...whether I want to or not.
When I first arrived at the hospital and they strapped me to the first IV bag, I didn't realize at the time the future relationship that would occur with the stand that holds the fluids. You've all seen them, the IV stand that sits next to the bed or walks next to a patient as they move around a hospital or nursing home setting. At first, it was just another piece of equipment in a room full of equipment, but now it's become more.
The stand is a simple medal stand about six feet high on a set of five small, squeaky wheels. It's designed to hang the bags of various fluids on top where the potential energy will allow them to flow down through the system. The fluid then flows into pumps which monitor flow rates to the body. The pumps are electric with batteries that will run independently for a few hours, but the pumps need to be plugged in most of the time. The pumps have electronic displays that glow brightly in the night and they make noise as they pump. The pumps lead to more tubes that flow to your body, and in my case the PICC line in my right arm. This is the interface point. The point at which the stand and I become one.
When we first started, the only medication flowing was the IV drip, so the set up was fairly simple. One bag, one pump, one plug, one length of tube. The first few nights served as our courting phase. The first trick was positioning the stand so that the tubes flowed naturally into my arm without causing pain at the PICC insertion site and without getting tangled when I rolled in bed. I found that I had to lie still on just my right side initially. Not being able to adjust one's sleeping position just leads to more restlessness.
Due to the constant flow of IV fluids in addition to normal eating and drinking, I have to go to the bathroom a lot. About every two hours the urgency is there that it forces you out of bed even during the night. Remembering that the stand is plugged into the wall near the bed, the next trick is to maneuver the stand close enough to the bathroom so that I can reach the toilet without unplugging the units each time. I figured out I had to relocate the outlets for the night and found a location where the cords would reach me in bed and I could get to the bathroom with only some minor rolling. Each time the stand rolls it makes noise and the wheels become tangled in the power cords dragging on the floor. It takes us time to learn how to dance together.
By Sunday, before they start the chemo meds, I was unhooked for the first time since I had arrived at the hospital from the stand so that I could take a shower. I also managed a short exercise walk around the floor while they were preparing the other meds. It had only been two days and I felt so liberated. I could jump on the elevator and walk out the front door a free man. But I returned to the room eager to get hooked back up to the stand and get my treatment started. When they hung the chemo bags, they added an additional bump. When they added blood, they added an additional pump. The entire stand is now full and looks like some sort of strange Christmas tree.
Now that we're on a tight seven day window for the chemo, I'm no longer allowed long breaks away from the stand. In fact I realized that I skipped a shower yesterday as I was engrossed with work when the daily chemo switchover occurred. I won't make that mistake again. I'm determined to maintain an exercise regimen of walking to stave off atrophy and boredom. But now the stand must go with me. We walk together around the floor of the hospital doing our laps. We trip one another from time to time as we learn how to coexist.
I realize that the stand is now a huge part of my life in the present. We are connected constantly and without it, I cannot heal. I think about NEO in the matrix. At some point, I'm going to want to yank this sucker out of me and walk free again. But for now, we'll continue our dance and hope that I'm the ONE.
When I first arrived at the hospital and they strapped me to the first IV bag, I didn't realize at the time the future relationship that would occur with the stand that holds the fluids. You've all seen them, the IV stand that sits next to the bed or walks next to a patient as they move around a hospital or nursing home setting. At first, it was just another piece of equipment in a room full of equipment, but now it's become more.
The stand is a simple medal stand about six feet high on a set of five small, squeaky wheels. It's designed to hang the bags of various fluids on top where the potential energy will allow them to flow down through the system. The fluid then flows into pumps which monitor flow rates to the body. The pumps are electric with batteries that will run independently for a few hours, but the pumps need to be plugged in most of the time. The pumps have electronic displays that glow brightly in the night and they make noise as they pump. The pumps lead to more tubes that flow to your body, and in my case the PICC line in my right arm. This is the interface point. The point at which the stand and I become one.
When we first started, the only medication flowing was the IV drip, so the set up was fairly simple. One bag, one pump, one plug, one length of tube. The first few nights served as our courting phase. The first trick was positioning the stand so that the tubes flowed naturally into my arm without causing pain at the PICC insertion site and without getting tangled when I rolled in bed. I found that I had to lie still on just my right side initially. Not being able to adjust one's sleeping position just leads to more restlessness.
Due to the constant flow of IV fluids in addition to normal eating and drinking, I have to go to the bathroom a lot. About every two hours the urgency is there that it forces you out of bed even during the night. Remembering that the stand is plugged into the wall near the bed, the next trick is to maneuver the stand close enough to the bathroom so that I can reach the toilet without unplugging the units each time. I figured out I had to relocate the outlets for the night and found a location where the cords would reach me in bed and I could get to the bathroom with only some minor rolling. Each time the stand rolls it makes noise and the wheels become tangled in the power cords dragging on the floor. It takes us time to learn how to dance together.
By Sunday, before they start the chemo meds, I was unhooked for the first time since I had arrived at the hospital from the stand so that I could take a shower. I also managed a short exercise walk around the floor while they were preparing the other meds. It had only been two days and I felt so liberated. I could jump on the elevator and walk out the front door a free man. But I returned to the room eager to get hooked back up to the stand and get my treatment started. When they hung the chemo bags, they added an additional bump. When they added blood, they added an additional pump. The entire stand is now full and looks like some sort of strange Christmas tree.
Now that we're on a tight seven day window for the chemo, I'm no longer allowed long breaks away from the stand. In fact I realized that I skipped a shower yesterday as I was engrossed with work when the daily chemo switchover occurred. I won't make that mistake again. I'm determined to maintain an exercise regimen of walking to stave off atrophy and boredom. But now the stand must go with me. We walk together around the floor of the hospital doing our laps. We trip one another from time to time as we learn how to coexist.
I realize that the stand is now a huge part of my life in the present. We are connected constantly and without it, I cannot heal. I think about NEO in the matrix. At some point, I'm going to want to yank this sucker out of me and walk free again. But for now, we'll continue our dance and hope that I'm the ONE.
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