Authors: Chasity Glass
chapter twenty-nine
EEE. EEE. EEE.
From:
[email protected]
To:
friends
Sent:
Thursday, November 17, 2:42 p.m.
Subject:
anthony update
Hello Everyone!
I know you’re anxiously awaiting an update, so I’ll get right to it. Anthony is doing GREAT!
So good in fact that this morning — yes, I said THIS very morning, only twelve hours after his surgery — he got out of bed and walked down the hallway. An accomplishment he is quite proud of. This of course was only after the sponge bath from the cute nurse (no joke about the cute nurse, not a fantasy. I think it helped boost his motivation, either that or the morphine). His spirits are high (again it might be the drugs).
But, seriously though, he is doing REALLY well!
As for the medical side of things, they are running many tests, results that we will not know for days or weeks. We did have a brief chat with the surgeon who gave us a lot of optimism and said the surgery itself was a “textbook” procedure.
I’ll let you know how he is feeling, and will try to give you an update each day. As for now, he should be ready for visitors next Saturday and Sunday.
I want to thank everyone for their love and support. You guys have no idea how much it means to him! I can never thank you enough…
THANKS, again,
Chas
I called it the “shitty shift.” Work eight to ten hours, then drive straight to the hospital for dinner. I’d arrive and barely get a kiss before your mother updated me on the day’s progress. “He kept rotating his feet and ankles and moving his legs, even with the massaging socks on. The nurse already emptied his catheter for the night, though he ate at least four of the little plastic pitchers of ice. So they might need to change it again.”
You shrugged and said, “Num,” your smile still greeting me.
“He said his mouth feels like cotton and his throat is sore. Other than that he feels good. He’s stable now and due to be moved to a private room tomorrow morning. Also the nurse explained the morphine pump. He can self-administer the medication up to five times an hour by pressing the button, but not closer than ten minute intervals. He pressed it five times the first hour. The second hour only about every thirty minutes…”
Your mother’s voice was fidgety from the caffeine consumed throughout the day. She pushed you physically and was pleased with her persistence. “You should’ve seen him…” It was merely the first day and already I had missed so much. I hated it. “He practically ran down the hall…” You were smiling at her and I could feel my skin burning slightly as I smiled. I think you were on to me because you give me that look, the play-nice look.
After her fully detailed progress from your day she departed to her hotel for a comfortable night’s rest. By the time I arrived you were tired of talking about health and exercise and what you ate, crabby from being pushed to your limits, and physically exhausted.
“Hey you.”
“I miss you.”
“I missed you more.” I kissed your soft eyebrow and nestled nose to nose. “How you feeling?”
“I’ll give you a hundred bucks to talk about anything else.”
“I’ve got some work gossip?”
“Perfect…”
You were asleep twenty minutes into the conversation.
…
I brought blankets and a pillow from home, and settled into my recliner sleeper. There were constant intrusions throughout the night. Blood pressure checks. Blood draws. Flowers delivered at one o’clock. No joke, 1:00 a.m. There were bathroom walks. New IVs. Machines that thumped to heartbeats with monitors attached and ones that administered medications. Beeping machines. Breathing machines. There were weird fluids draining from your sides collecting in small, clear “grenades” that needed draining. Catheters. Random moans and groans of patients down the hallway.
Your mother arrived at six o’clock, refreshed with coffee. Perfectly showered, blushed cheeks, brushed teeth, pressed button-down shirt. She raved about the pillow-top on the hotel bed. If daggers could fire out my eyes they would have pierced her back, right where mine was hurting from the plastic recliner chair.
“Did you go for your morning walk yet?” She eyed me. “Did you walk?”
Seriously, I wanted daggers.
“No, Mama, we just finished breakfast,” you said.
I was starting to really dislike your mother. I scurried off to work puffy-eyed, foul-breathed, and crabby with a backache. The shitty shift.
From:
[email protected]
To:
friends
Sent:
Friday, November 18, 1:33 p.m.
Subject:
sent from work
ANTHONY PASSED GAS!
(He is totally gonna kill me for e-mailing this.)
That’s right! Anthony passed gas yesterday, and hopefully more today, which means he starts drinking liquids! Quite the celebration here. YIPPEE! He might be lucky enough to get some Jell-O later tonight. His words: “I could tear the shit out of some Jell-O right now.” He is up and walking (four times yesterday) and sitting up in a chair (more activities to celebrate). His energy is high. He’s sleeping well, making jokes, typical Anthony.
We have heard only great news from the doctors. The biggest news, which I am sure you are all waiting to hear, is that it looks as though surgery has removed all the cancer present. Of course they are running more tests, and he still has some follow-up therapy, but he is on the road to recovery, and his doctors are very optimistic of the outcome.
So everyone smile, relax, and give Anthony a big kiss when you come to visit him on Saturday or Sunday. Hell, maybe you’ll even go for a walk with him down the hall. Again, he is thankful for the e-mails, phone calls, flowers, love and support. He is looking forward to seeing you all this weekend. Visiting hours are anytime. He’s generally up by 5 a.m. and asleep by 9 p.m. (naps not included).
See you then!
…
Your mother and I passed notes as we switched shifts.
They are hearing all sorts of rumblings inside his intestine. That’s great news. Sometime during the afternoon, someone came from respiratory therapy to check his oxygen levels. They left the little blue breathing apparatus, and told him to use it every hour (taking ten breaths, and expelling them). He tends to cough, and it helped immensely for me to rub his tummy and slightly apply pressure. It is very important he does this to prevent mucus from building in his throat and lungs, which will keep him from getting pneumonia. Make sure he does it in the morning when he wakes up. There is more Jell-O in the kitchen fridge if he gets hungry. Love, Mom
Before bed he ate some clear soup, Jell-O and a little tea for breakfast. He slept throughout the night. We coughed, blew through plastic machines, and rubbed bellies. Love, Chas
EEE. EEE. EEE. EEE. My swollen eyes caught sight of an IV drip blinking red. I sat up. It was still dark. I fumbled for the lights, molested walls. Trying to stay quiet, I kicked your edge of the bed by accident.
