recuperation. His heart isn’t cooperating. After overdoing, his blood pressure drops. Less oxygen to the brain leads to confusion, slurred words, frustration, fluctuations in mood. Anyone who didn’t know better, would think he was drunk. Days are needed to recuperate.

It took us a while to put two and two together on this. At first we thought it was the meds as these episodes seemed to happen whenever there was a change in dosage. What really seems to be the case, is that the change in dosage gave Rich a bit of a boost which gave him a false sense of healing. So, he walked. And lifted. And had these episodes of ataxia.

For close to six months, lifting more than he should or exerting himself with exercise that formerly would have done more than send him for a nap, now had him on a different kind of roller coaster… one that set our house into chaos.

The hardest part of this carnival ride was for Rich to accept limitations. Our conversations with our gurus seemed to always include discussions on fatigue. Rich would bring up his disappointment in the backward progress of his energy levels. And what we would experience if he did too much. Like many a four-year-old, he tested his boundaries and not often to a good effect. Our conversations at home were like nagging on my end and whining at his. This isn’t the way we expected our lives to be although, honestly, the man IS still technically a toddler! But how to put a grown man in time-out?

With any disease or injury that has lasting effects, there is a mourning period. No longer is the person who they once were. Physically, mentally, emotionally, there are changes. And the mourning is not just limited to the patient but encompasses all who know and love them. The trick is to not let this mourning dictate the future. Our wise man of the geodesic domes Buckminster Fuller said, “You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.” It was time for that change. It was time to act for that change. As always, it was for us to change and fit into the existing reality in a way that would work for us.

To that end, Rich and I puzzled the differences over the past year. We looked at his energy camping with Jake in July… hiking in Ireland in September. The decrease in abilities for distance. The walking had stopped. We looked at the episodes of seeming ataxia. We tried to figure out causes…. And solutions. How to make that change we wanted actually to happen?

This month something clicked. One year since the idea of congestive heart failure was brought up, it was like a light switch went off.

When we visited the heart failure guru, we were thrilled by her comments on Rich’s progress; he’s now maximized and optimized on his medications. He is tolerating them well. His kidney function is still off but stable. All what she and we hoped for. And yet, she had concerns. His fatigue. It was time to address it.

First, she suggested we see a sleep specialist and set up an appointment to see if Rich had what is called central apnea. Unlike obstructive apnea, this is a failure of the brain to transmit the proper signals to breathing muscles. It literally forgets to say “breathe!” While this type of sleep apnea is uncommon as compared to obstructive apnea, it is a risk for those with congestive heart failure. The symptoms seem to fit. She sends a request for an appointment to the proper department.

Next up, we discussed a more interventional solution. On the current medications, Rich’s ejection fraction (EF) has improved to where it is now close to the 40% it was and has been following his 2004 chemo. The cut-off for an implanted defibrillator is 35% and we are well past that. Now a normal EF is generally 65%; meaning 65% of the blood in the left ventricle is pushed out with each heartbeat. Below 35%, the heart needs some internal help.

Our heart failure guru feels that Rich may benefit from, not a defibrillator as originally had been discussed, but a pacemaker. That extra boost would help him maintain his energy. Other patients like him have. To see if it would be an effective protocol, we’re advised to have a CPET… a cardio pulmonary exercise test. This, unlike a stress test, would be on a stationary bicycle and would monitor, not just his heart and breathing rates, but the amount of oxygen his body, his muscles, are using and how much CO2 he is producing. Enzymes, mitochondria, heart, valves, lungs… the data that it can gather is stunning. And will answer questions… many more than we’ve had answers to before. And all from a simple bike ride.

And, she suggested, that if we were to go with a pacemaker, if the test indicated it would be helpful, then we should have the coil wiring implanted at the same time as well that would be viable for a defibrillator… in case in ten years or so it may be needed, it would be a simpler procedure just to switch out the box.

Ten years. Ten years. TEN! Instead of the heart transplant she first discussed with us, now we’re talking a quick change of a small box… if necessary. Y’know that stinging feeling you get when tears are imminent but you’re trying to keep it all in. Yeah, that. Suddenly, we’re talking a whole new outlook.

But first, a little reality hits. Rich is buoyed by the doctor’s assessment and, in doing so, goes overboard on activities the next day. By the time I get home, we’re in ataxialand. And we’re in deep. There is a double-edged sword to this; on one side, anything I say he will forget and on the other, anything I say he will forget. If marriage is a series of compromises, then sometimes we all bite our lip and are careful in our words. But to paraphrase the question of that tree in the woods, if a wife yells and the husband forgets it, does it exist? This could be a very cleansing opportunity!

Do we take advantage of this? We do. But the yelling is of truths and frustrations and despite the volume, they are heard. Yelling becomes talking and the talking builds from the truths and the frustrations that were said. And time passes and we keep talking. We revisit activities he has enjoyed in the past and discuss how to make them fit his current reality. We talk about possibilities. We talk about patience. We talk about us. Whether this is the pivotal moment or other factors are at play, acceptance is in the house. It was a long night.

Two weeks have passed without an episode. Rich has become active in the garden. Small tasks that are within his current wheelhouse are being done daily. He is more in tune with when he is reaching the tipping point. He takes those moments to stop and rest. Due to a knee injury he can’t take the CPET testing yet. He also delays his cardio rehab that was scheduled to begin next week. Setbacks but otherwise making progress.

Setbacks. I get home from work after writing these words and again we’re in the land of ataxia. This time we surmise it’s carrying a heavy box from Amazon and some solo food shopping the associated bags that weigh more than they should. BP drops, wonkiness rises. It’s another long night. But it’s just a blip… it doesn’t feel like it but we learn from it and move on. Keep moving.

So as the weather begins to warm and the days are noticeably longer, as his knee begins to heal, walking will happen again. In preparation, we work to schedule ketamine infusions to stem the neuropathy pain that is beginning again. We’re getting ready. The park is waiting.

