But, of course, he did care, and he could feel a thing. He could feel the thing, the burning, throbbing sensation in his stomach that hasn’t subsided since it started in the summer.
Luckily for me, the Giants trounced Tampa Bay twenty-four–zero. This provided a nice, natural high for all the McMen, and gave me time to dig out the stash of Vicodin I keep tucked deep in the back of my nightstand drawer for just such emergencies.
Yeah, my trucker handle is “House.”
Of course, I don’t take the stuff; I just keep what’s left over every time it’s prescribed. I had a bunch from when Casey had his wisdom teeth pulled and decided he’d rather tough it out on Tylenol. And I had about half a bottle from Hem’s gallbladder surgery. He said it really didn’t do anything, so he stopped taking it. He was just doing the whole bite-the-bullet, be-a-marine thing, I thought as I grabbed the bottle and ran back to the kitchen, which I’m willing to bet bore more than a passing resemblance to Elvis Presley’s bathroom. I gave Hem one Vicodin with a glass of water and prayed he was wrong, and I was right.
You know, like usual.
Come Monday I restocked the Dilaudid. Lest you think this is a no-brainer, permit me to shine a little light on the lunacy of prescription narcotics. Thanks to uzi-carrying drug lords and the losers who love them, honest, hardworking, pain-stricken people must present a physical, written prescription to the pharmacist. It cannot be called in. It cannot be faxed in. It must be handed to the man or woman behind the counter.
This isn’t too much of a problem when the doctor writing the scrip is close by. But it’s a whole different kettle of decomposing fish when he or she is ninety minutes away. Ninety minutes out and ninety minutes back. Three hours round-trip. One hundred and eighty minutes just to retrieve a three-by-five-size piece of paper. Tack on another ten for my favorite pharmacist to fill the prescription, and ten for me to get home with it, and you can understand why, when I read a headline like, THIRTEEN GUNNED DOWN IN ESCALATING DRUG TURF WAR, my immediate response is, “Kill ’em all, and let God sort ’em out.”
Ultimately, it took a three-woman tag team to get the job done. My sister-in-law Nancy lives near the hospital, so she retrieved the prescription. She then handed it off to her friend Karen, who was headed out our way for a meeting. Karen and I met on the main street in Middleburg to make the exchange.169 I got the prescription. She got a hug. And I hightailed it outta there. Fast, but not fast enough.
Pain, we were about to learn, is like a train: Once it’s left the station, it’s very tough to catch and almost impossible to get ahead of. Unless you’re Superman. Mere mortals require assistance. From morphine.
Who knew?
I raced in from the pharmacy with a bottle of water and the Dilaudid and gave Hem four two-milligram pills before I peed or even put my bag down. In fact, I think I peed holding my bag. And then I ran back to our bedroom and stood there like a crazy woman, willing the drug to work. Twenty minutes passed. Thirty. Forty-five.
“Hon,” I whispered, like I did back in the days when a bad hangover was the worst pain either of us had ever felt (not including contractions, of course, and believe me, we both felt them. What? I should deny him the joy of what it feels like to poop a pumpkin? Sorry, I’m just not that selfish, and if you think I was letting go of “little” Hem before big Hem hollered for the anesthesiologist, you’re, pardon the play on words, nuts), “how ya doin’? On a scale of one to ten, how’s the pain?”
“Ten.”
Ten?
I gave it fifteen more minutes, and asked again. “Ten. Still ten.” Eight milligrams of Dilaudid, which usually knocks his socks off, and nothing? What the hell was happening? Or, better question, why the hell wasn’t anything happening? I called the physician’s assistant. With her okay, I gave him a second dose. Another hour and a “Still ten, Sue. Stop asking!” later, I called again. You know that train I mentioned earlier? It was long gone. (And yes, I do believe that was the Vicodin I saw sitting in the club car.)
Monday night was bad. Hem didn’t sleep, again. So I didn’t sleep, again. It was like having a newborn in the house. You’re delirious with exhaustion. You feel hungover, yet you haven’t had a drop to drink. Yes, you’re the perfect person to be dispensing medication.