“Shit.”
“What time is it?”
“Sorry.”
“Do you hear that beeping sound?” you whispered loud.
“Close your eyes, I’m turning on the lights.” Half asleep, half awake, I went to find the nurse. She followed me to your room and performed her routine check of machines then left. I lay down. EEE. EEE. EEE. EEE. the beeping continued. I rubbed the walls, kicked the bed again.
“I still hear the beeping?”
“Fuckinghell. I got it. Close your eyes, I’m turning the lights on again.”
I frantically looked for the same nurse.
“Excuse me,” I said, tapping her shoulder, “the machine is still beeping.”
“No, I just checked it. Everything is fine.” She walked away.
“I swear to God, lady, the machine keeps beeping. It’s what, three a.m.? I’m not making this shit up at three a.m.,” I said to the back of her head. Admittedly it was aggressive, but I didn’t have the patience.
She marched into your room to prove me wrong. Sure enough, the IV battery needed to be changed. “Ah-
ha
,” I said, pointing a finger at her and nodding, waited for her to tell me I was in fact right. I was proud of myself. At last, four days into recovery and I was needed on the shitty shift! I started drafting your mother a letter right then. Finally, I had something worth reporting.
…
Your friend Charlie was the first visitor. If I had met him before I didn’t remember. He talked incessantly, was filled with impromptu hospital tales, joked about his motorcycle accidents, broken bones, and split leg. Almost everyone has a crazy uncle who takes them to their first R-rated movie and buys them a beer or a porn mag — and that guy would be Charlie. He was hilarious. He brought romance novels with Fabio on their covers, and puzzles with flying dragons and unicorns as get-well presents.
York, Julie, and friend after friend filed in for comfort and a hug. Bill and Sam arrived, all people I had e-mailed, but couldn’t put a face to until now. From the minute visiting hours started until a half past its end, your little room filled with friends, flower arrangements, wacky get well presents and the occasional nurse. The conversation broke its flow only so we could sing “Happy Birthday” to Jay as loud as we could over a cell phone, unashamed of our horrible rendition.
You were our kitchen table, a place for us to rest our elbows on, a place to talk, and share. You held your wound to laugh, and sat upright to give advice to friends complaining about a boyfriend or boss or life. I hadn’t seen you smile like that in a long while.
From:
stepfather
To:
[email protected]
Sent:
Tuesday, November 18, 5:08 a.m.
Subject:
Re: sent from work
Hi, Chas. Thanks for the news. I was dying to hear something, and your e-mail came just before I started back from Italy — sixteen hour trek, with ten hours fighting headwinds over the Atlantic. I am a bit short of sleep the last few days, but probably so are you, with work in the day and being with Anthony at night. He spoke of you a lot during my last visit to see the doctors. So sorry we did not meet. May I say, it’s very simple: If Anthony loves you, then so do I.
I am home in Arlington now, but the same e-mail address. I will be most appreciative of any updates you have. On returning I got more details from his mother’s e-mail from the business office. I will try the phone now. I will also send some news to the extended family. If you can, in fact, give me daily bulletins. It would be a wonderful gift. Actually, your being there with Anthony is already a wonderful gift.
Well, I’m a bit grogged so will sign off for now. Give Anthony a hug for me. I hope he will give you a hug, for me.
…
I don’t know what you thought it would look like, but my mind imagined it gross, crusty, bloody. One eye opened, one closed, I squinted. If it weren’t for the doctors complimenting the stitches, I would not have peeked. I didn’t want to look at it.
It was huge. Not wide and gaping, but longer than expected. Twice the length. Before surgery we were told it would run from your belly button to your groin. This scar started from the middle of your chest. It was clean, with staples running every half inch. It wasn’t gross. Not at all. It was permanent. Permanence drawn in a pink-fleshy-stapled line as you fingered the wound.
“I just survived cancer.”
…
Farts, passing gas, BMs, and poopies — we detailed, deliberated, and celebrated each one as a glorious victory. Solid foods were consumed. Another victory. Pain medications lowered, tubes removed and bandages replaced. Your mother got you standing, walking, and sitting. We were told that exercise was very important to the recovery process. In only a week’s time you could walk and eat and sit up. So many simple things to celebrate.
We made a routine out of the simple achievements. By Wednesday, I liked going for our nightly walk around the cancer ward. You shuffled in your slipper socks and hospital pajamas, leaning on your IV drip like a crutch. Do you remember the old lady with eyes the size of dinner plates from behind her coke-bottle glasses? She’d shoo us away as we passed, hollering, “You’re making me look bad, son. Go back to bed.” There was the father with prostate cancer who’d salute us every time we passed so he wouldn’t interrupt his little boy reading aloud. And the old priest who came to visit the bearded fisherman with liver cancer; they’d both look up, in unison say, “God bless,” pausing in mid-prayer.
I was proud of you. I never told you that then, but I was proud of that final crooked walk as we waved goodbye to the patients, plodding along toward recovery.
We hugged your mother goodbye at the airport, thankful our time at the hospital was over.
…
Tuesday, November 22
exit/enter
fuck.
so i walk out of the hospital,
or rather, i do a sad hunched/shuffle version
of the way i used to walk,
and i breathe the air like it’s the first time,
and i smile at the sky like i’m seeing an old friend,