Moaning Myrtle
Chemo day after a 10 day rest. I was nervous, but the labs were ok. Well, the only one that they had available was the white blood cell count and it was better, so they gave me chemo. I'll get the rest of the results tomorrow.
I went to the chemo room and there was Ray. He had grabbed the closest-to-the-bathroom chair, so I sat down next to him.
"Are you sure it is your chemo day?" I teased him. Ray is famous for getting his times and days mixed up. He nodded.
"I'm sure and it is my long day, so be nice," he answered. In chemo, we have short days, medium days, and long days. Short days are when you come in for a shot. Medium days are when you come in for a nutrient bag. Long days are chemo and all the other bags you need: magnesium, potassium, sodium. A short day usually means about a half hour. They give you your chemo shot and a little bag of anti nausea drugs. A medium day is about an hour to two hours. A long day runs anywhere from 4-8 hours, depending on your chemo and what you are deficient in.
I was in for a medium day. Just chemo shots, a nausea bag, and a bag of nutrients. I was cranky because I forgotten my book at home and had to depend on old People magazines for reading material.
Ray and I sat and waited for our medications to be ordered. We talked Christmas, how neither one of us really was into that but hey....no one wants to harsh anyone else's mellow.
"What I hate is in January when everything has to come down," he said. "Last year, I was well and was able to help. This year? I don't think so. I didn't bring up the boxes from the basement this year, my son did and he, my daughter in law and my wife decorated while I watched."
I told him that it was much the same for me. That T had done all the work. We agreed that it was pretty, though, wasn't it? But, wouldn't it be nice if there was a company who came and took everything down for you after Christmas? They could make some good dough, a job like that.
And then we heard her. Moaning Myrtle. We don't know her name, but she is often in the chemo room. She is a fat woman and I don't call many people fat. But, there is no other word for this woman. She is hands down the fattest woman I have ever seen. We are talking circus lady fat. We are talking My 600 Pound Life fat. She is always brought by an attendant from her "facility." I have never seen a logo, etc. so have no idea where her facility is. She is so pale that she makes me look like I have a deep tan. And I have that Irish peaches and cream skin. She never smiles. She is in a made-to-order wheel chair and gets her chemo in the chair. The chair is so big that it takes up nearly a quarter of the chemo room, blocking 4 chemo chairs. We call her Myrtle because she moans. She screams. She yells. She yelps. Either that or she is out like a light, drool falling out of her mouth.
I much prefer the drooly Myrtle. I do feel sorry for her. I have seen her legs and they are so badly swollen that they are splitting at the seams. She has huge sores on her legs, some bandaged, some open to let the air out. She gets Doxel, the chemo that I detested. The chemo that is sometimes called the red devil. The chemo that nearly killed me. So. I feel for her. We all do. Her pain and suffering is real. It is her screaming that is unsettling.
Ray and I looked at each other warily as Myrtle was wheeled in.
"Maybe she will just go to sleep," he whispered. I nodded. We waited. I read my People. He read his New York Times.
The nurse came in. It was ugly sweater day at the chemo lab. This nurse had a green sweater with Grinches artfully sewn all over, huge earrings showing Santa with his sleigh, and even elf shoes that rolled up in a curly q over her black yoga pants. She apologized to Ray and me, said that she would just get this patient settled because she was really sick and needed to get in and out. We nodded. Agreed. People are good about this in the chemo lab.
The nurse got Myrtle all hooked up with her red devil chemo and said she and another nurse would be back to hook us up. As soon as she was gone, Myrtle started moaning.
"HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME! YOU CUNTS!"
I think she said "cunts"...not sure. Myrtle slurs her words. I peered nervously down the hall. No nurses in sight. I went to her and gently patted her hand. "I'll go find a nurse," I said.
"SHUT UP, DEAD WOMAN!" she yelled. "HELP ME! MY BUTT HURTS! KILL ME. JUST KILL ME! HELP ME, WHERE IS JESSIE? I WANT A DRINK!"
Before I got to the door, Marie, another nurse, was at the door dressed in a god ugly pink sweater with the words MERRY BUT NOT VERY BRIGHT on the front. She had a blanket. She went to Myrtle and tried to soothe her. Told her that Jessie, her attendant was parking the van and would be right back, until then she had a blanket and would get a pillow for her back and bottom.
"I WANT JESSIE NOW! I WANT A DRINK OF WAWA! NOW! I'M GOING TO THROW UP!"
Well, that got everyone's attention. Another nurse came running with a throw up bag and a cup of water.
"I'M HUNGRY!" With that, Myrtle reached into the goodie basket in the next seat and grabbed a bag of Fritos. She started biting the bag viciously. Ray looked at me with disgust and then looked away.