“How often I found where I should be going only by setting out for somewhere else.” ~ BF

Determination and Courage

Maria R. Conklin, writer of the blog Journey of a Tired Heart, writes of exhaustion beautifully and gets to the crux of what it is like to experience a fatigue that only those with a chronic illness or going through devastating treatment for a disease can understand. Those of us whose hearts are with our loved ones on these journeys can only nod and think “Yes, this is what I see. Here is truth.”

What resonates most, as Rich and I inhabit this place where living is a world of bright spots interspersed into a continual fog, are the closing paragraphs:

“Is exhaustion an emotion? I don’t think so, but is there a state of being more intense than exhaustion? I can’t think of an appropriate word to describe it, but it’s the state of physical exhaustion to the degree of leaky emotions. You know what I mean: when your eyes are tightly closed and you finally fully exhale, relaxing every muscle in your body and a warm teardrop slides down your cheek. Then another, and another. Just a few though – and it cannot even be defined as crying.

It’s not crying. It’s all that determination and courage you had to employ to get through the past four hours – at least what is left of them anyway. You let them flow, take in a deep breath and then let it out slowly. Just as quickly as they began, they end. No more tears. Just a sweet, wonderful, lifeless kind of surrender that can only be understood by those who have walked the tightrope between life and death.”

Truth.

Since Rich’s hospitalization in August for that exercise related tachycardia, we’ve been traveling a very fine line between medication and wellness. As we’ve discussed before, the triumvirate of the main heart meds introduced over the summer are problematic for Rich when all three live in our world. Less so than when taken together at the same time during the day, but even the staggered dosing we follow now brings more fatigue than we’ve had to deal with for a while. After months of his energy failing more each day, we wonder for the first time if we’re with the right heart doctors. We try not to despair.

Unlike all our previous journeys, our goals are now ambiguous. We know that we’re not optimized on heart failure medications. But what is optimized? We’re told we’re on the lowest dose of entresto. So where do we ultimately want to be on doses? We know that there are variables that make this question tough to answer. How Rich’s blood pressure, kidney function and ejection fraction respond all need to be taken into consideration.

Even well aware of these variables, at this point, the frustration we feel makes us want to shake our doctors and scream “For fuck’s sake! How long are going to continue on the lowest dose of everything and feel like shit?”

Apparently, no shaking and screaming is necessary. Sometimes it’s finding the right time and the right person. We meet, as we do every two to three weeks, with the nurse-practitioner at the heart failure doctor’s office. We discuss wellness and issues. We discuss blood pressure and blood work. We discuss holidays and everydays. The conversation alone heartens us and happens organically when the nurse practitioner casually mentions a dosage goal. This gives us an opening to enquire about the other cardiac meds and get the answers we were so looking for.

We have a plan. We have a goal… or a set of goals. As per the heart failure guru, we want to max out on entresto and metoprolol. We want to adjust up/down/sideways any of the others to optimize heart function. When we hear that those other meds may be, can be, eliminated, we rejoice. If we can stick to two, Rich can once again feel that rush of energy as he did this summer. That feeling of “before cancer” that makes all the difference. We now hope for that goal.

Blood work is taken. EKG recorded. We wait for the news… can the meds be tweaked this week? And with blessed relief comes the phone call we waited for… raise the entresto. Finally, we’re moving in the right direction. The nurse gives us hope. She tells us perhaps when we see them again at the start of the new year, we can raise it to the next… the last… dose. Other meds have been halved giving rise to more rejoicing. This lifts our spirits and we’re ready to face the holidays. Glad tidings indeed.

Of course, we also brace ourselves. Each dosage change of the heart and heart related medications has an adjustment period that is brutal. It isn’t so much the water weight gain from the changes, it’s more an emotional roller coaster.

It doesn’t last long but seems an eternity when we’re in the middle of it all. Fatigue hits like a ton of bricks. The recliner is the only place Rich can be. And then comes the end of the first full new dosage day. We’re told that Rich’s reaction can be normal but it surprises us each time. He runs through what seem to be drunken manic-depressive episodes every five minutes. On the one hand, he’s laughing, way too much, about nothing and everything in such a way that it becomes a concern. It feels forced and indeed it is, but not in a way that Rich can help. Seconds later, he’s in the depths of despair, apologizing for all this trouble while he tries to maintain composure. And it generally is less than successful.

During these times, his blood pressure drops… crashing to numbers like 81/41. His gait is troubled and unsteady. The meds are playing and playing hard. Pickles help. They balance his electrolytes and bring up his blood pressure gently. We monitor his BP continually. The night is long and we’re both exhausted by the time we fall asleep. The one saving grace, we agree, is that the morning will have brought better balance.

Rich’s Determination and Courage.

My Complete Awe.

Let’s get this new year started!

It is a truth, universally acknowledged

So begins Pride and Prejudice. In the BBC mini-series Lost in Austen, the female lead begins the story with the same phrase…. It is a truth, universally acknowledged…

But, being obsessed with all things P&P, finds herself in what she calls a post-modern moment and in many ways, it disturbs her. She is to try to keep the story going as Austen wrote despite the fact that she seems to have switched places in time with Elizabeth but as herself and her very modern presence sends the various story lines spinning off in unforeseen and unwritten directions. New truths develop.

We’re finding unforeseen circumstances and truths following us on our current journey.

And the last few days, truths have been coming at us a little more strongly than one would like. As Rich and I walk the halls between specialist visits, we overhear the PCA telling a nurse “… but you aren’t going through what SHE is going through. That’s the difference.”

When we’re in these rooms in these halls in this hospital, it’s very easy to forget, or ignore, the journey that others are on. And that their outcomes may be very different from what we are experiencing. Or they are your possible future. The remarks of this one PCA strike home. None of us knows what the other is going through. There are similarities, there are strengths and weaknesses that affect outcomes. There is the way each situation is approached that can impact one’s stay. Or one’s leaving.

The reminder of compassion and patience is one that is needed right now as well.

This is a hospitalization of waiting. While the leads taped to Rich’s chest are gathering data, Rich himself has little to do. As the v-tach leaves no blips of pain, no stumble of the feet, no dizziness in its wake, the wait seems pointless. But it’s necessary. It is a truth. We must have patience. As Rich feels nothing during the v-tach, there is a truth to his health that we have not, til now, acknowledged. There is a danger there. We have to recognize that it exists. Waiting. Lurking.

