On Monday, the IR group announced their intention to implant a third biliary stent the next day. Upon hearing that, I became suspicious, even angry. How could they have botched two previous procedures?
Well, it wasn’t them at all. It was my husband, who shifted in his hospital bed careless of the stent’s drain, and walked to the bathroom with that external drain–a bag about 5″ by 3″ tethered to the drain–swinging freely like a clock’s pendulum. As it collected the bile and pancreatic enzymes in it, it became heavier, and pulled the internal part of the stent out of place. When I told the IR doctor what I’d observed, he promised to tape this new bag to my husband’s torso. And when I told my husband that his carelessness meant a longer stay in hospital and another procedure, he took greater care with external stent.
The stent was changed on Tuesday, and on Wednesday the doctors observed the output and capped the external stent, allowing the bile and enzymes to flow internally where they aid the intestines and colon in digestion and elimination.
I was pleased to collect my husband on Thursday and bring him home. He was very weak, and unable to climb the stairs to our bedroom, and so we set him up in our den, on the couch he usually claims to watch TV. There were medications (meds) to gather, instructions to read, visiting nurse services to follow up with. He needed help rising, and sitting, and walked slowly with a walker. The slightest activity left him exhausted, though at the end of the first day home, I couldn’t say who was more tired, him or me.
By Friday’s end, we seem to have developed a pattern. (Thankfully, his appetite has returned, in no small measure due to the fact that his abdominal pain has disappeared.) I’d rise with the dogs, as usual, to go outside. Back in the house, I helped my husband to the bathroom, made breakfast for him and the dogs, administered meds, and yes, annoyed him into walking around the house on his walker. Lunch, with more meds, a bit more activity, and then dinner at home with a friend, and more pills ended his day. He slept through the night.
Today, he’s walking slowly without the aid of the walker, and even went into the basement to check on his fish tanks. Of course, this bit of exertion cost him dearly, and he sat on the basement stairs to rest for some minutes, but he climbed them himself with no aid and rested outside on the patio with lunch.
In the name of transparency, I can admit that I’m not as grouchy today as I was Thursday, when seeing him so helpless at home was a shock. Intellectually, I knew he’d be weak and need help. Practically, I was prepared to handle what ever was needed. Emotionally, I wasn’t prepared. While he was in hospital, home was my refuge from the cancer. Now, I’d brought it home with him. I needed to toughen up. Fast. Hopefully, I’m doing that.
For the next few days, I’ll have to help him to be more active. He needs physical therapy, especially as one ankle is swollen. If it continues despite his escalating activity, I’ll call the doctor.
Next Wednesday, we have an oncology appointment, and, fingers crossed, will schedule or perhaps even have his first chemo treatment.
But for now, so far, so good. Baby steps.
If he is camped downstairs, I think you can get a hospital-style bed loaner–maybe at no cost?–that is more comfortable than the couch and is adjustable so he can rest easier. My sister had one when she couldn’t navigate the stairs in her condo, and it really helped.