David had chemo last thursday, and lately that's been slowing or shutting down his digestive/elimination system. He reported yesterday that he hadn't had a bowel movement for 4 days. 4 days! He was feeling pretty crummy. Remember that song about not appreciating what we have till it's gone. Most of us don't think much about our hearts pumping, or lungs moving oxygen in and out, or tiny cilia moving digested food through a football field sized channel, using what they want, and passing out the rest. Our bodies are so amazing. And at some point they stop.
Last night after another day of no bowel function, I was concerned about what the morning would bring. I prayed as I waited for sleep listening to the gurgling of digestive sounds next to me, that David would sleep, and that he would poop, in any order. This morning with the help of a few doses of magnesium and a pressurized water enema David passed quite a lot of stool, still feels poorly but is expecting to feel better soon and be up and functioning today. And if he hadn't, would he choose to go to the hospital? At what point does a person stop going to the hospital, or go there and not come out? David says he'd prefer to die outside, then home or hospital, he doesn't have a preference. I've noticed he's pretty comfortable in hospitals, and less afraid there because there's lots of support for all that is needed. I'd prefer to avoid them. How about you?
This is our morning. David is resting now. Today friends are coming from Portland for a visit. We will take Cosmos out for a few hours. Visits are welcome, and if you haven't seen our pretty renovated old farmhouse, come enjoy it with us sometime. As I write this at the kitchen table there's warm sunshine coming through the windows, and a handsome siamese cat purring at my back.
love, Tara
Sending best wishes, thoughts, prayers, and love.
ReplyDeleteDavid, it was great rooming with you in New Orleans.
That was a great trip; thanks for sharing your inspiring
outlook with all of us. Thinking of you.
Hi David,
ReplyDeleteI am thinking of you and send lots of love.
Andrea
You are in my thoughts and Prayers. I am always here if you need to talk.
ReplyDeleteHugs,
Neva
Dear David,
ReplyDeleteI tried calling you but just can't wait for your reply...
I am so sorry to hear that your health is poor. I am so sorry to admit that I have not been a good correspondant over the years. I am so sorry to be sending this reponse in the virtual realm... but I feel that time is of the essence and my hand-writing is SOooo bad. I am sorry to be starting this out with apologies... but... now that I have all that out of the way...
I am pulled into an altered state of consciousness when I read your blog. Your honesty is compelling. There are so many trendy alternatives to "telling it like it is", so many ways to sugarcoat the truth, and Americans love to hide from these kinds of truths as they are ugly and uncomfortable and don't have a happy ending. It's why we send our elderly off to some other place where they can die without our witnessing, without our taking any real sense of responsibility. But you are not like that.
I can't help but think of my father. When he died I had just turned 16 but he had been really sick for about 1.5 years before that. He was shipped off to Mayo Clinic for treatments. Gone for weeks. When he was horribly ill, he stayed in the hospital and I remember visiting him only once, and reading to him at his bedside. Was he listening? I don't know, but I think he was happy to have me there. If you could call that "happy". I think he would hide in the hospital, hiding from us kids, until he was not quite so delirious, not quite in so much pain, not quite so scary, more like "himself".
But he was unrecognizable. At some point I stopped believing that that guy swimming in my dad's pajamas, wearing my dad's glasses, drooling in my dad's chair was actually my dad. My dad had been replaced by this other alien life form. And I was afraid of him.
As an adolecent and teenager, I blocked out as much of it as I could, clinging to the big, burly, boisterous, lusty dad I remembered, like some sort of life raft, my dad's former self. And I think that is who my dad wanted us to remember. As an adult, however, I have so much guilt and pain around this: there are so many things I would love to ask him now, so many conversations we might have had, so many questions he might have answered for me. For it is what men do in their darkest moments that define who they really are.
Now I see that this was my opportunity to really know my dad. But I didn't know that then. How could I?
You have gotten inside his head somehow and are speaking directly to the heart of me. You are answering some of those questions, wondering at my father's wonderments, not hiding away your pain but exploring and expressing it. You are a revelation to me. I am most grateful. More than words can express.
I have the deepest respect for you and many fond memories of our antics in the alley behind Klingle Road and on Macomb playground. That community of children that we were a part of made a lasting impression on me, shaping the way I teach and parent. You are very much a part of the fabric of that past. And now the present. And into the future...
I wish you peace. With the warmest best wishes, Glyde.