Tuesday Morning Anxiety

Tuesday mornings at the hospital feel a little like Christmas - there's a hum of excitement in the air, and you know something special is waiting for you just around the corner. In my case, I have another fluoroscopy scan of my throat this morning. The results of that scan will determine whether I can start drinking and eating this week, and whether I'll be released this week as well.

I've been disappointed on the past two Tuesdays, so I refuse to get too enthused about this. I've resolved to be stoic and to accept the possibility of success of failure without getting overly emotional. I would really like to get out of here, though.

Watch this space! I'll update it later with the outcome.

EDIT: 11 AM. Got back from the scan. I've become a familiar face in the radiology department. There's still a small injury, but no idea whether it's considered small and removed enough to be sent home. Curiously, just after I got back in my room, I received a call from the discharge desk. They were under the impression that I'd be released tomorrow, so they needed to complete some questionnaires over the phone and give me some information about the treatment facility that would be assisting me with my IV. So I have no idea what's going on.

EDIT: 1:49 PM. Still no update.

EDIT: 4:02 PM. Still no update. I'm going to grow old in this place.

EDIT: 6:45 PM. Dr. Doe arrives. The 'leak' (that is, the wound) is not healed, which the doctors apparently thought it would be. It is very tiny, though.

We're not sure what will happen now, since apparently Dr. Smith and Dr. Doe didn't have a Plan B. My suggestion, and Dr. Doe appears to agree, is to go ahead with the liquid and food test tomorrow, and that will determine whether I need the TPN feed bag when I leave. It looks like getting out of here tomorrow is still on the table. Sitting on my butt here for another week is out of the question, as there's no reason to remain here when the IV equipment is portable. Dr. Doe seems to think that Dr. Smith will need some convincing. I will probably speak with both of them tomorrow morning.

EDIT: 9:00 PM. Dr. Smith arrives. He flatly states that I need to stay another week, just as before, and wait until Tuesday for another scan. I'm not surprised, exactly, but I'm not going to just let it rest at that. Before I can get started with an argument, though, he does say he can do something to lift my spirits: he'll remove the stomach pump. Now. I'm a little surprised - I thought there'd be more ceremony to it - but there's nothing, you just gently pull it out. It was another novel, uncomfortable sensation, but those are becoming commonplace here in the thoracic ward.

Dr. Smith and I discuss possible causes for the slow healing of my neck injury. We both surmise that it may be because of the drainage tubes which have been causing constant, mild irritation for me since their installation, and are sharing space with the injury. The plan, then, is to gradually pull the tubes away from the injury site. Dr. Smith says he can do it now, if I like, although I haven't had my pain medication. Why not?, I think, and he walks off to get a suture kit.

While he's stepped out, I try not to let the disappointment flood out of me, but I can feel it seeping around the mental blocks I've erected in my mind. Stoicism only goes so far, but I'm having visions of a very dull birthday. I can feel the bitterness in my eyes, and I know it'll be visible on my face when Dr. Smith returns. When Dr. Smith returns, I am on my laptop writing a letter to my family that lets them know I'll be here another week.

I'm glad I didn't finish the letter by Dr. Smith's return, though. In an unusual reversal, he acknowledges the truth of the situation: there is no real reason why i should be confined to this hospital cot any longer. The IV is the important thing. So, he offers to let me go home in a few days, if I want. Caveats: I'll have to use the IV for food and medicine. In the hospital, I'm being fed 24 hours a day, but at home, we can double the infusion rate for the TPN feed. It'll make social planning a challenge, but if I work at home, I can run the feed IV during the day, and keep the night free so I can go out.

Naturally, I won't be able to eat or drink anything (except munch on ice), and I'll have to figure out a suction alternative. Yet still, the prospect of going home seems too good to pass up. I think it'd be therapeutic just to be back in a comfortable situation - so long as I can keep Fluffybear from gnawing on the IV lines!

The best part, of course, is that I have some good news to share tomorrow on my 30th birthday. I can't wait! I'm happy I survived this long - I'm definitely going to play it safer for the next decade, I think.