Good Morning, Fellow Clotters,
Well, this is truly a “red balloon” day.
The hose is gone!
Let the joyous news be spread…
The funny old nose hose at last is shed!
For several days, now, we have been experiencing “nose-hose extraction anxiety.” So many questions have been swirling in our heads,…and they mostly center on me, which is most appropriate:
Will I still think consider him a “hottie” without the tube serpentining through his beard, around his ear, and down his nostrils? This can be very alluring, you know. It’s the “new” old adage that if you can’t pump iron, stuff nostrils! Hey, don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it!
Will I feel pressure to perform in the kitchen, now that meals no longer consist of the contents in a pop-top can of formula?
Will I actually be expected to fire up the new oven in order to impress perfect strangers with spots that indicate the charred remains of a roast, potato or cookies?
Will I be able to find the man in this house without the “pushee thingee navigational system?” The old “big wheels on cement” locational device is better than any GPS.
And can I adjust to the “sounds of silence?” No more nocturnal whirring and hourly flushing of the line. Without the “security whiteout background noise,” will we be able to get any sleep at all?
Also, when the device is removed, just what will it haul up from those unplumbed depths? Lentils? An anchor? Josh’s lost magnets? Pictures of old girlfriends? (Actually, I made him eat them years ago, so I’m pretty sure they’ve already been processed and passed.) Tube removal gives new meaning to the term “out of body experience.”
There are so many things to consider as we transition away from being “umbilically bound.” He’s had drainage bags, tender timers, stents, fufu bags, PICC lines, multiple nose hoses, IV fluids, oxygen, infusions, defusions, delusions, expulsions, so many bodily intrusions it is borderline felonious assault…and flatulence!
And now he stands alone. His pushee thingee is propped in the corner, looking somewhat forlorn in its new solitude. These two have traveled in tandem so long, I almost think of them as a single entity. So…can I transition? YES! YES! YES!
NO PROBLEMO! AFFIRMATIVE,
Wednesday, we trekked to the Huntsman, hoping that Dennis’ latest numbers would permit him to receive a full infusion of the chemo. And so many of his digits were quite impressive. His weight is an incredible 125! I understand that qualifies him as a “welter-weight,” and he can now pick fights with anyone who weighs 124 or less. (I personally have discouraged him from pursuing the urge to engage in extreme cage-fighting with this new-found prowess…because I’m the only one who qualifies weight-wise…and he’s goin’ down if he even thinks about it!) He is currently taking it under advisement. However, his white blood cell count is just slightly low, and his granulocytes are a couple of foot pounds of pressure per second per second sub-par. So Dr. Jones decided to forego infusion at this time. At first, we were a little disappointed. But then we remembered that Dennis is a survivor, not a patient. (Sometimes transitioning is very hard.) So we decided to go shopping instead. We weren’t sure just what to purchase, since we already have toilets and a new stove. So we bought a whole bunch of rice gruel and some bubble gum. I don’t know why, but that seemed reasonable at the time. With a little more practice, I may finally persuade Dennis away from toilets and stoves, and over to see the new Z4. Now who’s delusional?
We just want you all to know how much small gestures of concern, help, guidance and consideration can alter certain situations. And how much we rely on others for an assist. This has been a refining and defining time for us. And we thank all who have rendered assistance during our confrontation with scary things. We share the joy of our latest news with all of you, Dear Ones.