Driving home from the emergency room yesterday evening, I felt such a surge of hope. We had made it four days without seeing the inside of a hospital -- a feat we haven't managed in a quite awhile. Also, the iron infusions seem to have helped Mark's severe anemia, and he's putting on weight. At 6'5", he's finally 159 lbs. They actually got to use an adult sized blood pressure cuff on him today! As if that weren't sufficient cause for celebration, the medical staff managed to get him reasonable comfortable without narcotics in a mere 2 1/2 hours. I was, to say the least, pleased.
I was relaxed, too, for awhile, because I knew my kids were all in good hands. Earlier, when I first realized that I was going to have to take him in, I made three quick phone calls. Becca, Jen, and Pieper all said, without hesitation, "Sure. I'll take a kid." The Spinks were even about to set out for Abby's Pizza to celebrate Scott's 37th birthday, but they both insisted that Alex was more than welcome to come along. The love and compassion of these three women and their families was a powerful tonic to my soul.
But on the way home, a line from one of my own poems came to me: "Hope is a four letter word, profaned by the mundane." I cringe in the face of hope. It is such a fall from there to reality, these days. And yet the lack of hope is far, far worse.
A few days ago, the doctor on duty gave Mark a new drug that sent him into severe anxiety attacks. However, no one put his reaction in his chart (despite my request that they do so). Once I thought he was settled yesterday, I took my new book of Franz Wright's poetry and went to the cafeteria in search of a turkey sandwich. When I got back, I learned that they had given him this same drug.
I think that's why I didn't bother to get undressed last night. I took off my jeans, but kept everything as is, climbed between the covers and dozed for a few hours. Sure enough, at 1 a.m. he woke up, agitated. Despite taking Benadryl to counter the previous medication, his state of mind continued to spiral up rapidly. I almost called 911, but our local fire department is volunteer and I couldn't bear to drag them all from their beds if I didn't have to. And I just couldn't bring myself to call Jason either. Not again. He would have been over in a flash, but there is only so much you can ask of one person. So I woke up Kaitlyn and had her get in my bed with Brendan. (He doesn't sleep well alone.) And we set out.
They tried not to give him an IV again. His veins are getting scarred up and starting to collapse, and they don't want to traumatize them anymore than they have to, but oral and IM meds were not working, even after several hours. In fact, he was getting worse, with pain and severe nausea added to the anxiety. Finally, they had to do the IV anyway. Phenergan and Dilaudid finally cut through it all. At 5:30, we headed for home.
I'm trying not to think too much about the day ahead. At least preschool will grant me two hours to sleep later this morning. Then I'm watching J.P. and Gabby for Becca. (I won't tell her about last night until it's too late for her to back out of her plans. She gives me so much. It's her turn today.) And then I have to take Mark back to the pain center for a routine visit. By 5:00, my day should be more or less over -- except for dinner. And kids. And homework and laundry and cleaning up the eternally mucked up kitchen. Sorry, Mr. President, but I don't think I'll be staying up to listen to your thoughts on the state of our Union tonight.
I've decided that television is really not good for one's internal well being, anyway. It is rather anesthetizing, but last night it seemed to me to reflect a world full of emptiness and despair. Mark had the TV tuned to Fox and Friends, and the commentators' arrogance made me want to duct tape their mouths shut. Then some entertainment show came on, where they were discussing anorexia and a new form of plastic surgery. When they went to commercial break, and a picture of filthy, starving children flashed on the screen. I left the room. "No starving children," I said over my shoulder to Jarod, the nurse. "Not tonight."
Speaking of children ... just the other day, after we had dropped Mark off at the ER and were pulling away from the hospital, Brendan asked me, "Mommy, why is Daddy like this?" I told him, "He was just born that way, honey. His heart has a bad hole in it, and his body is getting tired of having to work so hard." He said, "But ... why did Jesus make him that way?" I cringed, praying for the right words to say, but could only come up with, "I don't know." I could see him in the rear view mirror, thinking hard. I wanted to cry when at last he said, "Well, I still love Jesus anyway."
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