When we last left our heroine and her not-so-helpful mate, he had, well, to paraphrase the line from a medical device tv ad, ‘he’d fallen and he couldn’t get up.’
The fall had dislodged the stent, which began leaking at the point of insertion. So, off we went to the hospital on Tuesday to have the stent checked. He fell getting out of my car, and was wheeled about in a wheelchair.
The stent needed replacement and the doctor did it then with a local to dull the pain. My husband was not pleased. As I’ve mentioned, he’s pain-phobic. He gasped and groaned all the way home and for hours afterward–even after I returned from taking my mom to her doctor’s appointment–but his pain turned out to be the least of our problem.
The doctor decided, since there was leakage in the stomach cavity, to vent the bile externally, through that tube part of the stent. The doctor preferred we leave it that way, emptying or changing the bag. He felt it was better going forward.
Well, going forward to sometime in the early hours of this past Saturday morning, we find our heroine being called around 6-ish in the morning. “What’s up?” I yell downstairs.
“We have a situation,” my hubby says.
“What happened?” I say as I hobble downstairs on sleep-numbed legs, leaning heavily on my cane.
“I pulled the stent out in my sleep.” The whole stent. He pulled the whole stent, which was attached to the external tube and bag, out of his body. Bile wept from the incision.
I called the IR resident on call. The short of it–the doctor called back within the hour. We determined that, since authorization was necessary for a “reinstallation” (hubby hates that term. Makes him think of tires.) and since doctor knew we’d be sitting in Emergency all day and possibly into the next trying to get authorization on the weekend, we decided doctor would call our insurance carrier for authorization on Monday and let us know when we were good to go–with, as hubby insisted–anesthesia. Turns out installation day was yesterday, Tuesday.
This left us with three days of a bile-weeping wound. What was the best way to contain it, since bandages soaked through in 10 minutes and the bile irritated his skin? It took only an hour to determine that the best way was not to bandage at all, but to absorb it with clean towels rolled into flattened tubes, wrapped around his torso from stomach to back, and changed two to three times a day, along with his shirts and sweatshirts. Lots of laundry, and luckily, I have a stash of bleached towels I keep for non-public display, well, actually, for bathing the dogs and mopping up clothes washer overflows.
Tuesday morning came earlier than I wanted it to, with my husband calling me from the kitchen. He’d fallen and couldn’t get up. We spent half an hour trying various scenarios–too low or high and he has no leverage. We tried chair seats, stools, a case of dog food. Nothing put him in a position where I could lift him. In the end, I had to call our neighbor, who came on the double and had my husband up on his feet in seconds. Heaven bless the man! I know we women have lower body strength, but it was upper body strength needed here, and I just didn’t have it.
After that, my husband and I arrived at the hospital bright and early–well, early-ish and in the pouring rain. He had to have blood drawn for testing prior to the procedure. I pushed him in a wheelchair to avoid another fall. The day was long. It usually is when he demands anesthesia as the wake up time, lengthy as a matter of course, seems more protracted with each procedure. This time, he was out of procedure well before 1pm, but wasn’t alert enough to leave until 3pm. He kept asking me how he got there. I’d tell him but he couldn’t remember. That part’s scary. Dressing took forever. He’s still very weak and required help to dress and to stand. Otherwise, everything went without a hitch.
My hopes were higher as we left the hospital, as we had the stent issue solved and we’ve finally stemmed the diarrhea tide. To do that, however, we had to stop both oral chemo drugs and put him on tincture of opium. It’s a small amount–0.6ml every six hours–but it works. Thankfully.
I keep saying he’s still very weak. Part of that is his doing. He refused the therapeutic vitamins meant to add muscle. He refuses to walk in the house or outside (for November the weather’s glorious–60s with strong sun), and tells me to leave him alone when I try to reason with him, but expects me to help him rise from couch or toilet as needed.
In the hospital yesterday, I met a woman whose husband was in remission from his myeloma. Her sister has dementia. She wept explaining her frustration at being pulled in two directions, then listened as I vented and cried as well. I’m not so weepy today, only frustrated that hubby won’t move more.
I’d hoped to do some sort of comparison with Danny here, but, although I know precisely what I want to say, I’ve gone on too long already, and will save it for tomorrow.
Will our heroine maintain her sanity until then? Will she coerce her mate into exercising? Or will he fall again? Will she push him down the stairs? Be sure to tune in, folks, to find out.