Day two and our Heart Failure doctor brings us more truths. Entresto, a medication that did not sit well with Rich and stopped after a few days, is to be started again. We’re hesitant. We’re not convinced. And then she hits us with a solid truth. Humor has left her eyes. Those eyes bore into Rich’s. They will not be ignored.

“People DIE from the heart condition you have. They DIE. Not YOU. Not on my watch. We will find a way for this medication and we will find it NOW. Waiting until you return from Ireland is not an option. We can’t wait that long. This is your LIFE.”

Yes ma’am.

She is not to be denied! Her truth, our truth, cannot be denied.

Having had issues with this drug, we uncharacteristically agree to stay overnight so that Rich can be monitored and his reaction gauged so that dosage intervals and the timing of other parts of his CHF cocktails can be modified to bring the best possible optimization of all meds. That is our goal. Once we reach that optimization, Rich will need to be on these doses, yet to be reached, for three months. At that point, more tests, measuring heart function and ejection fraction, will determine if the internal cardiac defibrillator will be needed. For now it is too soon. Despite the v-tach, it is too soon in the process.

That we have chosen to stay rather than self-monitor at home, is unusual for us. The truth is, this medication scares us. The side effects hit Rich hard. They don’t afford good quality of life as they were taken before. Our ability to take this home and travel through it on our own doesn’t sit well with us, though it is offered to us as an option. Our doctors know us well. But we feel this truth that they have so eloquently urged on us… We need to be here now. The timing of when this medication is to be taken and when the others should be dispensed is modified. We need to follow this protocol as much as possible. No longer will Rich be able to tip a handful of meds into his palm and take them en masse. Patience. Your truth now guides this new process… we need to stagger meds and avoid overlap for optimization.

We give in to the sleep that is so needed. But as in all hospitals, the time to wake will come soon. And repeatedly. There is a price to allowing others to carry your burden. It is a price we gladly pay this night. The truth, our truth, is that we gladly hand this burden to those who do have our best interests in mind, although their plan isn’t always what we wished. They don’t know what we are going through, but take on the responsibility so that we can rest. For now.

The morning’s tests and data will give us a new truth. We hope it is one we can swallow!

When Cardiology Meets Obstetrics

When we were pregnant with our third child, we were told to attend a refresher Lamaze class as ten years had passed since our last pregnancy. Figuring a free tote bag and some diaper coupons would be worth it, we dutifully went. In the middle of the class, the nurse leading the group told us about a new doctor in the practice. Fresh off the obstetrics assembly line, no one wanted to give birth on his watch. They encouraged us, however, to make at least one appointment with him as we neared our respective due dates. Meet the man in case he is on duty when your water breaks.

We did and as we walked out of the office, we said to each other, if this was our first pregnancy, we’d be scared shitless! This guy gave us every worst-case scenario, told us to get every test in the book. He had new knowledge and he wanted to share it…he couldn’t help but share it. By the time we left, there was the potential for a real freak-out. He led with disaster.

As fate would have it, he was the doctor in the practice that was on call and ultimately, the guy we were glad to have by our side when an emergency c-section was needed. His gentle yet sure manner was a perfect counterpoint to this new development.

Today we have seen more specialists and had more procedures than one would think possible in one day.

After a full afternoon of waiting for the angiogram to be done Wednesday, it was finally our turn. The expectation the doctors (and we) had was that the pesky left bundle branch blockage would show to be a pesky nuisance, the root of all discomfort. They’d clear up the blockage, pop a stent in place, and voila! Our ejection fraction would adjust itself from its normal 40-45% from the early chemo days to a healthy and normal 65% and we’d be running marathons in no time, despite the fact that we don’t run marathons.

We do, however, have one of Rich’s original goals in place… we’ve booked a trip to Ireland in September. In three short months we’d be, with friends, experiencing the often wild and awe-inspiring island country from top to bottom and round again. Waterfalls, rivers, mountains, ocean cliffs, ancient ruins, pubs, villages… the stuff of literature and dreams. With Arlene and Kevin doing the driving and, as before, our support and companions, we’d see our goal come to life. We find we’re telling everyone so they understand our personal goals… This little tune up of ours, is merely a tune up to complete our preparations before we’re flying off to the land of my fore-father’s birth. And one of Rich’s dreams. Will the results of this hospitalization affect those plans?

Rich came out of that operating room and, test not quite complete, we’re admitted for a stay in the cardiac unit. Our tune up is not so quickly done. Rich’s heart has had since March a mere 15-20% ejection fraction. Time has not improved it. There is fluid in the pericardium which is the congestive heart failure that was suspected. But not only the left side of his heart is weakened. The doctors are dismayed to find the right side is weakened as well. The low blood pressures he has been experiencing, this angiogram and the tests that are to come will show that heart failure is the right description of what he has been experiencing. His blood hasn’t got the oomph to make the circulation effective… the pump is broken. Our own cardio doctor is recommending that we be seen here by the cardiomyopathy group.

Rich has been given a double dose of Lasix and admitted to the cardiac ICU floor; the CCU. Once more, he in a hospital bed, me in the standard vinyl recliner, and we settle in for the night, looking forward to the morning rounds where we’ll get some answers. As always when in crisis, we’re glad to be where we are.

One of our first doctors to stop in is from the cardiomyopathy group. She gives us a brief rundown on Rich’s condition and how it applies to her specialty. She applauds and approves the ketogenic way of eating we do. She will stop in later in the day.

When we do see her again, her demeanor has changed. She begins discussing what our options for treatment will be for the heart failure Rich is experiencing. Her opening is about heart transplants. Wait, what?! We went from expecting a quick stent procedure to ripping out his heart? She discusses the benefits of having the transplant assessment done in conjunction with the other evaluative testing Rich is undergoing in order to have that all in place.

While it makes a certain sense, it reminds us of that obstetrician 26 years ago who felt the need to give us all the doomsday possibilities, so eager was he to impart his new-found knowledge. Instead here we are listening to grant money, no cost to us thanks to a grant and adding to the growing prestige of the heart program in this hospital. Wow, we hit the jackpot! She ends with “but of course, our goal is to leave you with the heart you were born with and find other solutions first.” Alrighty then. Better. Because a groupon for a transplant is just too bizarre.