Tuesday I added Extra Strength Tylenol, Advil, and Motrin to the mix. All are perfectly good pain relievers if you have a fever, headache, or sore throat. As Hem didn’t have any of that stuff, I have no idea why I thought they’d help. Needless to say, nobody slept Tuesday night, either.
But then Wednesday rolled around. Whew! We made it. Time for Hem’s two-week postop170 follow-up. Off to Georgetown we went. We saw the surgeon. And we saw Hem’s favorite gastroenterologist, too. And they both said the same thing: “You’re in this much pain? You’re not eating or drinking? And you haven’t left the house since you left the hospital? We’re admitting you.”
To which my frighteningly skinny, suffering, yet unceasingly stubborn farmer replied, “No, thanks. But I’ll take some stronger pain meds.”
They prescribed them, the whole time looking at me like, Yo, caregiver, you’re cool with this?
Of course I wasn’t cool with it. Couldn’t somebody overrule Mr. I Hate Hospitals? Oh, wait, that’s supposed to be me. I could just see the teacher dropping my star in caregiver class. My brain was screaming, C’mon, Suz. Speak! Get a spine, woman! Stamp your foot and say, “Dude, motion denied. You’re staying put.”
But I didn’t. I couldn’t. He was scared he’d never leave the hospital. I was scared I wouldn’t be able to keep him comfortable at home. Trust me when I tell you, fear really fucks up your judgment.171
The long and short of it is, I brought him home, and right then and there, if it hadn’t already done so, my caregiving grade dropped to a D.
It didn’t matter that I surrounded him with fluffy pillows, lifted Tug onto the bed to snuggle in next to him, fed him his favorite lemon Jell-O, and, of course, plied him full of painkillers. Nothing helped. And so, after another night in the seventh circle of hell, I did what I should have done the day before: I checked him into the hospital.
Within twenty minutes Superman showed up wearing scrubs and wielding morphine. The needle went in, Hem almost immediately, mercifully, passed out, and I did my best not to become a puddle right there in the emergency room.
In the end, I got points for not crying like a ninny, but it’s not enough to save my grade. For that, I’ll need extra credit. Maybe I’ll learn to access Hem’s port or start his chemo. Or maybe, if I really want an A in caregiving, I’ll finally learn to count.
Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep,
A Portable Phone within My Reach.
If the Power Should Blow Before I Wake,
Get Me Up, Dammit, and Let’s Celebrate!
TO: Friends and family
FR: [email protected]
Date:Thursday, 10:18 p.m.
Subject: Rikki, don’t use that number
Every single time I turn around, the power is out. It’s just one of the realities of rural living, along with the fact that every time I open the back of the Durango, Grundy and Tug hop in, lie down, and look at me like,“See? We’re good boys. Now take us to visit Daddy, darn it!” I don’t like when the power goes out, or when I’m forced to take the Mustang because the Durango’s filled with dog hair, but I’m learning to relax and go with the flow. I live in a pretty much people-free environment, and when the power goes out, I can’t call anyone either. No electricity, no phones. And forget our cell phones; they get even worse reception than the Salahis at that White House dinner.
Clearly, the inability to communicate makes me crazy. But ever since news of Hemingway’s diagnosis got out, I pray nightly for just two things: a cure for pancreatic cancer, and a good old-fashioned power outage.
Why? Because for some reason we haven’t had one, and I’m exhausted from fielding eight million phone calls a day from folks who are worried sick and want to know how we’re doin
g.
“We’re fine. He has cancer, and I’m losing my mind trying to not to think about the fact that he has cancer. But other than that, it’s all good.”
And the five million phone calls from those who want to know if there’s anything they can do.
No, there really isn’t. Unless you have the magic cure and, if not, could you take a break from calling every thirty seconds? I appreciate your concern; I really do. But I’ve got nothing new to tell you. If that changes, I’ll send out smoke signals. I swear.
And the two million phone calls from people who want me to know it’s okay to feel helpless and to call them if I want to cry.
