Last month, when I wrote about going through storage tubs in the basement, ones that hadn’t been looked at since we moved here 14 years ago, I forgot to mention something important. Why we did it. We’d had a rough couple of weeks after leaving the transitional care facility. Going home meant leaving the nurses who took care of everything related to my feeding tube, checked my vital statistics and gave me my medications every morning.
My last visit to a doctor, a lung specialist, has me flummoxed. The outcome had nothing to do with the reason I was referred to him. I’d like a second opinion. What do you make of this? A cough I’ve had for months recently got so bad I was hacking all night long. My regular doctor hadn’t been available when I called for an appointment but the physician in the long white coat who sat across from me hours later had thoroughly read my chart.
Waiting has never been a strength of mine. I was one of those children who would sneak up to the attic and go through every box and bin looking for...
One of my grade school classrooms had a picture of a girl crossing the street, protected by her guardian angel. I believed I had a guardian angel taking care of me, too. I forgot about her as I got older. But last month when a woman rang our doorbell and offered to help us, to save what had been a calamitous homecoming from transitional care for my husband and me, I was a believer again. We’d been home only a few hours when the first home health care aide showed up. She and the woman who came the next day smelled so strongly of perfume I couldn’t let them stay.
A number of years ago, I wrote a column about the plastic storage tubs in my basement. My husband and two high school students moved them in here and I...
My husband is fixing dinner as I write. Chicken, baked potato, frozen mixed vegetables. A favorite meal of his. His idea of dinner is pretty simple: chicken, chicken and more...
When I read about comedian Kevin Pollack’s documentary, “Misery Loves Comedy,” I couldn’t help but think of Monday and Tuesday of last week, when nothing went right for my husband and me. Monday started out on a good note. It was the day we came home from the transitional care place where I, the patient, and my husband, who stayed with me the entire time, had lived for over 100 days.
It’s Saturday afternoon. Usually, I write this column on Monday, the day it’s due, but this coming Monday, I’ll be leaving the transitional care facility where I’ve resided since the first week of October. One hundred and one days. That’s as long as some of our Minnesota “snow birds” spend in Phoenix or Fort Myers at this time of year. It wasn’t booked as such but I can’t help but think my stay here is a vacation of sorts.
Award shows are big events in my home and are always kicked off with two hours of red carpet coverage. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it for years to come: Even though I still watch the televised red carpet shows that are broadcast as celebrities arrive for the ceremony, they leave a lot to be desired since Joan Rivers stopped asking people, “Who are you wearing?” I was and always will be, one of Joan River’s biggest fans. My solidarity didn’t extend to boycotting E! ’s red carpet shows, though.
You’d think by now I would have learned the correct names for different parts of the feeding tube I got three months ago. Thinga-majig, whatcha-macallit and widget are as far as I’ve gotten, though. It’s hard to describe the apparatus that feeds me all day, every day. I don’t know what the thing inside my body looks like. But never far from my side is a wheeled setup that goes where I go. It consists of a vertical pole about my height and half as thick as a shower curtain rod that stands atop a piece of grey wood shaped like the letter X.