The torture has begun. The Dr’s are allowing radiation to begin while the fistula is still open. The delay of treatment evidently outweighs the risk of this thing not healing.
So…every day I take my hubby to the city, run the parking gauntlet and the hospital corridor maze, enter the elevator and plunge into hell.
Once he changes into a breathtakingly beautiful hospital gown a thick, mesh plastic mask of his head, neck and upper torso is placed over him and bolted to the table, totally immobilizing him. The mask is so form-fitting that his eyelashes poke through the holes in the mesh. He must lay in this tortuous position, confined and helpless, for about 15-20 minutes while the radiation technologists adjust and guide the machine and give the correct dosage. George is claustrophobic so these treatments are particularly hard for him. He freaked out so badly on the first treatment he now has to take sedatives before we leave the house.
On chemotherapy days we leave the basement treatment area and go to the infusion room 2 floors up. There they give him more medication for anxiety, pain medication and the chemo drugs. By the time he’s ready to leave he can barely walk….but he’s happy!!!!! We must look a sight as we weave and stagger through the streets, reversing our morning routine.
I still cannot get used to being in the car with someone who cannot carry on a conversation. It is so weird. I’m alone but not alone. It’s not so bad when we’re home – he can use the EL and make faces and hand gestures – but in the car I cannot watch him and drive, too. I can only imagine how isolated and frustrated he must feel.
I hope I am being the support he needs. I can see in his eyes that this journey is dark and long and that he is scared. No matter how much I do or how close I stay I know that his journey is different than mine and that there are some things I won’t or just cannot understand. Its funny --- we can be so alone - together.