I walked in from checking my email on the balcony with bad news for my husband, a self-proclaimed metalhead: Jani Lane of Warrant was found dead in L.A.
"What?! Where?!"
I filled him on the few details - he had been found dead in a hotel room at the age of 47.
"He asked me to play cards once...," my husband said, his voice trailing off.
Ah, yes. The card story.
It's a story I've heard at least 500 times, a tale from my husband's glory days. He worked as an inventory manager for The Wallrecord store back in the 90s and often found himself hanging out in the tour buses of his childhood heroes.
As the Warrant story goes, my husband ran to Denny's for the band to grab some food. He was munching on a Moons Over My Hammy and was watching "The Mask" with a few co-worker friends and the rest of Warrant when Jani Lane entered the tour bus and asked if anyone wanted to play cards with him. Everyone blew him off, so Jani Lane went to bed.
I'm pretty sure turning down the lead singer of one of your alleged favorite bands makes you a diva. Just sayin'. But nothing gets between my husband and his Moons Over My Hammy.
Upon hearing the news of Jani Lane's passing, my husband looked at me and said, "I feel bad now."
I patted him on the shoulder and said, "Somehow I doubt Jani brought it up in therapy."
Still, that would be like me turning down Amy Grant's offer to paint our nails and talk about boys when I had dinner with her and the band back in March.
Last night was a no good, very bad night. I didn't sleep at all. I didn't doze off here and there. I didn't sleep AT ALL. And my muscles were sore. And this morning I was so nauseous I could barely sip my coffee.
I must have forgotten to take my Seroquel.
For someone my age, I take quite a few meds. I'm diabetic (my fault/genetic) and hypertensive (genetic) and have restless leg syndrome (who knows). And then there's bipolar disorder. I was tired and it was late last night when I took my fistful of drugs. Sometimes I mistake the Glipizide (for diabetes) for Seroquel. I take 2 Glipizide. Sometimes I look into my hand and think I have them both because they look almost identical.
First thing I did after almost vomiting my coffee was take a Seroquel. It will probably make me sleepy, and I can't sleep today. Deadlines. But I'm no good if I'm sick, either. Withdrawal doesn't make for a pleasant day.
Even though I encourage people to take these meds if they need them, it does sometimes strike me how crappy it is to have to take pills in order to be a functioning human being. There are people who fall asleep with no help, get out of bed with no help, and lead stable lives with no help.
I can't say I'm not the tiniest bit jealous.
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Before I jump into this post, let me say this: I love my cat.
She showed up on my doorstep as a kitten 3 years ago and she has been a gift from God. To hear me describe her, you wouldn't think that's the case. She's not terribly affectionate and she doesn't like strangers. She hisses at little children. If I dropped dead in the middle of my living room, she'd nap on my body, then eat it.
But, man, I love my cat.
My only complaint is that she doesn't eat right. If you could watch her eat for five minutes, you'd think she isn't very bright. Heck, maybe she's not.
My cat is incapable of keeping food in her mouth. She cannot eat anything without flinging it all over the place. I am constantly having to sweep my kitchen floor because there are food nuggets everywhere. She loves her crunchy tuna treats, but those, too, get flung every which way and she refuses to eat anything that touches the ground. When I give her real tuna, I regret it later. I spend hours picking up little fish flakes.
The other day I picked up a couple of small cans of wet tuna food for her. It's basically horrible smelling tuna covered in cat-friendly gravy. When she heard me open the can, she came running. When I put it in her bowl, she immediately began licking it.
And licking it.
And licking it.
There is now a bowl full of bone-try tuna cat food in her bowl. She has not touched the tuna itself. No clean-up for me, but I could have used that fifty-seven cents on something for myself... a gumball, maybe. No, wait. I'm diabetic. I guess it wasn't a waste after all.
A lot of people like to treat their cat to a giant slab of lunch meat, or leftover dinner meat. We stopped doing this after Thanksgiving turkey bits showed up on the bathroom rug.
You would think the Wal-Mart crowd would be accepting of a dude in a motorized grocery cart, but...no.
Hubby is recovering nicely from acute pancreatitis, but he doesn't have much energy. So, he decided to ride in a motorized cart while accompanying me on a short shopping trip today. It wasn't the greatest cart - it stalled periodically and when he took his hands off the controls, it nearly threw him over the handle bars. It also sounded like a meat grinder.
He was hesitant to board. He's only 40 years old and he's ticked off enough that he is almost all gray. But it was either ride the cart, or pass out in the canned veggie aisle... which he almost did a couple of days ago.
People don't like dudes in motorized carts. They take up a lot of aisle space and they beep when they back up. But people don't really know how to handle such a thing. It's the same as riding in a wheelchair, basically. In 2011, you'd think wheelchairs would be a normal thing, but not at Wal-Mart. No, not at all.
