Not My Idea of a Vacation

I have been away,
on and off,
for three weeks now.

I haven't been on vacation,
but I have been absent from home,
on pause from responsibilities and removed from my family.

Week 1 - A three night stay in Howard County General Hospital; blood transfusion - four units.
Week 2 - A two night stay in Walter Reed Army Medical Center; blood transfusion - two units.
Week 3 - A two night stay in Walter Reed; blood transfusion - two units; drug infusion.

...Not exactly the vacation the doctor prescribed.
But I can pretend:

Check In. Show up at a hotel, and you have to wait in line to register with a clerk behind the reception desk. At Walter Reed, the admission's representative came to me, and he didn't even ask for a credit card.

Safekeeping. Many hotel have room safes. But during my recent hospital stay, a gentleman came to my room and asked, "Do you have any valuables you'd like to store?" I responded that I did not. I mean seriously, would you hand over your jewelry to a stranger?

Ice and Vending Machines. Yep, hospitals have them, on every floor, just like hotels. And the best part - your nurse will bring ice to you.

Room service. Just like in a hotel, all you have to do is survey the menu, pick up the phone and order what you'd like to eat. Someone will bring it to your hospital room, and no one expects a tip.

Housekeeping. A Sanitary Engineer shows up at your door, asking if you'd like to have your room cleaned, trash emptied, or if you're in need of fresh bath towels. Unlike in a hotel, you will not be expected to clear your hospital room. But you'll notice that the housekeeper will still keep the door wide open.

Room Amenities. The cost of hotel toiletries are factored into your room rate. Like it or not, your hospital bill will reflect the cost of every "extra". That's why my mother advises to collect every bottle, gauze, alcohol wipe, moist towelette, and plastic drawstring bag before being discharged from the hospital.

...because

at

Check Out,
you'll pay for it: immediately, if you're in a hotel and later, if you're in the hospital.

Exposed & Invisible

Why do I feel exposed
and invisible at the same time?

My last two weeks spent in and out of hospitals,
have been hard to accept;
the threat of returning - even harder.

I've shown the doctors:
those are my scars from my mastectomies;
my medi-port leftover from chemo;
radiation markings;
here's my blood - red blood cells, hemoglobin, hematocrit, anti-bodies.
Everything EXPOSED.

Sitting in the middle of the bed, sobbing as I stare across the courtyard, into another window.
Life passing.
Growing weary from the isolation of my family, friends, my life.
I cannot write.
How do I communicate what I really feel; what I'm afraid of; what I seek.
INVISIBLE.

It's better being home.

The Lost Hours

Somewhere
between 3:35 and 5: 58 a.m.,
time dissolved,
slumber drifted away,
and I realized it was Wednesday morning.
I was having trouble sleeping again.

But this time, I was not in my own bed.
Trying to sleep beside me, was Jeff,
struggling to fit onto an over-used recliner.

Anemia had driven me to the E.R.
and admitted me into the hospital.

Before Tuesday, I had no idea that anemia could be such a serious condition.
In my ignorance, I thought anemia was something that little, frail, skinny women got because they were always cold. Anemia was for "girlie" women.

I thought back:
When was the last time I didn't feel tired, dizzy, light-headed or out of breath?
Why couldn't I climb a flight of stairs, without having to rest
or felt my heart, pounding beyond my chest?
How many times had I taken pills to help me sleep?
Was my vision distorted every morning, when I awoke?
Had it been two weeks or three?

As I casually mentioned the symptoms to my radiation oncologist,
she insisted that I NOT drive to Walter Reed the following day, but have blood work done across the hall that afternoon.
At 9:30 Tuesday night, Jeff answered the phone.
"Who's calling," he asked?
"Johns Hopkins," Jeff mouthed.

An urgency resonated from the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the phone.
"CBC results...yada, yada...Hematocrit low...yada, yada...hemoglobin low...yada, yada..."
Translation needed now, my brain screamed!
I quickly handed the phone back to Jeff, but not before hearing:

"GET THEE TO AN EMERGENCY ROOM!!! BLOOD TRANSFUSION STAT!!!!"

I was admitted to a room in the hospital, while the blood bank searched for a cross-match to my blood type. The Red Cross was notified. More than 24 hours passed before blood was found. During my stay, I tried negotiating a temporary release from anyone who would listen: the techs, nurses, and doctors. They all had the same response, a smile and patronizing, "Uh...no."
Maybe I would have had better luck with the housekeeper.

It was Friday morning before four units of "least incompatible" blood had been completely transfused through the port in my chest. Turns out I have Hemolytic Anemia, a condition in which, red blood cells are destroyed shortly after they are created. A total match would not have been possible, but I am feeling better and greatful to be back home.

Insomnia...Part Deux

Several years ago,
I remember my sister, Stephanie telling me about the night she couldn't sleep.
I'm sure it was not the first time. One of cancer treatment's little "gifts" is insomnia.
On that occasion, she turned on her television,
hoping to get back to sleep.

A commercial aired for a product that claimed to "help you fall asleep and stay asleep."
Stephanie watched the commercial with great interest since it was 4:00 a.m.,
and she was,
well,
AWAKE.

In her over-tired mind,
she tried to memorize the product's name,
for the purpose of discussing it with her doctor.

With the commercial's conclusion, came familiarity.

AMBIEN
was in-fact, the drug her doctor had prescribed,
that was supposed to help her sleep.

In retrospect, I guess I should be grateful it's only 12:45 a.m.