We listen to the rest of the options including a heart pump which would entail another four week hospital stay or simple medications… the last being the treatment of choice. Visions of Ireland begin to fade.

20180607_165004 — First try for swan catheter. Before it turned into a Dexter set.

In between that first and second conversation are the tests, procedures and consults. His ejection fraction still at 15% is confirmed. Next, they stop his current heart meds and begin with Milrinone which is to help the contractions of his heart so the flow of blood will be stronger. After a few hours to let the meds begin to do their work, they feed a swan catheter into the artery in his neck. They will use this, while it is all hooked up to a monitor, to measure his heart output or how well the pumping action is improving. Improvement being our personal preference! Twice they try and fail. His room, set up as a sterile operating room, looks like a crime scene. It’s decided that they will go to the cath lab to use some radiography to guide them along. Turns out some scar tissue from his chemo port needed to be cleaned up and then they were set. We thought what he was getting would look similar to the triple lumen that was used in the stem cell unit. Discreet. What he now sports looks like an array of medals on epaulets; his shoulders dripping with access points off a slew of IV tubing. And the catheter’s end, coming out of his neck, forms a swan neck type curve and connects to all these medals of honor.

Resized_20180607_225113 — just a portion of the medals of honor

There are x-rays, sonograms, attempts to insert an A (arterial) line in Rich’s arms for additional monitoring. His veins are too compromised due to his condition. The odds are they will plump up when the pulses are improved. It’s decided to wait 24 hours and try again.

With all the invasive procedures and contrasts used for helping us to find answers, as well as mentally processing the unexpected diagnoses and possible treatments, the night is uncomfortable on a number of levels. Sleep eludes us. But there are signs that these new meds are working. Belly bloat way down and breathing eased. It’s a busy night and we hope we’ll have time for rest in the coming day.

The good news comes early in the cardiac care unit. An x-ray is needed daily to check the placement of the catheter. The readings that are coming from the monitor hooked up to the swan catheter are more than we could have hoped for. The Milrinone is helping Rich’s heart and besides the expected changes that will bring, we’re thrilled that his oxygen levels, which had been anywhere from 80 to 100 are found to be a full on 100% O2 saturation without any supplemental oxygen. This truly proves that so much of what our pulmo doctors have suspected.

Finally, the daily weigh-in. In 48 hours, Rich has lost twenty pounds of water weight. The fluid around the heart in the pericardium and in his belly is lessened. Hydralazine is added to help open the veins to let the improved output flow.

The downside to these meds are that they give his creatinine levels a slight rise. All tests have shown that his kidneys are clear of any issues other than damage that is also chemo induced. Our nephrologist feels that the steady elevated numbers have been stable since his cancer treatment so our patient’s higher than the norm numbers is something we’ll monitor but will not interfere with. This added blip from the new meds is explained by her in a way that proves her compassion. “Our main concern is Rich’s cardiac health and his personal well-being. If his comfort and daily life as well as his cardiac health needs these medications, we can be comfortable with this new number for his kidneys.”
It’s also felt that, like his pulmo function, his kidney function will ultimately head in a healing direction and thus better numbers as his cardiac function improves. That this doctor is looking at the whole picture of living life confirms so much for us. This team of caring health professionals have blessed us with their knowledge and persistence.

The plan now is to tweak medications to optimum levels, currently adding in and create the balance Rich needs. Once those are set up using IV infusions, we’ll then transition to oral meds for home use. Making sure heart and lung function maintain improvement and reach the goals we need to go home is the next step. Monitoring and less and less invasively through the weekend, we expect optimistically to be here til mid-week.

Lastly, our cardiomyopathy doctor, the one with the heart transplant conversation stops by again. She’s thrilled with the turn-around that has occurred. Before she leaves, she enthusiastically said “Remember that horror we talked about yesterday? Forget it. Forget it all. Those needs are good and gone!”

Tonight we expect to sleep soundly.

Loving all the good news. And Rich’s neck ware, the swan catheter that’s attached to the medals of honor.

You Can Only Come to the Morning Through the Shadows. ~ Tolkien

The rain has ended and the night is quiet. The sound of the soft breeze in the leaves of the birch is the only accompaniment outside. Our windows are open.

We are once again sleeping in the little bedroom on the first floor. Stairs are near to impossible and small tasks leave Rich gasping. Oxygen levels are all over the place. Balance is a thing of the past. Thankfully, infections are not with us this night. But breathing is shallow, difficult, and noisy.

Rich attempts sleep in his recliner; laying flat it’s impossible to breathe. As the night moves on, the recliner isn’t working any longer. His breathing is labored. The night sounds are no longer quiet although his usual snoring doesn’t exist. Once again, doses are checked, timing discussed and more medications are considered. Days and nights are upside down. We settle into that now familiar routine. As Tolkien’s quote that gives a title to this post, we’re in the shadows.

Since Rich was discharged in March, we experienced a brief and very slight uptick and then a steady downhill trend.

We met with our specialists shortly after we left NSUH as the discharge instructions required. An additional follow-up with our immune doctor shows that Rich’s body does produce new B cells… however they don’t mature which means they do not protect him from infections as they should. They do not produce the antibodies needed. Immunotherapy is suggested since his infusions in the hospital have protected him well. But we do need to also take into consideration the side effects that concerned our stem cell guru when she discussed immunotherapy as a possibility with us in March while Rich and I strolled the hallways on 7 Monti.

As the kidneys are most affected, we’ve added a nephrologist to the specialist mix. Creatinine level has shown to be elevated throughout our journey but with some thorough research on the doctor’s part, it’s concluded that the elevated number has been for the most part stable since his stem cell transplant. Probably a new normal from the intense chemo. We have a renal ultrasound scheduled to document and confirm no other issues, but are otherwise approved for immunotherapy and ketamine treatments as long as the dosages remain as they were before.

