another day

3 a.m.

Rich lurches back into bed.  Pissing isn't going well, and getting there isn't an easy ride, either.

"Do you really think you can make it to New York and back?" I ask.

I can't pick him up if he falls.

And let's weigh the benefits versus the risks, I say.  Getting up at 4:30 (as if I'm going back to sleep) for removal of PICC and sutures, plus meeting with doctors, and returning home at midnight -- doesn't make sense.  We can find someone to take care of the medical stuff here, and why not a conference call?

4:30 a.m.

I cancel bus reservation.  

Thunder the Cat howls.  Out he goes.

9 a.m.

Rich starts making phone calls.  To his primary care physician, twice.  Can he remove PICC and sutures?  Nurse hesitates; yes, though this is unusual...appointment is made for tomorrow.

Rich calls neurosurgeon's office, they call him, he returns call, they call and we miss it, and finally connect for conference call.

Visiting nurse calls.  Rich gives her an update.  The IV antibiotic has been stopped, at our initiative.  We are to put all of the unused packets in the landfill, not water supply.  This makes so much sense.

Thunder the Cat comes in, goes out, comes in.  Goes to sleep.

12:16 p.m.

Almost precisely on time, conference call begins with neurosurgeon, radiation oncologist, and, mostly, the physician (interventionist?) who will do the intraarterial chemotherapy.  Never before used on chordomas, but with a history for liver, melanoma, and some neck cancers.  In this procedure, a nice dosage of Cisplatin (a drug based on platinum) will be dumped directly onto the tumor.

Our neurosurgeon says we have to give this a shot.  He hopes we hit a home run.  I hope we're not SOL.

Rich cancels tomorrow's local PICC removal.

I make bus reservations.  Rich calls one of our amazingly caring catsitters to do yet another two-day stint.

Thunder awakes.  Eats.  Howls.  Goes out.

1:30 p.m.

We head out for lunch.  Rich moves unsteadily, but not using a cane yet.  That remains at home, though I dusted it off and adjusted the height.

Rich talks about housing and car issues, and my health benefits if he pre-deceases me.

While I drive home, Rich returns a call to physician's assistant to schedule the MRA, pre-op, and procedure time.

After much chatter, Rich hangs up.

"We just learned nothing," I say.

Rich agrees.

I make reservation at hotel adjacent to hospital.  Expensive, but convenient.  But compared to the cost of the procedure -- as of now, not covered by insurance -- who's counting?

3:30 p.m.

It's almost June but we're both shivering.  I start fire.

Attempt to nap.

Thunder howls.  Goes out.  A rain drop falls on his head.  Howls.  Comes in.

3:45 p.m.

More phone calls to set up times of procedures and tests, with assistant and her assistant. Except for blood work, we're now set.

"Have a great night," assistant's assistant cheerfully says.

4:30 p.m.

Rich tries to sleep, but can't manage to rest with non-stop spasms in legs.

Thunder howls.  A baby rabbit is in his mouth.  He stays out.

Time to start dinner before packing and whatever else the night brings.

As always, we will hold the other's hand before eating and say, "Another day."

Tomorrow, too.

Candace