But I don’t feel helpless.And I don’t want to cry. For starters, I don’t have the time. I have calls to make and appointments to schedule and doctors to bug and prescriptions to pick up and dinner to make and homework to oversee and dogs to wash and pain medication to dispense and bills to pay and laundry to fold and eggs to gather and chickens to feed and goats to shoo from the equipment shed and really, really, truly, I don’t want to cry. Except for when the phone rings and I stop, on a dime, to answer it because...because how can I let it ring when I know you’re calling because you love my husband and our kids and me, and you’re worried? How can I let it ring knowing you’ll wonder where we are and if we’re on our way back to the hospital at two hundred miles per hour because he spiked a temperature or started vomiting or passed out or whatever? I have to answer the phone because I can’t add to your worry.
I know, I sound so ungrateful. But I’m not, and I love you from the bottom of my heart for loving us. Thank you for your prayers and concern and calls. Now please, Rikki, step away from the phone. I probably am helpless, and I probably should give in and cry. But there’s no time for that today, and tomorrow, as they say, is not looking good, either.
Chapter Thirty-three
DRAWING THE LINE AT THE LEECH
Sometimes I wonder just how dumb supposedly dumb animals really are. Our three hundred or so cattle have acres and acres of pasture at their disposal, yet they haven’t left the spot closest to our house in days. There can’t be much grass left, but still they stay there, like they’re stuck in one of those interminable sales meetings I used to have to sit through. They venture only as far as the springhouse for a drink in the streams that feed it, and then they’re back, staring through the fence, a group of future steaks on a stakeout. What are they waiting for? I wondered. And then it hit me: It’s not what they’re waiting for; it’s who. Hemingway. He hasn’t been out talking to them and feeding them range cubes. He hasn’t been working in the garden and tossing mushy tomatoes and cucumbers in their direction. They sense something’s wrong. They’re looking for him.
And they’re not the only ones.
Duke and Willie would like to find Hem, too. Only they’re not nearly as polite and passive as the cows. While the “girls” are content mooing in the direction of the house, the goats content themselves by trying to get into it. And sometimes succeeding. It’s true, this is their usual shtick, but lately they’ve stepped it up a notch. Twice they’ve both gotten onto the mud porch, and once they got into the kitchen.
Sure, the bad news is that Hem is sick. But the worse news is that the goats keep trying to pay him a get-well visit.
Of course, we did get some good news recently. Gemcitabine, the drug of choice for pancreatic cancer, is not just very powerful but very highly tolerated. This means Hem shouldn’t be nauseated, and he shouldn’t lose his hair. Not that he cares. As long as he doesn’t lose his head and can wear his Giants cap, he’s cool.
According to some site I found on the Internet,172 visualizing the gemcitabine (aka our best chance for growing old together and arguing about whose turn it is to make margaritas) kicking ass, taking names, and vaporizing those vile cancer cells as it courses through Hemingway’s veins could make him (and me) feel better, more proactive, and less powerless. So you can bet we’ll be trying that trick.
We’ve also decided to augment the best modern medicine has available with one or more of today’s alternative cancer remedies. Don’t scowl. Some of this stuff actually works. There are people who were told they had a month to live three years ago who firmly believe they’re still here thanks to a combination of chemotherapy and flaxseed infused cottage cheese.
Yes, regular old cottage cheese with a heaping helping of flaxseed mixed in. Who’d’a thunk it?
And that’s not the only alternative out there. There are dozens of them.173 Oxy E, coenzyme Q10, OxyDHQ. The list is endless and we may try a few. But Hemingway and I agree: Under absolutely, positively no circumstances will we ever resort to the lowly leech.
“I’m not going to Mexico for any of that Man on the Moon stuff, Sue,” he says, referring to the Jim Carrey movie about comedian Andy Kaufman.
“After all I’ve done for you, you’d deny me the pleasure of watching some witch doctor pretend to pull leeches out of your belly button? You ingrate!”
“I think it’s enough I’ve agreed to eat that cottage cheese concoction.” He pauses and pretends to put his finger down his throat. “Start pushing stuff like leeches, eye of newt, or green eggs and ham, and somebody’s gonna get hurt.”
Hmm. Green eggs and ham. I hadn’t thought of that. It doesn’t sound too good, but in all honesty, none of this stuff does. Not the visualization. Not the natural supplements. And certainly not the chemo. It all screams, My husband is sick. And that simply makes me want to scream.