It's understandable that little kids would look at you funny when you're riding one. Most of them probably want to ride one. It's another thing when full-grown adults stare at you like you've got one ear and four eyes. Haven't you seen someone sit down before? Is this really new to you?
Some people over-compensate by being sickeningly polite. They're trying to be nice, but it's awkward. They take a giant step back and sweep the path in front of them with their hand, like your throne awaits in aisle 3. Some make a run for it, hoping to get in front of you so they don't have to wait, nearly knocking you and your items on the floor. Others stomp behind you, sighing loudly, letting you know that you're a total jerk for having some sort of disability.
It's really hard to excuse a 400-pound woman in a mini-dress from treating your husband like a moron.
Pot.
Kettle.
Black.
When we got in line, a young(er) dude got in line behind us. Out of 36 lanes, only a few were open, and the lines were crazy. Everyone was in a bad mood. The guy behind us was in an even worse mood because my husband's cart was blocking him from putting his groceries on the belt. There was nowhere for my husband to go, except the mini-fridge full of sodas. As soon as the person in front of us left, I told my husband to scoot in front of me so Prince Charming could put his precious margarita mix down.
Next time, I'm going to put a flag on the back of hubby's cart. The Vietnam vet with the enormous flag and the POW symbols on his cart drew no ire from other shoppers. Note: If you're a wounded vet, that's OK. If you can't walk for any other reason, you don't deserve to shop.
I got mild satisfaction from watching the looks on everyone's faces as my husband got up from his cart and gingerly made his way to the car, which I managed to park only 2 spaces away. I know it ticked some of them off. They probably thought he was just too lazy to walk around the store.
Now if only some people would muster up the energy to put on a real shirt and some pants.
I remember the first time I ever held my book in my hands.
My friend works at a radio station, and I was scheduled to appear on their morning show. They got their copy before I got my box full. My friend called to tell me and I don't even remember putting my shoes on. I think I blacked out and drove to the station in a trance. The next thing I knew, people were clapping and I was holding the neon pink chunk of words that represented my childhood hopes and dreams.
I remember the smell. I remember pulling back the clean, crisp cover. It was the closest thing to nirvana. (The Christian version, of course.)
The other night I made a trip to Barnes & Noble. The first B&N I ever went to was in Nashville, when I was a college student. They didn't have big box bookstores 'round here until close to 2000. When it opened, it quickly became the favorite hangout of my friends and I. The idea of being able to browse through books at your leisure without being obligated to buy them was a new concept, and so was the idea of being allowed to eat and drink over them before purchasing them. On a Saturday night, the place was hopping - good luck finding a table.
The crowd has thinned out, let me tell you. It was a quiet Saturday night at B&N this past weekend(not that I'm complaining about being able to find a seat) and the first thing that jumped out at me when I walked in was a huge display of Nooks.
Nooks. Fancy eeeeelectronic book readin' machines.
For sale. In a bookstore.
I love technology. Hubby says my cell phone is surgically attached to my hand. My laptop is my prized possession and I would never reach my destination without a GPS. I watch Netflix and Hulu Plus on my husband's Playstation 3. I am in no way, shape, or form opposed to technology. Except in this case.
What if books went out of print? Doesn't anyone else out there worry about stuff like that?
Hello?
I imagine my book arriving... in the form of a file. And how much that would stink. And how it would be totally not exciting at all. Now, I know people who have written e-books and I'm sure they will disagree with me, but as someone who has physically held my own book in my hands, it just doesn't hold the same punch. Good-bye book signings. "Would you please sign my Nook?" How would that even work?
What about that new book smell? What about cute, kitschy bookmarks? What about relaxing in a bookstore with a cappuccino while browsing the latest releases? What about reading a favorite book over and over until it's tattered and battered and has a special place on your shelf and in your heart?
I don't think the Nook or the Kindle or the random phone e-book reader can replace that for me.
I can't get into it. And I hate the idea of bookstores going out of business (i.e., Borders) just as much as I hate the idea of magazines going out of print. I don't care how old (young) you are or how in-the-know you are about gadgets. Nothing beats curling up with a magazine, or browsing a good book over coffee.
It's just one piece of technology I can't get into. Maybe I'll buy an e-book reader eventually, but it won't be tomorrow. Most likely, it will be out of necessity and not choice.
And I'll keep complaining about it on this blog, on the internet, out in the digital, paper-less world. How ironic.
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After spending two weeks in the same hospital, I have a few observations and thoughts.
Food
I worked in a nursing home for 4 years in the dietary department. The food wasn't bad. OK, some of it was bad. For the most part, though, it was decent and I would know, since I had at least one meal a day there when I was on shift.