"No, you can't have those. It's too many carbs for your diabetes, honey. Let's just get a sip of water in you."
The water cup went flying and landed in front of Ray. He grabbed a towel and went to wipe it up. A nurse's aide came in and took the towel away from him and said she would take care of it.
Finally, it was decided to move Myrtle into her own room. She was scaring the clientele. Another aide came in with that news from Dr. P. (You think? We really aren't easily scared.)
They wheeled Myrtle by us. I said something like I hoped she felt a little bit better soon. Myrtle turned around to glare at me. If looks could kill, I would have been dead.
She said, with fritos falling out of her mouth, "SHUT UP, DEAD WOMAN! I WANT JESSIE!" And then a wail came out of her that was almost inhuman. It sounded like the sounds of whales in the ocean, magnified. It sounded like pain that was too much to bear.
She left and the room was quiet except for the dim sound of her screams of "HELP ME! KILL ME!" as she was wheeled down the hall. I looked into my lap.
I felt Ray's old wrinkled hand take mine. I looked over at him. He had tears rolling down his cheeks. I had never seen him cry; never seem him look anything more than sweet tempered. He tried to talk, couldn't, so he just squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. I started crying, too. I always cry too when good men cry. I don't know why.
Finally, he was able to talk. "She didn't mean it," he said. I told him that I knew that.
"She scares me," he said. "I don't want that to be the end of my story. I don't want to be wheeled to chemo in a chair screaming obscenities. Or stuck up in bed in a hospice. Or in a hospital, dying of some related disease like pneumonia. But, I think most of us will."
I agreed. We talked after we were hooked up to our poisons. We both admitted that what we really wanted was to die peacefully in our sleep or drop dead of a sudden heart attack and die before we could be saved. It would be easier on our loved ones.
"It makes me sick to think of my wife having to wheel me around," he said. "She is just this little stick of a woman and my sons are just getting started in their businesses and their wives, too. Nobody has TIME to just sit around tending to me, wiping my ugly butt."
I agreed again. I told him that I was in the same boat. I had family, friends, sure. But, I did not want ONE of them to have to change my diaper or feed me. My Mother died at home and one of my sisters pretty much gave up years of her life to tend to her. She had often told me of the terrible loneliness of this, of how she loved our mother deeply but how hard it was for her and how she NEVER wanted to put her children through that.
"Well," Ray said. "Let's hope we go fast."
He gave my hand a squeeze and then reached and handed us both a tissue.
Let's hope.
I went to the chemo room and there was Ray. He had grabbed the closest-to-the-bathroom chair, so I sat down next to him.
"Are you sure it is your chemo day?" I teased him. Ray is famous for getting his times and days mixed up. He nodded.
"I'm sure and it is my long day, so be nice," he answered. In chemo, we have short days, medium days, and long days. Short days are when you come in for a shot. Medium days are when you come in for a nutrient bag. Long days are chemo and all the other bags you need: magnesium, potassium, sodium. A short day usually means about a half hour. They give you your chemo shot and a little bag of anti nausea drugs. A medium day is about an hour to two hours. A long day runs anywhere from 4-8 hours, depending on your chemo and what you are deficient in.
I was in for a medium day. Just chemo shots, a nausea bag, and a bag of nutrients. I was cranky because I forgotten my book at home and had to depend on old People magazines for reading material.
Ray and I sat and waited for our medications to be ordered. We talked Christmas, how neither one of us really was into that but hey....no one wants to harsh anyone else's mellow.
"What I hate is in January when everything has to come down," he said. "Last year, I was well and was able to help. This year? I don't think so. I didn't bring up the boxes from the basement this year, my son did and he, my daughter in law and my wife decorated while I watched."
I told him that it was much the same for me. That T had done all the work. We agreed that it was pretty, though, wasn't it? But, wouldn't it be nice if there was a company who came and took everything down for you after Christmas? They could make some good dough, a job like that.
And then we heard her. Moaning Myrtle. We don't know her name, but she is often in the chemo room. She is a fat woman and I don't call many people fat. But, there is no other word for this woman. She is hands down the fattest woman I have ever seen. We are talking circus lady fat. We are talking My 600 Pound Life fat. She is always brought by an attendant from her "facility." I have never seen a logo, etc. so have no idea where her facility is. She is so pale that she makes me look like I have a deep tan. And I have that Irish peaches and cream skin. She never smiles. She is in a made-to-order wheel chair and gets her chemo in the chair. The chair is so big that it takes up nearly a quarter of the chemo room, blocking 4 chemo chairs. We call her Myrtle because she moans. She screams. She yells. She yelps. Either that or she is out like a light, drool falling out of her mouth.