And here we are. Most answers are as we have hoped them to be or what we expected. And yet the breathing issues remain and continue their slow but steady downward trend. Our cardiologist had advised us to see him three months post hospitalization to give what he called the insult, the injury, time to heal. In two weeks we’re scheduled to see him. But our concerns peak and we contact him to let him know where we are.

Again, we are blessed with the health team we have. They listen and understand our concerns. This doctor, our cardio guru, understood our fears four years ago when we first went to see him. Our oncologist recommended we see a cardiologist given the doses of chemo Rich had his first go-around in 2004, particularly since the MUGA scan showed some areas of abnormality that were not there in 2003 as part of that pre-chemo testing. When our guru told us in 2014 that we should consider an angiogram, we asked if we could refuse. Rich had been through so much with bone marrow biopsies and radioactive goop and port installations… the invasions to his body went on and on. At that point, to consider an allowing a catheter to be threaded from his groin to his heart was the tipping point for him. Our cardio doctor agreed it didn’t have to happen. He would get EKG records from our GP, and we’d come in for the followup tests between each cycle. We could get by that way. We were relieved.

Four years have passed and thanks to the doctor’s diligence, we’ve been able to avoid the cardio catheterization. But now it’s recommended once more. This time without hesitation we say yes. We need these answers. Our doctor explained that this will allow him to fully see the function of Rich’s heart, arteries and veins, as well as take a look at his lungs and how they are interacting with the heart. Answers. It will give us the answers he needs to diagnose any heart disease instead of the “probably” we have now. Therapy, meds and lifestyle changes will be clear. We agree. The time has come. Let’s fix this!

It has been a long week waiting for the insurance approval. On June 6^th, instead of the cardio rehab we had been scheduled for, we’ll be at NSUH for the angiogram and the answers we seek. In the meantime, I watch this very odd rhythm…the rise and fall of his chest with a hiccup in between … and I know that watching is not as difficult as this breathing is to him, but it feels awfully close.

We look forward to those answers, we look forward to the solutions, we look forward to us both being able to take a deep breath and the night sounds to once more be just the night. With Rich’s snoring… ya know… normal.

Adding Insult to Injury

In the month since Rich’s hospital discharge, we’ve met again with all our specialists; this time in an outpatient setting. The appointments set up prior to our trip to the ER …set up by chance… become perfectly aligned for follow-up. One by one, each one gives us their opinion on where we are and what direction we should go.

First up is our PET/CT scan. Once more Rich is drinking radioactive goop and getting injected with a lead protected syringe that is delivered in a lead box. Biohazards galore. We’re thankful that this test has been approved. For the first fourteen years living with cancer, our insurance has never denied a single test or procedure. Then last year we were thrown for a loop… No PET scan. We were informed that, despite a peer-to-peer review with our stem cell guru, Rich was eligible for a CT scan only. The near to continuous pneumonia bouts that have been our life since the holidays four months ago is the blessing that has brought this change. It is only a few days after coming home from the latest stay in the hospital hospital that we have the PET/CT scan. It is sure to light up the lungs a bit as there is still a lingering pneumonia, but the gurus all determine that it’s ok to have the test.

We have also brought new specialists into our world. In December, we visited, at our pulmonologist’s request, an allergist/immunologist. We thought that perhaps, like his childhood vaccines, the stem cell may have reset and lost the efficacy of the allergy shots he received in the 1980’s. The test showed those shots were still doing their job. These infections were not allergy related. As an immunologist, the doctor also ran a panel to check Rich’s immunology levels. Antibodies that are known as immunoglobulin, are proteins that are used by a well-functioning immune system to ward off bacteria and viruses. You know, all those that we’ve been having difficulties with for so long. She said, in January, that Rich’s antibodies are where you would expect them to be. No worries.

But now, a week after our hospital departure, as we’re in consult once again in her office, we know from the recent hospital tests and the accompanying Immunoglobulin (IgA) he received in the hospital that his levels at the time of admittance last month were low. This latest panel she takes will help us determine Rich’s reaction to the recent IgA infusion and the worth of therapy. IgA, is, not coincidentally, the antibodies that help protect the body’s mucosa. It’s no wonder that infections manifest in the lungs. She suggests we wait three months and see her again to check the IgA levels again. The infusions as therapy might be an option. She says “You are a mystery!”

Directly from the immunologist, we go to see our pulmonologist. We first were introduced to this practice in the summer of 2014… four years ago. Rich was in the middle of his pre-transplant chemo and we found ourselves in the hospital with a pneumonia diagnosis. Dr Kz introduced himself to us and over the course of our journey, we’ve welcomed his advice as he is not one to limit his concerns regarding a patient’s health to his specialty. He looks at the overall patient and can see gains and losses when he walks into the room.

One of our favorite memories of him came about a year after the transplant… 2015 being the year of pulmonology. It seemed like we were in the hospital every month with some kind of lung infection… PCP, RSV , hMPV as well as the generic viral, fungal, or bacterial pneumonias and infections. Rich was not progressing well. Our Dr Kz, at one point in a hospitalization, advised to be patient. In a rather long discourse, he advised sticking with the Robitussin instead of opting for the cough med with codeine. He admonished us that the codeine would slow the lungs from clearing. “Use codeine only when the pain is unbearable.” He explained the why of it in intense detail. We agreed.

Trying to stick to his plan, we found we had to resort to codeine in the middle of the night. Knowing we would have to wait for the pharmacy to fill the prescription and that at night could take a significant time, Rich asked me to give him a dose of the meds from my bag. Seeing the pain in his face as he coughed, I gave him the dose. His conscience must have been on duty… no sooner did I get into my recliner than a team rushed into our room. Apparently, his guilt manifested as wonky readings on all the leads sticky taped to his body!

Come morning, the codeine unrecorded, Dr Kz comes checks Rich and finds him much improved. He credits the Robitussin protocol and launches once again into his speech on its benefits and the why of it.

Finally at the end, he says to Rich, “You only had Robitussin right?”

Rich: Nope

Dr Kz: Bastard.

It had been two years since we had seen him… he had sprung us from the ER when Rich was about to be admitted for the flu. Now he walked into Rich’s hospital room a month ago, looked at Rich with a smile and shook his head. “You look better than I expected from reading the ER reports. I don’t understand you!”

