The Radiology Review

The trip to the oncologist for the Radiology review was a nightmare. We had the wheelchair and that was great, but we also had the deep rutted bluestone gutters on Sturt St and the angle parking and that was not so great. Angle parking meant that there was a car parked either side with restricted space for moving the rather heavy wheelchair, heavy for me, from the backseat and then G had to exit the passenger side with his awkward manouevres for avoiding pain, grab the walking stick and with legs that hardly bear his weight, get himself out of the gutter’s steep valley and line up his bum with the wheelchair seat. Lifting his feet off the ground is like lifting the non responsive feet of a stroke victim. The weather is freezing and we have to cross at the lights. Ballarat’s lights give a pedestrian time to make the wide median strip and unless you want to dice with the traffic you have to wait again for the green light. I took my chances with the traffic and they were kind enough to give us a few extra seconds. Next time I’ll wait in sleet if necessary.

The review, as I expected, was grim, with a positive spin. G has possibly sustained some permanent damage to his spinal cord from the pressure of the tumour. There has been no measurable improvement but it may take up to another couple of weeks. The Cancer Support Nurse sat in on the review which was helpful especially when I had to leave to move the car. I had thought one hour would be enough. When I returned they were eating cake. The Cancer Centre was marking 2 years of operation with coffee, eats and balloons.

Returning to the car was the same nightmare only in reverse. I am ordering a maxi taxi for the next appointment, with the urologist, in a few days. I had thought things would be easier with the help of the wheelchair. I had not allowed for a worsening of his condition. By the time we arrived home his back was throbbing, he had no interest in eating and rolled himself into bed in the hope of some relief. An hour later when there was no improvement I took the fresh script for the increased dosage to the pharmacy. This is now double what he had a week ago. He said it was not too bad if he lay completely still. That sounds like a good plan for the rest of his days! At 4pm I rang the Hospice nurse without his knowledge, and on her advice took 2 endone to him with a glass of water.

“Take them”, I ordered. An hour later, he said, “I told you they have never work.”

I consulted with him re an injection which has been a back- up plan offered by hospice.

“No way. I don’t want an injection. It’ll be alright.”

I argued and he became agitated about his right to control his management.

“Alright, have it your way.” Then I waited.

At midnight, he capitulated and I rang the 24hour hospice service. The night nurse was here in a half hour. She inserted a bung under the skin of his tummy which enables the delivery of drugs with no sharps, needles, to the layman, by screwing a phial to the delivery system. His relief was immediate and palpable. He awoke the next morning, booming with joy. He was turning cartwheels out of bed and sat up in front of telly for a slap up brekkie of baked beans and egg washed down with a hot chocolate that he called bliss. That was Friday morning and our worst night so far, but not the worst to come.

Friday was a good day. Hospice arrived again at 9am with more morphine and a discussion with him about pain management yet, again. They left more phials and when I expressed some apprehension about the responsibility , the nurse assured me it was completely my decision. That made me stop and think. I may have to have certain parameters but for now, we are managing well enough with a regular dosage of the liquid morphine taken orally via an eye dropper measure. He is getting up and down from his chair and in and out of bed more easily. He even had a shower with no assistance.

“This is living,” he said gleefully. I had to agree. He went to bed about 8pm and I had a couple of hours of Kevin Spacey’s “House of Cards”. How I love that series. Watching Francis and Claire is like watching a spider devour a fly. I think of nothing except what a cracking piece of writing it is.

I had been in bed 2 hours when he woke to go to the loo. To our horror he had no control of his legs. He could not sit on the edge of the bed, his legs would not hold his weight even with my help and that of the frame, and he could not lift them back on the bed. We improvised a urinal bottle and he had his morphine. I called the nurse first thing the next morning and although he was marginally improved, we sent for an ambulance to take him to Emergency for assessment and they decided to keep him there for two nights which brings him to his next appointment with the urologist.

I left him late in the afternoon when he was admitted to a ward and he was confident he would be doing the renovations on his daughters house come September. Is that an hallucination or just the very active brain of a man whose body is becalmed?