I much prefer the drooly Myrtle. I do feel sorry for her. I have seen her legs and they are so badly swollen that they are splitting at the seams. She has huge sores on her legs, some bandaged, some open to let the air out. She gets Doxel, the chemo that I detested. The chemo that is sometimes called the red devil. The chemo that nearly killed me. So. I feel for her. We all do. Her pain and suffering is real. It is her screaming that is unsettling.
Ray and I looked at each other warily as Myrtle was wheeled in.
"Maybe she will just go to sleep," he whispered. I nodded. We waited. I read my People. He read his New York Times.
The nurse came in. It was ugly sweater day at the chemo lab. This nurse had a green sweater with Grinches artfully sewn all over, huge earrings showing Santa with his sleigh, and even elf shoes that rolled up in a curly q over her black yoga pants. She apologized to Ray and me, said that she would just get this patient settled because she was really sick and needed to get in and out. We nodded. Agreed. People are good about this in the chemo lab.
The nurse got Myrtle all hooked up with her red devil chemo and said she and another nurse would be back to hook us up. As soon as she was gone, Myrtle started moaning.
"HELP ME! HELP ME! HELP ME! YOU CUNTS!"
I think she said "cunts"...not sure. Myrtle slurs her words. I peered nervously down the hall. No nurses in sight. I went to her and gently patted her hand. "I'll go find a nurse," I said.
"SHUT UP, DEAD WOMAN!" she yelled. "HELP ME! MY BUTT HURTS! KILL ME. JUST KILL ME! HELP ME, WHERE IS JESSIE? I WANT A DRINK!"
Before I got to the door, Marie, another nurse, was at the door dressed in a god ugly pink sweater with the words MERRY BUT NOT VERY BRIGHT on the front. She had a blanket. She went to Myrtle and tried to soothe her. Told her that Jessie, her attendant was parking the van and would be right back, until then she had a blanket and would get a pillow for her back and bottom.
"I WANT JESSIE NOW! I WANT A DRINK OF WAWA! NOW! I'M GOING TO THROW UP!"
Well, that got everyone's attention. Another nurse came running with a throw up bag and a cup of water.
"I'M HUNGRY!" With that, Myrtle reached into the goodie basket in the next seat and grabbed a bag of Fritos. She started biting the bag viciously. Ray looked at me with disgust and then looked away.
"No, you can't have those. It's too many carbs for your diabetes, honey. Let's just get a sip of water in you."
The water cup went flying and landed in front of Ray. He grabbed a towel and went to wipe it up. A nurse's aide came in and took the towel away from him and said she would take care of it.
Finally, it was decided to move Myrtle into her own room. She was scaring the clientele. Another aide came in with that news from Dr. P. (You think? We really aren't easily scared.)
They wheeled Myrtle by us. I said something like I hoped she felt a little bit better soon. Myrtle turned around to glare at me. If looks could kill, I would have been dead.
She said, with fritos falling out of her mouth, "SHUT UP, DEAD WOMAN! I WANT JESSIE!" And then a wail came out of her that was almost inhuman. It sounded like the sounds of whales in the ocean, magnified. It sounded like pain that was too much to bear.
She left and the room was quiet except for the dim sound of her screams of "HELP ME! KILL ME!" as she was wheeled down the hall. I looked into my lap.
I felt Ray's old wrinkled hand take mine. I looked over at him. He had tears rolling down his cheeks. I had never seen him cry; never seem him look anything more than sweet tempered. He tried to talk, couldn't, so he just squeezed my hand and I squeezed back. I started crying, too. I always cry too when good men cry. I don't know why.
Finally, he was able to talk. "She didn't mean it," he said. I told him that I knew that.
"She scares me," he said. "I don't want that to be the end of my story. I don't want to be wheeled to chemo in a chair screaming obscenities. Or stuck up in bed in a hospice. Or in a hospital, dying of some related disease like pneumonia. But, I think most of us will."
I agreed. We talked after we were hooked up to our poisons. We both admitted that what we really wanted was to die peacefully in our sleep or drop dead of a sudden heart attack and die before we could be saved. It would be easier on our loved ones.
"It makes me sick to think of my wife having to wheel me around," he said. "She is just this little stick of a woman and my sons are just getting started in their businesses and their wives, too. Nobody has TIME to just sit around tending to me, wiping my ugly butt."
I agreed again. I told him that I was in the same boat. I had family, friends, sure. But, I did not want ONE of them to have to change my diaper or feed me. My Mother died at home and one of my sisters pretty much gave up years of her life to tend to her. She had often told me of the terrible loneliness of this, of how she loved our mother deeply but how hard it was for her and how she NEVER wanted to put her children through that.
"Well," Ray said. "Let's hope we go fast."
He gave my hand a squeeze and then reached and handed us both a tissue.
Let's hope.
Merry Christmas, M.
ReplyDelete