Dear Friends and Family,
In my last update, I consciously tried to avoid euphoria while reporting Nancy’s incredible day one-hundred post-transplant test results.
Quite honestly, when I heard “a 75–80% chance” tied to the sacred word cure, I wanted to believe with every fiber in my being that we truly are “on our way” to a normal life. After nine and a half months of repeated struggles, Nancy’s news feels leap years better than good.
I must admit that it wasn’t that long ago that I was overcome by depression when I heard bad numbers early in our battle. As a result, my spirit is somewhat tempered by the several times I have wondered if we were facing the end. Somehow, I knew that with a long stretch of road still ahead—more bumps were likely.
Last night, after Nancy fell asleep, in an effort to stop my mind from racing, I rewatched a movie called Million Dollar Baby, directed by and starring Clint Eastwood. The title caught my attention because it made me think of the expense of Nancy’s treatment. It is something I purposely have avoided thinking about. Fortunately, Nancy is doubly covered by two fully comprehensive insurances. Undoubtedly, our family has been extremely lucky.
As I watched my movie, I recalled other films by Eastwood. Some of you are old enough to remember one of his first big successes, The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Justifiably, that title is the perfect description of Nancy’s recent encounters with her vital central IV line. So let me begin my story anew by using Eastwood’s title. (But in this instance, I’ll emphasize only part of his title.)
I’ll call my story, “The Ugly.”
“Dad, there’s a pool of blood in the dining room. Mom’s PICC line fell out.”
After a hard day’s work, driving to Salt Lake City sometimes requires maximum concentration. However, when I received a distressed call from Jayna, I almost ran off the road before my medical training clicked in and I responded in a calm voice, “Jayna, are you saying Mom’s IV line pulled out of her arm?”
“Yes.”
“And that she’s bleeding from the site?”
“Yes.”
“Is she still conscious and alert?”
“Yes she is, Dadder.”
“Are you putting pressure on the area?”
“Uh huh.”
“Has the bleeding stopped?”
“I think so. We used almost an entire roll of paper towels. I’m squeezing her arm with both hands and holding it up above her head. The blood isn’t dripping anymore.”
“Sounds like you’ve done all the right things, Jayna. How is Mom feeling?”
“She’s hungry. She’s excited to eat the Chinese meal that just arrived. We ordered takeout.”
“That is encouraging, Jayna. Do you have Mom lying down?”
“No. She is insistent that she sits in a chair. You know Mommer.”
“Great job, Jayna. I’m just passing Lamb’s Canyon so I’m about fifteen minutes away from you. Do you think we need to call 911?”
“I don’t think so, Dadder. I’d rather wait ‘til you get here. All right?”
“Only if you’re sure Mom’s bleeding has stopped. Is she dizzy or complaining of anything else? Where’s Jaret?”
“He’s cleaning the floor. Can you believe it?”
No, I can’t.
(As most of you may know already before Nancy’s illness, Jaret wouldn’t even talk about blood, let alone get near it.)
As I raced to get to the apartment, I found myself thinking that I couldn’t believe any of this was happening. Just when I expected to cruise along, to begin enjoying life, Nancy grew germs from the IV line in her chest—the one that enters her central circulation through the large vein beneath her clavicle. It’s scary, knowing a bug was living in her blood, a silent assassin waiting quietly to strike. After eight hours in the hospital, that particular IV line (and the germs on its tip) was gone. The team carefully placed a new one, in her right arm and now, and just a few weeks later, it gets accidentally pulled out.
“Jayna, if anything changes, if Mom gets dizzy or the bleeding starts up again or anything else, call the ambulance immediately—then me.”
By the time I arrived at the apartment, I was second-guessing myself.
Should I have insisted Jayna call 911?
Could we have prevented this somehow?
Did I tell Jayna and Jaret how well they reacted?
And the biggest question, how is Nancy doing?
My answer came quickly. As I rushed through the door, heart racing and legs wobbly, there was Nancy sitting nonchalantly at the table in the dining room. Her right upper arm, the one that had formerly contained the IV, was wrapped in paper towels. In turn, Jayna was firmly holding Nancy’s arm in her two hands. At the same time, Nancy’s free left arm was quite busy as she scooped bite after bite of a variety of Chinese delicacies into her mouth from an endless array of square white cardboard containers spread across the table.
“Hey, Winnie, what’s happening? Sit. Sit. You look harried. You probably need an egg roll before we head to the hospital.”
There was no choice. I burst into laughter as I watched Nancy savoring each and every spoonful of Chinese takeout. She was the picture of calm, a stark contrast to Jaret and Jayna standing on either side of her looking like they were watching Friday the 13th.
“I can’t figure out what happened, Winnie. My line was clipped to my pajamas like always. All I did was take off my robe so I could eat. Gremlins must have yanked it out.”
Nancy’s message was obvious. No worries here, Winnie.
“I’ll take that egg roll, Nancy. Actually, give me two.”
Summary: We continue to joke our way through challenges whenever possible. When Nancy accidentally pulled out her IV eleven days ago and bled all over the apartment, we were given just such an opportunity.
Warmly,
Winnie