One more day

It’s getting a bit silly.  This morning, I spoke with the doctor who was already present before the procedure and thus more familiar with my case than the weekend covers.  He was all positive.  The liver values were dropping.  Bilirubin had gone down dramatically.  The pancreas markers were normalizing.  It was all looking good.  “You could almost go home today”, he concluded.  I didn’t like the almost much.

The doctor asked about my poo.  After a few weeks of being somewhere between mint and fluorescent green, it had been rather dark the day before, almost black.  The doctor didn’t like this too much.  It probably confirmed him in the use of the word almost.  But he wasn’t too concerned either.

A dark color is always a strong indicator of blood, especially after an operation where internal organs might have been damaged accidentally.  Something in the numbers the doctor had in front of him reassured him that there wasn’t a big problem.  “Please show your poo to the nurses the next time you go”, he said.  “Tomorrow you can leave.”

I’m living day by day.  Initially I checked into the hospital for two days.  I came with a backpacked filled accordingly, clothes, reading material.  Now only my computer continues to offer distraction.  Work emails have slowed down shortly before Christmas, but they still arrive in sufficient numbers to keep me busy.  They are also the only bit of normal life that penetrates the hospital walls.

I expected to check out on Saturday.  The pancreas values were too high.  I was hoping for Sunday, but with the main doctors absent, no one wanted to make this decision.  I was confident about Monday, but there was still a scrap of doubt about my state and a consultation promised with my oncologist for the afternoon.  I am now sure I will leave tomorrow.  I’d lose my mind if I had to stay another day.  There’s nothing to do here.

There’s a small room at one end of the hallway with a table and a few chairs.  This is my retreat.  I’ve been there only twice, but it’s reassuring to know it’s there.  It’s the only way to escape the bed, and lounging in bed all day is nothing to restore my energy or spirits.  In the break room, I can sit like a normal person and read or write.  I would even be in video conferences without having to hide my pillow with a virtual background.

A few minutes ago, I had just started lunch, my oncologist stopped by.  He seemed content.  Everything had worked out as planned.  He conveniently ignored the extra days in the hospital but celebrated the normalizing liver values.  Implanting the stent had been the right decision.  The surgeon had seen a lymph node exerting pressure on the bile duct.  My recovery was going well.  There was nothing to worry about.  “Does this mean I can go home tomorrow?”, I asked.  “Why only tomorrow?”, was his reply, and off he went to organize my immediate release.  I hope there won’t be any snafus now so late in the game.