Several years ago, a new hospital opened in the town we were living in. It was new and posh, as hospitals go. The cafeteria was set up like a restaurant and the food there was good, too.
I wrongly assumed that this hospital would have edible food. Wroooooooong. The nursing home and new hospital had led me to believe that the era of hospital food tasting like Purina Dog Chow was over, but the hospital my husband was in this time served as a reminder of why hospital food stereotypes exist in the first place.
I saw the cafeteria staff serve up things there that I wouldn't serve to a stray dog. Neon red tomato sauce. Stomach-churning pork and sauerkraut. Mashed potatoes the consistency of hardening cement. I risked salmonella poisoning by giving the salad bar a go, and it turned out to be a winner. That, and their bagels, which were delivered from a local bakery. I think I ate 37 bagels and the equivalent of six tubs of cream cheese while I was there.
It was a matter of survival.
Nurses
As a rule of thumb, you should always be polite to people who can stab/inject/poison you while you are hooked up to machines.It is similar to the rule that says you should always be polite to people who can contaminate your food with anything from dirt to bodily fluids. (Advice from a former waitress here.)
As it turns out, you can also get improved service from any nurse that you are able to befriend, and my husband and I managed to do just that. It wasn't really intentional. We just live by the aforementioned rules and try to be nice people.
Everyone thought my husband was very sweet (most people do), which worked to his advantage. We also shared a love of "Gene Simmons' Family Jewels" with many of the nurses, who actually crowded into my husband's room to watch the season finale with him when things were quiet.
Here's a tip: want your pain meds FAST? Talk reality TV with the nursing staff.
Doctors
Poor doctors. They can't catch a break.
If you have one that has the personality of a tree stump or is very blunt, he is accused of having a poor bedside manner. If you get one that is too jovial, he is accused of barely graduating from Acme School of Medical Stuff. If he doesn't offer enough information, he is accused of being a spineless weenie.
Unless, of course, you're like us. We like the super jovial ones. We'd appreciate a doctor who wears a Spiderman tie. We're weird like that.
The doctors we encountered ran the gamut. The surgeons were very quiet-but-friendly Christian men who would have looked appropriate in Amish attire. The main infection specialist we saw both looked and acted like Lily Tomlin, only slightly nerdier. The doctor who removed the fluid from my husband's abdomen was fatherly and even called me "dear" and "sweetheart", though I am still trying to figure out if that's a good thing or a bad thing. One gastroenterologist had us stumped - did he look more like Gilbert Gottfried or Joel Osteen? We couldn't make up our minds. But he was the guy who told me I'd know my husband was in dire straights if I "saw him hooked up to a ventilator." Somehow he managed to say it in a very flowery and sing-songy way that would have made you feel good about facing a firing squad.
All of my husband's doctors were excellent, but some we greeted like Kramer on "Seinfeld", whereas others we greeted like the Pope, depending on how serious they were.
Other Patients
Hospitals are never quiet enough to sleep in, which is why most patients come home feeling like they just got sent home from the Vietnam War. Throw in a semi-deaf Amish farmer, an arguing old couple, and a confused elderly man and it might as well be World War III.
My husband's first roommate was the semi-deaf Amish farmer. He yelled at the nurses occasionally but spent most of his time on the phone, yelling at whoever called, in Pennsylvania Dutch. If you've never heard Pennsylvania Dutch spoken before, the best way to describe it is German gibberish with the occasional English word thrown in.
"Oof dah flergin HORSE!"
There was also a confused elderly man down the hall who screamed profanities at staff. He sat in the hallway in a wheelchair cussing people out from dawn till dusk.
And in my husband's last room, there was an old couple across the hall who yelled at each other all day. Usually they argued, sometimes they just couldn't hear each other. The volume on hospital TVs don't usually go very high, but this couple found a way to make it audible to the floors above and below them.
The beeping IV machines were a welcome respite from the screaming patients.
"The mulch! The mulch! The mulch is on FIRE!"
In order to prevent myself from developing my own blood clots, I got up about once an hour to walk around. Usually, the cafeteria was my destination, where I downed insane amounts of watery hospital coffee. Because we were in the midst of a heat wave, and because we had not had rain since the Mormons crossed the plains in buggies, everything was very dry. (How dry was it??)
I walked out to the parking lot to make a phone call and headed for one of the gardens for some shade under a tree. I smelled something as I was walking... something like... a barbecue? Then, I saw smoke. As Iapproached, I realized the mulch was on fire. No smoldering cigarette butt... just flaming mulch.
This is where I become a hero. I was in a skirt and flip-flops, but did that stop me from putting out the fire? NO! I jumped and stomped on that sucker until the flames were out and the smoldering had died down. My feet were covered in mulch and dirt, but I did my duty as an American.