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The directness of this doctor gives us strength. His compassion and willingness to work with us is a common trait with his office partner Dr J-R. She tells us, when we see here, that Dr Kz joked with her, “I gave him to you two years ago. What did you do to him?!”
I mention to her that he was supportive of us going home as soon as advisable but, when it came time for us to leave, he seemed skeptical. “Dr Kz was scared with this admittance. He wanted you home, but at the same time, the reports from the ER and Rich’s numbers were extreme. He hoped we were all making the right decision for you to leave, to come off the vancomycin.” The first few days, we wondered if it was the right decision, too!

She also advises that, as we know she suspected, this appears to be infection by way of cardiac issues. Congestive Heart Failure. Of all the reasons for the continual infections, she says this would be the most treatable and could be considered curable. Her explanation is that the congestion… brought on by his heart issues which were in turn brought on by chemo… builds up and it is then that the fluid builds up in amd around his lungs where an opportunistic bug makes its home. The fluid also bloats Rich’s belly which restricts the amount of room his lungs have to take a deep breath. Treat the CHF and the rest will take care of itself. Lasix as needed is prescribed.

Part of that is in direct contradiction to the immunologist, but it makes us think perhaps this is a combined issue.

Another week goes by and we’re meeting up with the cardiologist. While we were in the hospital, the ejection fraction of Rich’s heart was further depressed… lower than his average. Both doctors seen last week brought up that problem, so we’re anxious to see his take on things. We’re first scheduled for an echocardiogram followed by an EKG. Surprisingly, our consult is short. The tests indicate Rich’s heart function is indeed not exactly status quo to where it has been throughout this journey, but is what he would expect given the recent events. He tells us that he wants to reconvene after three months, that Rich’s heart needs to “recover from this insult.” There has been an injury and it needs to resolve. We ask to be more proactive, we ask that Rich be prescribed cardiac rehab. Approved. Continue with the Lasix as needed, he says. Further tweaking of meds will be reviewed when we meet again. We always have to keep his liver and kidney function, particularly with CHF, in mind. Patience.

One week more and we see our stem cell guru. By now we have as many answers as we could have wished for. Blood work is taken and vitals checked. As we have been told by each of the doctors during these weeks, the PET scan not only shows no evidence of disease but a few spots that everyone was watching for inflammation have resolved. We breathe a sigh of relief. So many symptoms this year are part of the list of NHL. We’re glad to have a recurrance off our list of concerns.

At this point in our journey, this is the shortest stem cell consult of all. In many ways, we have moved forward into the realm of other specialists for the issues chemo have brought. We will meet for only for 6-month follow-ups and testing. The consult ends with hugs and a reminder of the Celebration of Life dinner. It will be good to see our fellow HSCT patients and the angels in scrubs who guided us through an incredible month in August of 2014 and celebrate living our new lives.

With one month down from our date in the ER, we have two more to go to see where we stand. But we’ve been contacted by the rehab group and this next month will see the start of evaluation and rehabilitation with a staff that has experience and certification for working with cardiac and pulmonary patients.

The recovery from this latest insult, this injury, this one worse than any before, has been understandably slow. Rich says it feels like he’s taken a jump back three years. Pneumonia in and of itself is not a quick bounce-back. Rich’s condition in the ER was not like any ER admittance before. Three years ago, Rich had his doubts about coming through one of his infection hospitalizations. This time it was my turn to have my doubts while he was in the ER. We’re blessed that deep down is a strength that pulls him through. We’re blessed with our family and our friends who are family to us that support us and are with us along the way and especially there when we need them most. We’re blessed that those who partner with us in the health care system are indeed partners and listen and voice their truth and guide us well.

Well heck, we’re blessed!

How Do You Spell Love?

The sound of laughter fills the house as the grandkids tumble into Rich’s lap. It was not too long ago that one small step by the littlest of toes on Rich’s feet would have had him scream in agony. Now, he’s full of smiles as they clamber over his feet and up his legs to get his attention. The impossible has become our new reality.

Our goal these past six months has been to try and resolve the neuropathy that has plagued Rich as he went through chemo. Instead of going away as it did the decade before, its intensity increased. Numbness spread. Spikes of pain would have him in tears. Spikes that were at times unremitting. And so we began with the Cymbalta which gave us a fifty percent reduction in the neuropathy but didn’t do much for the spiking pains. We then added medical marijuana; visiting those eerie men in suits to get the legal prescription filled every month. The relief was now at seventy five percent.

But those spikes continued. We were given methadone but were hesitant to use it as the directions seemed to indicate they were not an “as needed” medication. We held off. In September we visited our Ketamine group. At first we balked at the idea of this protocol. The drug is also known on the streets as Special K, the date rape drug, and is also used in veterinary medicine for anesthetizing horses. Horses! It makes you think twice.

20170612_121430 Weighing our options, we decide to give it a try. Our hope then and now is that it would allow us to wean off the other meds and lower Rich’s dependence on prescriptions for relief. And so, we began. Unlike so many other infusions, Rich is alone in the treatment room; I’m not allowed to stay. The idea is to keep him quiet and still. With possible side effects, all variables are removed. No music, no reading. Low lights, warm blankets and a slew of leads checking his vitals sticky taped to him everywhere. He is under constant monitoring. Over a period of four hours, a small dose of ketamine drips ever so slowly through the IV and into his arm. He dozes.

20170612_122133 The effects of the drug as well as the relaxant they give him to forestall any hallucinatory dreams gives him rest. He’s released with warnings as if he’s had surgery. In truth, the experience is exactly the same, just without a knife. As we wait for our ride home, Rich realizes that he has no spiking pain and we share a grin. When he gets home, he sleeps.

