Tedium

On the third day in the hospital, routine sets in.  I am familiar with the flow of things and have adjusted to the environment.  Nurses come to give me remedies for soft stool and more blood.  My blood pressure is regularly checked.  This morning, it was abnormally low.  I insisted the nurse try it again.  The second reading was in the range of prior experimental values.  A third repeat was not deemed necessary.  This was not science.  I also had more blood drawn.  A lot of what happens concerns my blood, which is only appropriate, as it was abnormally low blood values that got me into this mess in the first place.

As I write this in the morning, it's not really the third day yet.  Having checked in on Tuesday at 1, I haven't spent 48 hours in the hospital yet.  But it feels like the third day, and I'm hoping for symmetry to get me out of here.

The first day was warm-up.  I was prepared for the major exams that were planned for the next day.  With the ultrasound on the first evening, the curve of activity started to perk up.  The second day was filled with exams, diagnosis and the arrival of the worst possible news.  It was a day that had more in it than you would expect from a horrible week or two.  Things calmed down in the evening.  I was worn out and slept early and without a break.

Today I'll go through the MRI machine to get a better idea of the extent of metastasis.  The contrast is higher with this technology than with X-ray tomography.  Bastards should have used detectors that can see colors.  They could possibly save a lot of money on additional tests.  Or maybe they would just get less money from the insurance companies for tests performed.  Whom do you sell efficiencies in the health services?

Before lunch, the doctor took me back into the little private room for an update on my condition.  The cancerous nature of the growth in the colon wall was confirmed by the first histology results.  A precise characterization with immunomarkers was still outstanding.  The extent of the spread of the malignancy was also still unclear.  The MRI might be clearer on some of these points, but the complete histology would take a bit more time.  There was still no talk of treatment strategies, except in the most generic terms.

Until I leave, there will be a lot of tedium.  The afternoon looks like a cool-down period.  There will be a consultation with an oncologist, another iron transfusion, and maybe a chat with surgeons if today fits their schedules better than later.  I hope to get the drip out of my arm soon after the iron is in, and myself out of this hospital before the night.  I'm not enjoying this a lot.

In a hospital, especially after a life-shattering diagnosis, it's easy to fall into a deep pit of self-pity, to feel sorry for oneself and maybe even lose one's good spirits.  Overall, I feel worse than before going to the hospital.  I interpret every sign from my body with the knowledge of the cancer, even though I'm the same person I was three days ago.  Is a little pain from my gut an indicator that something evil is happening that very moment?  My knowledge of the diagnosis conspires with the pathological vibe of the hospital to darken my mood.

My attitude towards hospitals is bound to change.  When the cancer has been fully characterized and a treatment schedule agreed on, I will be back here frequently, for surgery, chemotherapy and consultations.  I hope I can do most things as an outpatient, without spending much time inside, keeping my life undisturbed.  From work, which I hope I will be able to continue, it's only a 15-minute walk to the hospital.  I want to get on with life as it used to be – for my own benefit but especially for the benefit of those around me, especially the kids.  They don't need to see me suffer.  Flucha is probably taking this less easy than I am.  I need to be there for all of them.  Enough with hanging out at the hospital already.