I went back into the hospital and told the security guard that he might want to check on the garden at the end of the parking lot because I had put out a random fire with nothing between the flames and my flesh but a cheap, Wal-Mart brand piece of rubber. He looked over at the secretary at the ER desk, and they instantaneously broke out into song:
"The mulch! The mulch! The mulch is on FIRE!"
In closing...
The hospital was an ordeal. It is not the type of thing I want to do again anytime soon. Nice people, clean bathrooms, but not a good vacation spot.
And yet, as is the case with everything else in my life, the ordeal gave me some great stories and certainly plenty of writing material.
Plus, let's face it, those firefighting skills might come in handy again someday.
Everyone has a pancreas and a gallbladder - at birth, anyway. Most people's pancreas and gallbladder live in peace with one another. In some, it's a love-hate relationship.
The two organs share a duct. When the gallbladder gets ticked off, it spits little stones into this duct. If that duct gets blocked, digestive pancreatic enzymes are blocked from exiting the pancreas. Those enzymes then stay in the pancreas, where they (get ready - here's where it starts sounding like a bad sci-fi movie) begin digesting the pancreas itself. The pancreas doesn't like that, so it gets inflamed, sometimes gets infected, and on a really bad day starts shutting down other organs.
When my husband started writhing in pain almost 3 weeks ago, we both assumed it was a gallstone. He was scheduled to have surgery the following week to have his gallbladder removed. But this attack was different. My husband was drenched in sweat. He looked like he jumped in a swimming pool. The whites of his eyes turned the color of Coke cans. So we went to the ER, where nurses were unable to do an EKG because he was too sweaty, and they struggled to put an IV in him because he couldn't lie still. They ran some blood work and it wasn't long before a doctor was telling me he was being admitted because his pancreas was severely inflamed.
I had no idea what that meant. The pancreas didn't sound like a major organ - certainly not a heart or a lung. I didn't realize that he was extremely ill. I nodded my head and waited for them to wheel him up to his room.
The next morning, the picture became a little clearer, when I walked in and found that my husband's eyes were now orange. He had been on Morphine, but it wasn't helping the pain, so they switched him to Dilaudid, which they administered every two hours. (Note: when Morphine doesn't help, something is wrong) His urinal held a liquid that looked like really dark iced tea. He didn't want to eat, talk, listen to music, or watch TV. He laid there, doped up, his orange eyes staring off into space...when they were open.
For the first few days, everything that could possibly go wrong...did. By the third day, and for the next week, his eyes were a deep yellow. His white blood cell count and enzyme numbers (known as amylase and lipase) were constantly on the rise. The reality of the situation hit me when he was moved to the ICU. He developed MRSA, a staph infection, and was placed in isolation. He developed an all-over body skin rash. He was running fevers. A pocket of fluid had built up around his pancreas. It never stopped.
Many doctors walked in and out of that room - gastroenterologists, infection specialists, surgeons, you name it. They all said they were "very worried", "quite concerned", or "scared" but nobody said exactly what worried, concerned, or scared them. My questions were met with answers like, "Well, we just have to make sure his numbers start going down." I asked one doctor how I would know it had gotten worse and he said, "When you see him on a ventilator." That was the only straight-forward answer I got. Nobody wanted to freak out the young wife who sat by her husband's side day in and day out. ''
When it appeared that his numbers were finally leveling off, they removed his gallbladder. Then, we held our breaths and hoped nothing would get worse. But they did. His numbers started creeping up again. More antibiotics, more fluids, more waiting.
Infection specialists entered the picture. They decided to remove the fluid around his pancreas with a needle. After two days of waiting, the results came back negative for infection, and his numbers started going down. He had turned a corner. Once his test results came back negative, he was finally sent home on a slew of medications. The two-week ordeal was finally over.
Looking back, there were signs that something was wrong before he went to the ER. His blood sugar was on the rise, his urine was getting dark, and he had a chronic, deep pain aside from the gallbladder attacks themselves. We had no reason to be "up" on pancreatitis, though, so we assumed it was all related to the gallstones.
When we went to the ER, we didn't have a clue that his pancreas was inflamed, or that an inflamed pancreas was anything to be scared of. Live and learn.
Had my husband decided to try and eat something, pop a pill, and suffer through the pain instead of going to the hospital, he might be dead now. That's just serious it was. He was in danger of going into shock, suffering massive organ failure, and of dying.
It was the scariest two weeks of my life. And I don't think I've ever loved my husband more than I do right now.
My husband has lost close to 50 pounds. That's 50 pounds in two weeks. I don't recommend the Pancreatitis Diet to anyone, but it works. If you want to skip the gym and shed pounds fast, just make your pancreas angry. You'll be shopping for a new wardrobe in no time.
