My Wife, My Diet

Oh woman of little faith.  It is midnight and she holds to her chair, half asleep waiting for the softener to complete its cycle.  I assured her my fix was successful but lingering doubts held her to her vigil.  How could she doubt my handyman skills?  I know I was never forgiven for leaving the flashlight under the hood of the Camry but it cannot be my fault that the horrible noise it made occasionally as the light fell against the fan belt was never checked until it went into the mechanic?  This was not an error of skill, but simply a failure similar to a surgeon leaving a sponge in.  These things happen to the best of us.  The softener completed its cycle successfully and off she went to slumber land, confident we were not going to flood the laundry room. 

Up early on Thursday.  The left leg is good in size but angry in color.  Never the less I got high marks from Inger on its condition and an order to wear the compression stocking.  Again today I find myself with lots of energy and manageable pain.  It is delightful.  The sun is out in full force and has warmed the neighborhood to one degree F with no wind to speak of.  I lay on the layers, two T shirts, stocking, long johns, pants, heavy shirt, down vest and I am ready to put my coat on and face the day.  Then of course I have to pee, so I get the first test on peeling down and up. 

Vanessa is by any measure a gourmet cook.  For years she wrote the training manuals and managed editing and production of the advertising and pos stuff for Jenn Air™ appliances.  She wrote the training manuals for sales, distributors, and service.  She managed the photography and coordinated the ad agencies with engineering and marketing.  She has the ability to translate highly technical documents into reading levels of the majority of US high school graduates.  Wonderful gift, I digress. 

Vanessa has a Jenn Air™ kitchen.  Her concept, John G’s design and very little input from me except to facilitate the process.  The kitchen now is past 15 years old and its continued performance is a statement to the quality of the product made in Indianapolis for so many years and the great design.  It is a variation of a galley only larger with more work space.  Cabinet design was dictated by Vanessa for maximum capacity and use of all angular space.  A wonderful local company made and installed them and I cobbled the plumbing together and wired the stove.   Since she wrote the book on all of the appliances you can rest assured the dishwasher is loaded as it was designed to be, along with the refrigerator, and the range and oven is vented per code and design and all of the features are utilized at one time or another.  

Over the past year Vanessa has made it her mission to cook outstanding dinners for us three or four times a week.  She maintains a strict watch on my diet and makes each meal prepared a matter of art and pride.  It is something of a ritual.  While the main course varies the one thing that is a constant is her salad.  A combination of her intolerance of my sometimes unconventional approach to kitchen duties, pride, available space and desire to hold custody of the art generally prevents me from helping, observing or even thinking about hanging around the kitchen when she has her apron on and is in cooking mode. 

Concerned for my diet and weight and devoted to pumping me full of anti oxidants, what ever they are, to battle the animal the salad is served first.  I know the contents come from primarily one place, a drawer in the refrigerator filled with locking bags, things wrapped in paper towel, things in bags that are impossible to open and close.  The drawer is packed tight each grocery day and largely reduced within 6 days.  I have watched surreptitiously as she donned her apron.  Bags and bundles come out on the counter.  A strange whirring tool with a crank is used, I can hear the spinning of the contraption but her back blocks my view.  Spinach, romaine, iceberg magically fill the bowl.  Bright orange carrots, sliced and chopped sprinkled about.  Tomatoes in chunks, onions sometimes, radish thin sliced and mushrooms chopped to top it off.  She calls dinner is ready and the salad is set for serving in the bowl provided or often the bowl is already filled with a work of art, bright colors on a bed of greens, more healthy stuff here than a lot of people get in a year, onto which I lather six servings of ranch dressing and a handful of Mexicali cheese for good measure.  She quietly shakes her head, I thank her for my dinner. 

Inger My Swedish Massage Therapist

Sunday again and a new week ahead. I have a head cold I am trying to accelerate through the process. In addition I have some severe chafing on my inner upper thighs, further exasperating my attempts to walk and move about. My office now sports a massage table. This is another permanent addition to my remaining life on earth, living with lymphedema. Looking at it that way can be somewhat discouraging. Vanessa now has the role of Inger, my Swedish massage therapist. The sessions can be torturous but I understand they are necessary. We have a daily routine of an hour or two devoted to me and Inger rubbing me to accomplish MLD, or manual lymph drainage. Inger has to truly love me, for my old blubbery carcass is not something to look at on a good day, and with the distortions of the edema it is horrific. She has learned quickly and well. I have noted that any person who does lymphedema therapy has extremely cold hands to start. Inger gets an odd look in her eye and I swear a little smile when she says ‘this is gonna’ be cold’ just prior to laying her delicate hands on me. I am not sure I have mentioned it, but cold hands seem to be a trademark of my MLD therapists. Perhaps the shock of cold digits is considered important in moving the lymph or blasting the fibrosis that results. In any event I have accepted it at all levels. Only Inger at least makes a real effort to pre-warm, even though such exertions are frequently futile.

Give the Nurses Strength To Endure

Sunday and I just finished my MLD session (manual lymph drainage). No doubt I am experiencing some changes. I can lie on my back a little longer now. My stones feel like someone has kicked the yahoo out of them. That unique ache/throb only a man can appreciate. They look like a flesh balloon swollen together as they are. Nevertheless, we must take this as just another week and an expected new issue that will be unpleasant. Even when Mom was in hospice and we spent a few nights with her I did not grasp the scope of her disease. I just never thought of cancer in holistic terms, as a disease that controls both directly and indirectly every behavior I have. The cold nights have returned. Bought new toilet seats today and wondered as I did how many toilet seats are sold to cancer victims, and for long term sufferers how many are involved. A sure sign of sickness in the house is wearing out the toilet seats.
BAM, like an electric shock Nurse Van touched a place on my leg with her nail. BAM, she did it again.
In the darkness of morning the lights in the bedroom seem harsh and the air cold. Van was making buckets and digging trenches to kick start the lymphatic system and get some draining going. This was her 3rd time. BAM ‘Please no more’, I cried out. Although there was nothing but a nail, the nail was enough. ‘You missed some spots” she said, noting after I lifted my shirt that some marker from the previous day’s therapy was still on my body. ‘I don’t care’ was my response, but I knew from her look that was unacceptable. ‘But if you are self conscious about it we can wash it off ‘, I said. She smiled and said ‘I will get a cloth ready.’ ‘AHHHHHHHEEE, holy sh.., oh my’, proves that we can have differing concepts of what warm is in a wet cloth on skin.
We laughed and I cried. Nursing is a gift, but there is certainly a learning curve. So off we go for my second chemo infusion. The nurses commented on my apparent improvement from last time. Sitting there I assessed my situation. On one side sat a man born in 1934 with his loving wife faithfully attending him. She struggled with the ice dispenser, with much more on the floor than in her cup. ‘Nearly blind’, she confessed, and I hoped she wasn’t the designated driver. On the other a tall slender woman, wearing an expensive wig and dressed in high fashion slacks, sweater and heels. She came alone, knew all the nurses on a first name basis and had a port. When another nurse came in to visit she stood and broke a tear. Up the way a youngster, devoid of color and hair but talking up a storm with her company. And my dear Vanessa, focused on me, caring for me. What a blessing she is. Chemo knocked me down this afternoon. A strange feeling of malaise, an emptiness, a pain but not a pain.