h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

At 2am on January first (that's right, during the New Year's Eve celebration), we were transporting my father to the hospital at the state capital. He'd been in the local three days with internal bleeding, caused by the medication they'd insisted he be on after the stent was placed, combined with what he'd been on after his cardio-conversion (his heart had went out of rhythm, so they shut it down and restarted it). The culprits were Plavix and Cumadin, surprise surprise.

On being released from the hospital, he was greeted by his girlfriend with, "You'll have to keep your oxygen tanks somewhere else, I don't want them here anymore." But, of course, she'd never dream of throwing him out. Goodness, she was just worried about him. Now, mind you, he was supposed to be on oxygen 24/7. The next day we moved him into my house.

On February 9, my brother and I both missed a doctor's appointment (two different reasons, two appointments, same doctor) because we'd spent all night the night before replacing my daughter's radiator in her truck. (Admittedly it wouldn't have taken us near that long if we hadn't spent so much time sitting in the house drinking coffee and bullshitting. ) My brother had been in a lot of pain around his right neck and shoulder area. Now, Bubby has never been one to go willingly to the doc's, but this time the appt. had been set up at his request. And when he overslept, he asked his gf to reschedule for him. She still hadn't done so by the next time he was at my table, so I did it.

Now, Bub had recently fallen 18 feet off a telephone pole (he worked for Time-Warner), so naturally we figured it was something to do with that. The doc did some tests, and found what he thought was a swollen lymph node (at 5 centimeters, much swollen). He sent him to a for a biopsy, which should have involved a small cut, a catheter and grab a little piece... Outpatient surgery. But when they made the small cut, the bleeding started, and they couldn't stop it. They had to cut him open (half-way down his chest) to repair the blood vessels. When they did, they found what they then pronounced as small-cell lung cancer.

My cousin had had lung cancer a few years before, and she had whipped it. When we found out about Bubby, I called her to find out exactly how she had been treated, and pick her brain about anything else she might have learned that could help us. Of course, I also went on the web. I insisted to Bubby that if Cous could whip it, so could he, and if he didn't get off his duff and start fighting it, I'd kick his ass.

Meanwhile, I had taken Dad off his blood-inducing drugs, and added some protective ones (treatment completely approved by the family doctor) and he was doing well. His breathing had improved, and there was no more bleeding, but his knees (what was left of them) were giving him great pain. So off we whisked him to the doc that had did my thumb and wrist for me (I'd had what is known as deQuervain's Tenosynovitis). He scheduled X-rays of Dad's knees before the appointment, and when he walked into the room, his first words were, "Your knees suck, old man!" (Yes, his words -- this is why I really like this surgeon. )

Partly because of all Dad's other physical problems, we opted to first give cortisone shots a try. He gave him one in his worst knee, and scheduled another appointment for a week, to see how it did. It worked long enough to have the second shot, but then wore off in about another week (you can only get them every three months). So we scheduled Dad for total knee replacement. He had all his doctors sign off on the surgery. We had him pre-registered. He was doing so much better otherwise, that he was actually looking forward getting his knees fixed so he could go back to work. (He'd been off since July 2005 when his heart had jumped rhythm.) We took him into the hospital the day of surgery, and that was when they told us that the only anesthesialogist in town had refused to do the job. So we set another appt with the doc and went home.

Meanwhile Bubby was not doing so well. When the biopsy came back, it turns out to be non-small-cell. Then it was not in the lungs, but in the chest cavity next to the heart (it was pressing on the main vein that drains the blood from the brain into the heart, which is what caused all the bleeding during the biopsy procedure). There was also a spot on his brain. They were supposed to start chemo and radiation because that was his best bet, but somehow (because gf couldn't get her shit together) he ended up doing his first radiation session, then his chemo session, then back to radiation, so he never got the chance they promised him to feel better in between sessions.