The next day, he feels refreshed and so we see that little bit of improvement, subtle but there, and we rejoice. Week two seems to follow the same. And again, the improvement builds. We feel a sense of relief. We’re advised to continue on the Cymbalta and MMJ and we do. They are our safety net. And so we go into week three with high expectations. How foolish! The night is filled with spiking pains, unrelieved by anything but methadone. Body aches are palpable like a revenant in the room. The misery is thick as a fog that sends a shade over any hope we may have had. The internet offers us some glimmers. We read that others have experienced this as well. We wait for morning to call the ketamine group who confirm our suspicions… par for the course. They just never know the timing of when or if. As with many discomforts on this journey, a good sign is among us. We’re told Rich’s nervous system is resetting. Where previously the bed sheet against his feet would have brought agony, the ketamine is pushing back the pain volume knob and bringing it to the norm. We’re looking for his feet to just acknowledge the existence of the sheet instead of bringing on tears. A methadone tab gets Rich through the night. It is effective in random administration. We’re grateful.

There was some trepidation as we approached the fourth infusion. Neuropathy was now so minimal as to be off our radar. Gone were the pins and needles and the burning pain. The frequency of the spiking pains and their intensity diminished more and more each day. As if in a final farewell, a cluster of weather affecting barometric pressure brought on a flurry of spikes that were concentrated in one spot. Agony! A single Methadone tab was once more brought into the mix. The tide has turned. To our delight, it was as if a switch had indeed been flicked and the improvements began to come faster and faster.

Now, after the last of the infusions, week five began the miracles. Feeling began to come back into Rich’s feet. Between his toes is still numb, but for the first time in a very long time, he can feel himself wiggle his toes. And oh! The texture of socks! Everything but those spiking pains…. They don’t register. The have become a mere blip. There is a confidence in Rich’s step. His pace has improved. His cane only comes into use when tired or vertigo hits. He delights in the sensation in his toes. We’ve been told we can expect three to six months of relief. Rather than count the days, we head off to celebrate. One of Rich’s goals expressed when he was first diagnosed has been to visit Colonial Williamsburg.

15000741_10153501587557824_2703793561621062239_o So for our anniversary in November, shortly after the last infusion, we take our Amtrak train and spend an extended weekend sleeping, eating and roaming in nothing but historic buildings. When the tiredness hits, we only have to look out through the old wavy glass pane of our room where once Martha Washington’s family lived to watch the fife and drum corps make its way down the street. To see groups wandering by lantern light. And when rested, to step out our door and cross the cobbled streets to the nearby tavern for a few small plates and to raise a glass to the musicians performing. As with all our travel, we are renewed.

At this point, now January, we are now ending our third month since the ketamine treatments ended. After my brother’s death, we experienced setbacks. Bronchitis due to the crowds of the wake and funeral. And again bronchitis following the traditional Greek forty day memorial. Germs seemed to find Rich wherever we went.

We were comforted by the knowledge that a year prior these infections would have manifested as pneumonia and required hospitalization. But more troubling still was the recurrence of spiking pains. Has our reprieve ended so soon? As is our wont, we looked at the data. Stress seemed to have brought these pains back into our lives. Each time that spiking pain manifested itself, it was during times of either stress, such as the wake and funeral, or, a change in routine as it would be with the kids home and the regular day to day tasks were thrown to the wind. Even in anticipation of an event that may prove to be too much.

We’ve discussed biofeedback with our pain management gurus and they are looking into where we should go. In the meantime, we find that just the discussion of the possibility of it being stress-induced, however subconsciously, has made a significant difference. The mind/body connection is at work. That Rich is open to these possibilities is a blessing.

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As our pulmo doctor once admonished Rich, “When you are well is up to you.”

And so, we once more got aboard Amtrak’s Lake Shore Limited and headed up to Rochester to celebrate the turning of the year for our two littlest grandsons. As the weekend comes to an end, Rich sits contentedly tired on the couch and the laughter of both man and boys is heard. Our family rejoices that those little feet that climb to sit on Poobah’s lap to demand a kiss and a snuggle have not brought pain but pleasure.

Piglet: How do you spell love? Pooh: You don’t spell it, you feel it. ~A. A. Milne

Deportation and Unassimilation

225672_10150182626467824_3242997_n As we sit on the swing by our little pond, we watched the butterflies flitting about the garden. A copper-roofed birdhouse swings in the breeze. From under that little roof bits of dried grass, yarn and the flotsam and jetsam that make up a finch’s nest have been pushed out the side. Our occupant has begun re-arranging the furniture to prepare for the next batch of eggs.

We too have been busy in our house; spring cleaning has been underway, little by little, since we returned from our trip. One by one we’ve tackled each room. Donations have been picked up. And then there is our box. The bigger box that has held any number of elixirs, potions and pills that have been with us on this journey.

Filled to the brim, it’s time to say goodbye to many of these little miracles that provided relief and kept us on track. It is bittersweet to go through this box. We say a small thank you to each as we set it aside for disposal. There is a feeling of ceremony. Each bottle brings back a memory. We thanked thorazine for quieting the barking seal that the hiccups brought and we remember the overnight chemo where we recorded the sounds that reminded us of San Francisco’s piers and then could not stop laughing when we played them back. Which brought on more barks. Which brought on more laughter. What a catch 22 that was! We thank the tincture of opium which our gastro guy called “the plug” for its effectiveness in stopping the months of non-stop diarrhea. This cure discovered too late to allow Rich to attend Nick’s college graduation, but what a wonderful memory of us sharing the moment of him walking across the stage at Cooper Union via today’s technologies. We thank the lasix for deflating the pontoons; gone before we could test water walking possibilities. We thank the ambien for restful nights but mourned the end of the midnight food fests.

And so we continued through the box. One by one taking a moment to remember with gratitude these companions along our journey. And celebrating that they are no longer needed. Mepron,Voriconizole, Simethicone, Budesonide, Emla, Valium, Morphine, Dilaudid, Omeprazole, Sucralafate, Lomotil, Colace, Senekot, Ativan, Zofran, Emend, Pantapropazole, Ferrus Sulfate, Vitamin C, Albuteral, Spironolactone.

The box was like Mary Poppins’ bag which held all manner of items and had an endless bottom. The list continued. On and on we gave thanks and said our goodbyes.

And in time we came to prednisone. Bottle after bottle of varying doses. It has been our bane but it has been our companion too. As part of the chemo cocktails, it not only worked against the cancer cells, but it also helped to keep at bay the worst of the reactions to the other beneficial poisons. It relieved inflammations from the continued bouts of the different pneumonias. It was a necessary evil that we didn’t welcome but we are grateful for what it was able to do.