Any such outburst is going to have to wait, of course, until we’re on the other side of this thing and he’s insisting it’s my turn to fire up the blender. It won’t be, you should know. My man is a terrible turn taker, with a tendency to prefer drinks made by his favorite blond bartender.
I, on the other hand, would prefer if one of our not so dumb animals could be taught to make margaritas. This rules out Grundy, Tug, and Pete, for obvious reasons, and don’t even think of suggesting Coca and Cola. The last time those two “helped,” I caught them licking the cap to the Cuervo. They didn’t get sick, but I did. One bottle costs thirty-two bucks! That leaves the hens, the cows, and the goats. As I don’t like feathers or big green doody flies in my drink, I’m leaning toward Duke and Willie. They already know their way around the kitchen, and frankly, I’ve always wanted a cabana boy named Billy.
Chapter Thirty-four
PLEASE DON’T SQUEEZE THE STINKBUGS
This just in: Stinkbugs have hit New Jersey.
And for that, I blame my mother.174
My mother—or, as I like to call her, Dame Joan—recently paid a visit to the stinkbug capital of the country—or, as it’s more commonly known, our house—and when she left for her little slice of the Garden State, she apparently gave a lift to an entire colony of the only bugs with a built-in attack aroma.175
Unknowingly, of course. But still.
I tried to stop her. I didn’t want her to go home. I wanted her to stay and help me do fun things like chase down prescriptions and run to the pharmacy, take the trash to the recycling center, clean the gutters, weed, and, most important, guard the garden from the goats, which, truthfully, she did better than Hemingway or I ever have. Of course, my mom is an elementary school principal. She has a BA and a master’s degree in pest control. And she’s pretty good with kids, too.
Seriously, though, you should’ve seen her standing between the hundreds of cherry tomatoes, cucumbers, and the exceedingly long (phallic-looking, frankly) red jalapeño peppers we planted by mistake, puffing away on a Misty Ultra Light, and lecturing (in an English accent, no less) the goats and any cows, chickens, or dogs that dared approach about how they were going to spend eternity pushing up carrots if they came any closer.
The poor beasts looked at one another like, Who’s the Brit? But they left the produce alone.
Of course, she didn’t just pull scarecrow duty before she left and the stink about the stinkbugs started. We got in some really good gossip time, too. Juicy stuff I c
an’t share, because if I tell you, I’ll have to kill you. And maybe even use you as mulch.
In fact, about the only thing we didn’t get to rehash was my absolute favorite family memory. No, not the one about the night my brother David, who today is a total hunk but at the age of four was a big old Baby Huey, sneaked a jumbo-size bag of minipretzels into his bed and was busy stuffing himself with them when, of course, one lodged in his windpipe. He started gagging and clutching his throat and making all these disgusting Chiller Theatre scary choking sounds, and I, Super Big Sister, flew into action. I jumped out of bed, screamed for my parents, and raced to his side. Then I whipped off his covers, pulled his pillow from behind his head, and put it over his face.
(Let this be a lesson to little brothers everywhere: Tease and torture your big sister all day, every day and she just might think your middle-of-the-night retching is yet another ruse to make her life miserable. And try to kill you.)
And no, I’m not referring to the incredible Christmas party my brother Nick threw when he was in high school. There was food and drink and a dozen girls dressed as elves plying a kid in a Santa suit with big, red Solo cups of beer, which they got from kegs in the kitchen that had “Feliz Navidad!” and “Let it Snow!” written down the side. There was a beautifully decorated tree in the living room. Even a gigantic blowup sled and reindeer on the lawn, wreaths on the double doors, and hundreds of blinking, colored lights all over the front of the house. Hands down, it’s still the best holiday party I’ve ever attended. In August.
And no, I’m not talking about my baby brother, Dan, who as a toddler had a habit of covering himself in Band-Aids. I can still see him in his blue plaid OshKosh B’Gosh shortalls176 sitting on the steps of our bungalow in Chadwick Beach, New Jersey, peeling the strips and sticking them on his legs, knees, belly, chest, elbows, even smack in the center of his forehead. We all thought it was cute until one day he covered the cat in them, too. Wearing a sweatshirt, David’s football helmet, and two oven mitts on each hand, I watched in horror as my mom held that pussy and pulled. And now you know why I’ve never been a fan of the Brazilian.
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