The bone doc happened to have a good friend ("..the only person I'd trust to do this job other than me,") who was partner in a specialized joint replacement hospital in a town more local then the state capital, but more advanced than here in Hicksville, USA. They had their own anesthesialogists. We went through the entire examination procedure again, and they agreed to get the job done. But.. because of the medical history, they wanted to do it in the state cap, rather than their hopital, since they were a bone-only and had no other teams on hand, whereas the state cap did. So he was scheduled for the first knee on June 19.

A couple days before that, I got a call that Bubby needed to get to the hospital, could I take him. "Hell yes." Two minutes later I was in his bedroom. He couldn't even stand up or lift himself up enough to get his pants on, because his legs were in such pain. We called the squad, who came. But, they couldn't take him because it was a direct admit and they could be sued because they weren't a private company. So we waited for the second squad to get there.

The day Dad was supposed to be on his liquid diet and eat last before midnight, I got a call in the evening from an histeric Bubby gf saying Bubby was "talking out of his head" and they had only given him a few hours. "His legs are full of cancer.. it's all through him!" I never said a word to anyone, just stood up and drove to the hospital. I'm sure I worried everyone the way I rushed out, but I didn't have time to talk, and I didn't want to have to bring the granddaughter with me if things were as bad as she described. When I got there, gf was gone (thankfully) but sister was there. Bubby was sitting on the side of the bed, quite calmly answering some questions the nurse had for him while she filled out a form. They had removed his IV and was getting him a wheel chair so he could slip outside for a smoke. We went outside and talked until Sis left, then I propped his legs up on pillows on a bench and we talked.

My daughter called me on my cell, "What is it?! What's wrong? What happened?" "Calm down, everything is fine, though I didn't know that when I left. Come on up if you want." Daughter left Great-grampa in charge of little one (and vice-versa). We all had a very nice conversation until I _had to leave so I could get Dad his last liquid meal before surgury the next morning.

So, Dad goes in for surgery about 65 miles from home or so. Dad is supposed to have surgery at 7:30am. At 2pm, the staff has had lunch, Dad is starving (he gets sick when he doesn't eat right), and he still is in pre-op. My granddaughter is with me, since mom works second shift and I'm not only the babysitter, but also the homeschool teacher. We haven't eaten yet either, because we're supposed to wait in the waiting room until someone calls for us. Finally Dad goes in, we go eat, back to the waiting room. Half an hour later, Dad's out of surgery. Doctor calls for his conference. Dad made it through the surgery with flying colours, tolerated the anesthesia well, and should be on his feet this afternoon, tomorrow morning at the latest. Half an hour or so later, we finally get Dad settled in his room. When he wakes up (still very groggy, of course) we talk a little, hugs and kisses, and "Okay, Dad, I'm going to head home now." We're supposed to take him home in two days, and he'll do his physical therapy at the local.

So now my Dad is in a hospital 65 miles away, my brother 10 minutes away, and I'm trying to keep everyone fed and educated. I go to pick up Dad the day he's scheduled for release, but they haven't even had him out of bed yet. The surgeon visits in the morning and tells him he's getting up in a few, some male nurse comes in and pushes him down in bed and tells him not to move. He's sitting on the edge of the bed when I get there. He's a little confused. He's still being drugged with medications that are on the no-no list, so I have a little conversation with the staff.

Things just get more and more screwed up, and this is already getting over-long. Cut it short -- on July 1 I get a call that my brother has passed away at Sis's house. July 5 I get a call from the hospital, "You should come in." He's gone before I get there.

I go to the funeral home to make arrangements for Dad. On the way, I'm telling daughter, "I never want to see the inside of another medical facility -- at least not for a looooong, long time, so take care of everybody." Since the funeral home is in the same town where Cous lives, I go to visit her, only to find she's in the hospital. So I go to visit her. Her cancer is back. She died October 25.

Now we're in the midsts of other problems (of an even more personal nature) that has resulted in my and grandaughter's having to drive over 5 states beginning the day after TG weekend. And we're now in the mists of preparations to uproot from our life home and move, including still trying to get probate finished on Dad.

I'd consider starting up drinking again, but hey... we have enough problems already.