Of all the medications, this end was the most celebrated. But at the same time, perhaps the most necessary medication of all. And so we thank too those many corticosteroid bottles for their help along the way. And celebrate that they are no longer needed. We visit our stem cell guru. Rich receives his booster vaccinations. It will be a year before we’re ready for the next set. His bloodwork shows that we can now say goodbye to the folic acid. The first indication of a problem as we started this journey was anemia. That we can eliminate yet one more supplement, one of the first, that helps the body with anemia and to grow new blood cells is another indication that we are on the right path.

We are nearing full circle.

Our box is slowly emptying out.

Tomorrow we say goodbye to another stalwart companion. Our One of Nine will be disengaged from the Borg collective. Rich’s port will be removed. Cyborg no more. In preparation, more blood was collected, this time to check the clotting factor. The tube, that runs from the port and protects Rich’s blood vessels from the toxic burn of the beneficial poisons that make up the chemo cocktail, that catheter lines his jugular vein. We prefer no bleed outs. Tomorrow we will be thankful.

The port has been a less painful option for infusions and blood draws. We are grateful but it is time. We’ll say our goodbye with appreciation. Another ceremony. For the first time in two years, Rich will no longer wear the bracelet that identifies him as having a power mediport. He will have been deported. Another milestone.

But first there is work to do. We need to prepare. Let the manscaping begin!

Take a Giant Step Outside Your Mind

“…Remember the feeling as a child When you woke up and morning smiled It’s time you felt like you did then. There’s just no percentage in remembering the past It’s time you learned to live again at last. Come with me, leave yesterday behind And take a giant step outside your mind.”

This song has been a little earworm going ‘round and ‘round in my head for the last few days. We find ourselves excited with our Icelandic adventure to start in a few hours tho’ there is just a tinge of apprehension coloring our plans. This is, for us, a huge leap in Rich’s recovery. In the past two years, we’ve taken weekend trips to visit family or traveled with friends. The support has always been close by and there always has been accommodation for Rich’s needs. Tonight we step onto the Icelandair plane and take, as the Monkees sang, a giant step outside our minds.

With us will come our assortment of medications both required and emergency. Rich’s cane will be our companion. We’ve opted for tours instead of our usual take charge kinda travel. Our schedule is varied but gentle. Our trip is a quick five days. With all these precautions, we’re still trying to get out of the patient mode that has deviled us on our journey.

“You stare at me in disbelief You say for you there’s no relieve But I swear I’ll prove you wrong. Don’t stay in your lonely room Just staring back in silent gloom. That’s not where you belong”

Ah, patient mode. We were well on our way to getting out of that gloom when just about a month ago Rich woke up with chills. Dammit. The Magic Fingers Bed was back with a vengeance. It took a full hour to stop the rigorous shaking that exhausted him and left him aching from head to toe. A handful of meds to counter the symptoms of an infection that seemed on its way, we waited for the doctor’s office to open.

I went to work figuring that this would be a quick Tamiflu script and we’d be fine after a few days. This was the first time in these two years that I was not planning on going to an appointment with Rich… because, you know, we’re getting outta patient mode. As I was speaking in a meeting at work, I suddenly stood up and said “I have to leave” and walked out the door. It was odd how strong that feeling was.

Rich was already en route via taxi to the doctor’s office and I texted him that I would meet him there. By the time I got to Great Neck, he was waiting in an exam room, having had an xray of his lungs to rule out one of the vast arrays of pneumonia he seems to latch onto. We sat and chatted while we waited for a doctor to see us.

During the short wait, Rich became uncomfortable. He complained it was hot which to me was understandable since he still had his hat and coat on. The complaints continued tho’… quite unlike him. The light was off in the room as is our wont. We find it easier to relax in a dim room when we’re in situations that could be tense. We’ve at times joked around by putting a candle gif on our phones and pretending we were on a romantic date; anywhere but a doctor’s office.

This time the romance ended when Rich started making heaving sounds. I flicked on the light and could see that this spasm wasn’t coming from his stomach but from his throat. I asked him if he was ok and there was no response. I got up, saw he was pale and clammy… beyond his glasses, his eyes were rolled back in his head as he continued to make these retching noises. I called out for help and the staff responded quickly, checking his vitals and getting him on oxygen… and calling 911. He pinked up quickly and came around though for the life of him he could not figure out how many fingers the PA was holding up in front of his face.

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And so started a thirty-six hour marathon stint in the ER. The one place we didn’t want to be. Rich does get a separate room when he is in the emergency room because of his lowered immunology. But as a melting pot of germs, it’s still not optimum. His blackout was probably due to dehydration and a drop in blood pressure but being a single incident and his diagnosis to be otherwise Type A flu, we began our campaign to get discharged which was not as easy as one would think. Until our pulmo guru came on duty and stopped in. Immediately he was on board to get us home even while the hospital was prepping a room on the cardiology floor. Once again we are filled with gratitude for the team we have. They listen to what we say and respond with common sense. We’re blessed.

Once home, Rich’s recliner became his cocoon as he worked through the effects of the flu. We were again sleeping in the little room on the main floor as stairs were not yet possible. The walker was brought back into service. And yet it was good to sleep on something other than the cold tile floor. It took two weeks for him to begin to get to where he had been before this episode, the Tamiflu knocked back a good amount of the discomfort relatively speaking, but slowly progress was made.

And now prep for our trip began in earnest. But this episode did raise some flags we had thought we could put away for good and brings us the slight apprehension that we are doing our best to totally disregard. Instead we’re focusing on doing what we love most together… seeing new sights, meeting new people. The weather holds no promise for a viewing of the Northern Lights, the Hákarl fermented shark will still probably be the worst tasting thing we’ll ever try, and English will not be the first language of the citizens of the city we’ll call home for the next five days, but our itinerary will be more than we could have dreamed of doing a short six months ago. And for that we’re grateful. It’s time.

“Come with me I’ll take you where the taste of life is green And everyday holds wonders to be seen.

Come with me, leave yesterday behind And take a giant step outside your mind.”