The Hospital: Part 4

The triumphant return of my beautiful face. A little red. A little still swollen. But a huge improvement! Welcome back eyes. :)

I woke on the morning of Saturday, February 13 and went for a walk to my private bathroom. When you’re the only mobile person on the unit, you get a private bathroom, which let’s be real, is great at any time but especially during a pandemic. After I had the twins, they ended up in the NICU for a few days. There weren’t any private rooms after I delivered, so Willis and I got set up in a semi-private room with the world’s tiniest bathroom shared by FOUR people who had just given birth, without the joy of our newborns with us. I literally said goodbye to my midwife while bleeding a litre into a jug over the toilet. Followed quickly by Dumb & Dumber style diarrhea, a lovely side effect of the shot they gave me in my leg to ensure I didn’t bleed out (twins, you’ve got A LOT of extra fluids). So, you can imagine how delighted I was on this hospital visit to have my very own lavatory. However, on my walk to the bathroom I came across SOMEONE ELSE coming out of MY BATHROOM. How dare they?! Who is this person? Oh… a patient who came in last night. Fine. I’ll allow it. I guess it’s not MY bathroom.

For weeks, I’d been waking up thinking the swelling was gone and then I’d look in the mirror and think — or say aloud — “shit.” Not today. Today I looked in the mirror and who did I see looking back at me? ME!! FINALLY. I did a figurative (maybe literal) happy dance and sashayed back to my room.

Then, my breakfast was delivered! Without anyone having to hunt it down. The good news continued as my last test got bumped up to 8:30AM, which was just around the corner. The porter came and wheeled me, still delightfully, to the CT Scan. This last scan was of my abdomen. I didn’t understand why I needed this at the time, but I would find out soon.

By 9:00AM I was back in my room about to make a phone call. My original plan for February 13 was to visit my Aunt for her 92nd birthday. She had been in lockdown at her retirement community since December 5, 2020 and had finally been allowed to leave her room and go for walks around the building. She wasn’t allowed to leave her apartment. She had no internet or iPad and somehow came out on the other side unscathed and thanks be to the heavens, VACCINATED! The plan was to visit on the other side of the glass that leads to the vestibule where she lives. I had planned to bring Willis and the kids, a gift and some cards. Instead, my phone call went a little like this:
Aunt Florence: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi Aunt Flo!”
Aunt Florence: “Dani! How are you?”
Me: “I’m sorry to be calling you from a hospital bed. I’m doing okay. I’m finally not swollen and I’m relieved we can get to the bottom of it. I’m going to be okay.”
We spoke for ten lovely minutes or so. One of my favourite things about this messed up journey has been talking to my aunts on the phone. Just checking in and saying hi means so much to me. Just hearing the voice of someone who’s known you your whole life brings such a wonderful comfort. I know how deeply I feel for my nieces and how much it would hurt me to see them in my situation. How much I wish I could take it all away. I’m so lucky to have so many who see me that way. Whose positivity, whose prayers, whose love is carrying me through.

The rest of the day went by slowly. Usually my doctor arrived in the morning, but today, he wasn’t there. I read my book. I took some naps. I listened to my meditations. And then I met a wonderful woman. She was on the cleaning staff and we struck up a conversation when she came in to switch out the garbage bags. She had lost her job because of COVID and had started working at the hospital a month prior. Much like Joe the night before, she thought I looked just fine and wondered why I was there. She told me when I was through that her sister’s friend just went through the same cancer at 33 and she was fine now. She told me her best friend was going to be a surrogate for her and her husband. The egg implantation scheduled for two days from then. Then we started chatting about the one thing I forgot. I remembered changes of socks, clothes, underwear, a journal, my book, headphones, toothbrush and toothpaste, but I’d forgotten something major. Deodorant. And I frigging STANK. ALL CAPS. I joked that I was grateful we were all wearing masks. She said she’d bring my some deodorant tomorrow and I said “thank you so much, but I hope to be home by tomorrow.” We shared a giggle and off she went. Then I asked my nurse about deodorant. They had none. Instead he gave me these wipes (not unlike baby wipes) but for your body. Off I went to my bathroom again to attempt to remove the horrible stink in this most unorthodox way.

A few hours passed and my doctor came. He read the CT Scan from my abdomen from across the room and yelled out “IT LOOKS GOOD.” He came over and talked to me a bit more. I learned that we did the CT Scan to find out lymphoma staging. To make sure it hadn’t spread beyond my diaphragm.
He told me “it’s still lymphoma.”
I said “Am I going to be okay?”
He said “it’s going to be a tough year. You will get depressed. You need to lean on your support system. You’ll need someone to help with the kids. But you’ll be okay.”
I thanked him and his team for their genuine care and help these last few days. If you’re reading this, thank you. I couldn’t have asked for better care.

My Internal Medicine Doctor couldn’t authorize my departure from the hospital. I had to wait for Hematology. Soon enough, Dr. Kouroukis, my new hematologist, came to see me. He gave me a bunch of Steroids to take and something called Allopurinol, he said he’d see me in his clinic either next Friday or the following Monday, February 22. I said “uh huh, uh huh, great, can I go home now?” And he said yes.

I called Willis and within 30 minutes I was outside talking to Vanessa on the phone giving her the update and hopping into the car with my family who I couldn’t have been more excited to see.

The day ended with me resting on the couch in the basement watching the twins play LEGO. I told them to listen to me for a second.
Me: “Isn’t it great the medicine the doctors and nurses gave me made my swelling go away? Now they know why that was happening. There’s something in my chest that needs to shrink. I’m going to have a lot of appointments and sometimes I’m going to need to rest but it’s so great they know what it is because now we can fix it.”
Etta and Clark: “Okay, let’s build something.”
I went back to resting and that’s pretty much how the twins have handled it since. Five. The perfect age for your parent to go through something like this. Old enough to be mostly independent, young enough to still be self-absorbed enough that it’s not scary. Bless you five. Thank you for helping us ride this wave. And if I never have to stay in a hospital again during a pandemic, it’ll still be too soon.