GAGGING, CHOKING, PUKING. Since the middle of the night I’ve had several (actually, four or five) repeat attacks that feel like I’m inhaling a vile, nasty, powdery substance. At least four times I’ve choked, gagged, coughed up my lungs and then puked a lot of nothing into a plastic mixing bowl that Sam keeps behind my hospital bed for surprise digestive festivities. I hate throwing up … but I really hate throwing up IN BED!
POOR APPETITE. I’ve officially lost my taste for damn near everything except refried beans, hot and sour soup, shrimp cocktail, Jell-O, clear broth and Lowry’s microwave pork rinds with sour cream dip. God help me.
SWALLOWING ISSUES. Food “gets stuck.” A lot. And my whole life grinds to a halt because it hurts like hell, I can’t eat, I’m miserable, it feels like I’m having a heart attack, and I want to throw a rock at something. Swallowing issues are caused by diabetic peripheral neuropathy … my muscles aren’t getting the right signals from my brain.
WHERE THE HELL ARE MY MEDS. On Monday Sam texted my hospice nurse, Rachel, to order refills for all of my prescription medications, which is something we have to do every 15 days — instead of every 30 or 90 days like normal people — because nobody knows how much time there is before a hospice patient kicks the bucket. Everything ordered on Monday was promised for yesterday but never showed up, so Sam texted the hospice administrator this morning to find out what the hell happened. At this point I should probably mention that, during our 15-month affiliation with Accord Hospice, they’ve managed to run the complete gamut of pathetic explanations for late medication deliveries, including all of the following:
POOR APPETITE. I’ve officially lost my taste for damn near everything except refried beans, hot and sour soup, shrimp cocktail, Jell-O, clear broth and Lowry’s microwave pork rinds with sour cream dip. God help me.
SWALLOWING ISSUES. Food “gets stuck.” A lot. And my whole life grinds to a halt because it hurts like hell, I can’t eat, I’m miserable, it feels like I’m having a heart attack, and I want to throw a rock at something. Swallowing issues are caused by diabetic peripheral neuropathy … my muscles aren’t getting the right signals from my brain.
WHERE THE HELL ARE MY MEDS. On Monday Sam texted my hospice nurse, Rachel, to order refills for all of my prescription medications, which is something we have to do every 15 days — instead of every 30 or 90 days like normal people — because nobody knows how much time there is before a hospice patient kicks the bucket. Everything ordered on Monday was promised for yesterday but never showed up, so Sam texted the hospice administrator this morning to find out what the hell happened. At this point I should probably mention that, during our 15-month affiliation with Accord Hospice, they’ve managed to run the complete gamut of pathetic explanations for late medication deliveries, including all of the following:
- The R.N. forgot to place your order.
- The L.V.N. forgot to place your order.
- The administrative assistant forgot to place your order.
- The dog ate my homework.
- The doctor forgot to call the pharmacy.
At this point I think I’ll bundle myself up, turn off all the lamps (I have a remote that controls all of them) and fall asleep to a good movie. I’m leaning towards one of the following: Red Dust (1932) starring Clark Gable and Jean Harlow; Pollyanna (1960) starring Hayley Mills; or Laura (1944) starring Gene Tierney and Dana Andrews.
Thank you for reading this. I don’t feel like remembering the Alamo tonight. Maybe tomorrow, okay?
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