moose eater
Well-known member
The depression during my recovery was a constant companion. I came close to accepting it as if it was a friend... a very tiresome friend with some odd habits. Lots of sleep and thoughts of "not being able to do what I used to do" scared me into getting outside of myself. My near acceptance of the depression had filled the house I shared with my wife, and she had to bear it while I wallowed in it and struggled with it.
Her burden was created by my depression. I had encapsulated my recovery and she was left to think the very same thoughts of cancer survival, loss of love, 'sliding down the laundry chute of life' alone. My 'need to get on that' depression activated when I looked beyond myself.
Thanks buzz.
My wife's stress and related strength involves a variety of things; she's trying to run her agency while working remote from home, helping to tend to my needs (which now involve daily trips to town for IV antibiotics), my own PTSD, which typically has me with a short fuse where tolerating unnecessary speed-bumps and fuck-ups are concerned, comes with an even shorter fuse now; "if you already have limited energy, why do things that result in circular problem solving via the 'gerbil wheel' , expending energy where you already have none." A long-time issue at our home where my addressing folks living consciously is concerned.
At the hospital I had 2 shifts of nurses, with 2 each shift. At home I have my wife, and to a lesser degree, my younger son. Needs are a bit different now, but there none the less.
While al of this was at its height, her clinic had an accreditation survey, which stood to potentially 'sink them' or allow them to swim. Murphy took sympathy into hand for them, and they were given a long list of 'dos' to address, but they passed.
Her clinic's finances were previo8sly handled by an incompetent person who should've been sent down the road long ago, had it been me at the helm. Lots of expensive damage occurred during that overdue dismissal's languishing.
There's more there with her clinic, aside from me.
Her family, specifically the women, has a long history of Alzheimer's Disease, and she has had a conscious concern re. her susceptibility to such things since decades ago, having watched from a distance as her grandmother succumbed over time. When she gets stressed, and forgets things that are obvious or basic, that fear arises, and the outcome is circular; the more stressed a person becomes, the more apt they are to repeat the behaviors born of stress. "And so it goes..." (Vonnegut)
What the Doc in Seattle 'did for me' was to include 'gifts' that cause further uncertainty re. my recovery, without any regard to the cancer itself, which now seems a secondary focus, leaving us dealing with simply getting out of the quagmire HE helped to create. The cancer is something that can be dealt with over time, one way or another.
I was pleased that in another case of a fellow who is still sporting really positive numbers, post-op, but who began with lower numbers than mine from the beginning, my local urologist's opinion is to skip Lupron and if required (which it isn't yet, due to stellar numbers for the guy) launch into external beam radiation; I might opt for a more specific focus via Cyber-Knife, depending on who the operator is, but that's not here yet.
I'm about a week away from my first post-op PSA draw, and that's a Cracker Jack Box in which I'm not really eager to find the prize in the bottom, considering the way the rest of this shit-show has gone.
When I get up and assert myself even a bit, the pelvis can end up enflamed, and a bit puffy, leading to questions re. whether the leak at the urethra, near the bladder (the Seattle surgeon's gift to me) has really ceased or not. Such was the case last night, when my testicles and pelvis hurt, but due to trying to avoid constipation, I stayed with a 500 mg acetaminophen, rather than an oxycodone. (nurse at the local clinic asked me where I got my oxy. I initially sharply told her, "THE STREET!!", then the truth; left-overs from the PA who assisted my neurosurgeon in my spine surgery 3 years prior. Later recounted the inquiry to my primary care Doc, and added, "Like it's anyone's fucking business; the fact that I still have over 50 of an 84 tab set, from 3 years prior, OUGHT to fucking speak for itself." Knee-jerk motherfuckers with their presumptuousness about generic, black & white assessment of our species' drug habits, as though we all fit into ONE mold or something. The whole thing has 'insult' built into it, like fenders on a new vehicle. I could tattoo "I DON'T DO RECREATIONAL DOWNERS OR OPIATES!!" on my forehead, and the idjits would STILL Ask their presumptuous, insulting, brain-dead, limited in thought-capacity questions).
Short of it is that ultimate losses or gains, if any, are unknown at this time, my energy is toasted before I even apply it, and there's some indications that the sources of on-set of the infection may still be hanging out. Again, I'm never re-doing this last month+ of mayhem again. no matter what. It's not happening. So there's some stress from that line in the sand, too.
My wife and younger son and I have all had an open discussion re. how much is enough, when to say "When," and surrender, and moving ahead if able./ They all accept that I'm in the driver's seat of deciding when I've had enough of feeding the beast.
Then I got a nice reminder from the hospital that the surgeon fucked me up at, no doubt geared toward accelerating recovery <sarcasm>, letting me know that there's over $50,000 hanging out at the moment (not all-inclusive), that if my insurance co. doesn't get on it, they will be sending all or part of that amount to me to be collected. I made several efforts before procedures began to assure us that everything in the works was pre-authorized, and have notes in my portal messages to verify such efforts were made by me. I was told by the staff of the surgeon that they nearly always handle that pre-emptively, but that if it made me feel better, I could contact a specific number to make sure such arrangements had been made. Before surgery I called that number 2 x's, never got an answer, left a message both times, and never got a call back. My telephone records can show I phoned that number that many times, or more. Yet they send me a mildly threatening letter, involving over $50,000.00 after I, once again, practically did their jobs for them, to no avail.
There's my reality in a nut-shell, aside from now needing to treat a yeast infection, and determine when it might be safe, down the road, to pull the catheter, and trust my immune system to have healed the breeched urethral leak.
Yes, a face-to-face meeting with the good surgeon in July MIGHT just be what the Cosmos has ordered in the way of setting balances straight. We'll see.
I knew I could never go back, but also had little idea of how far ahead I might be catapulted by the help of those who are paid to "Do no harm."
Take care.
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Bruce Cockburn
'Mama Just Wants to Barrelhouse All Night Long'
Bruce Cockburn - Mama Just Wants To Barrelhouse All Night Long - Bing video