Titles, Inc.

Rehab. The Three-Week Curve.

I had my second chemotherapy session. It’s at the doctor’s office in a small room with four handsome leather recliners in a loose circle. I chose the one with bright window behind it to make reading more pleasant during the three-hour intravenous drip. The chairs were occupied intermittently by ladies who had smaller procedures, although another lady who had a companion with her had a lengthy session, too. We didn’t engage each other even with eye contact. It surprised chatty me, but even I chose to behave as if we each were involved in a private act. Although I did banter with my nurse each time she checked the drip bag. Art was with me until he went to the deli to get me a salmon salad on a bagel -- quite a departure from my usual rehab lunch. I read, ate, but mostly dozed.

Dr. Gidron visited with me before the drip session and was so excited to see me get out of my wheel chair on to his examining table clutching the rail without his touching me. He congratulated me on my progress. I was enormously pleased, I am driving myself.

He explained the chemo process again. That it is a three-week curve. You feel fine, then slip down until you hit bottom, feel awful, and then come up strong again which is where I am now.

I said, “I want all the support I couldn’t get in my first session. I want painkillers, I want sleeping pills.” He said: “Absolutely. And I will offer nausea pills even though you didn’t have that problem last time. I will reinforce to the nursing staff that they are offered as requested, although the pain pills only every eight hours.” This is very reassuring.

I love Dr. Adi Gridon. I especially love his creed: My goal is to make you live, not
not to keep you from dying.

---Florence

Rehab. Still Spinning.

A whole month of Sundays has passed because here is Dr. S. at my bedside, beaming. “You’re doing fine,” he tells me. “Not so fast – something new is up. I’ve never been dizzy. For the last several days I’m dizzy. If I look from shoulder to shoulder things rock.” I look to the right. There is the clock absolutely steady. I look out the windows to the left and the buildings are spinning. “Anyway, to the left it’s spinning.” He says, “Keep looking. Still spinning?” “Yes. I am watching the buildings spinning. Yup, spinning.” He says “Your brain will stop the spinning. Your brain will adjust it.” OK. He repeats how happy he is at my improvement. “And keep using the walker. That is very important.” “The walker? The walker?” I explode. “My major accomplishment at PT is that I’m standing up holding the walker just lightly with one hand. I’m not walking . My feet move, but they are not connected to my legs yet.” He makes his escape.

And I think “Shee-it.” I’m just a chart to him and one he hasn’t read carefully. But the next time I look out the window the building are holding firm. So he’s good for a little magic anyway.

---Florence

Rehab. Transit Woes.

Brother Donald is on the phone when the nurse comes in and walks directly to Art and engages him in a conversation.  I’m listening to Donald’s little social pleasantries (haven’t learned yet to say “sorry, gotta go” and hang up), but I’m watching the two of them uneasily.  She leaves.  Phone call completed, I ask Art, “What was that about?”  He says, “They don’t have anyone to push you to the medi-van tomorrow so they want me to be here at 9 a.m. to push you.”  This is for my four hour Chemo treatment at the medical building near the hospital.

I am enraged. “You should push me and with your knees that barely work?  You don’t even know where to find the medi-van.”  “It will find us at the front door.”  “Oh no,” I say, “it doesn’t find us.  We find it somewhere out back where it can lower its hydraulic lift.”  Art goes to the nurse’s station and says, “We take the elevator to the basement and follow the exit signs along the corridor.”  I’ve made that trip once.  It is a very long corridor.  I’m fuming.  “The dispatcher was in this morning to make sure I’d be ready at 9.  This is outrageous, unacceptable.”  “I can do it,” Art tries to reassure me.

Jack, my physical therapist, shows up that moment and I take leave of Art still steaming even as we reach the PT room.  “Take deep breaths,” he tells me.  “Take a lot of deep breaths.”

Jack is pushing my wheelchair back to my room and I see a flash of black suit in the corridor.  The rehab director.  I call his name and beckon wildly.  He reaches my side.  I tell him the “unconscionable events” and he keeps saying “It must be a misunderstanding.”  I tell him: “Make it right.  It is preposterous.  Ludicrous.”  I am running out of adjectives.  He returns to my room, and tells me Christopher will take me to the medi-van and ride along so he can push me out into the medical building and up to the office.  I had long forgotten that part.  Art would have to navigate me through all those doors.  Outrageous.  I thanked him for taking charge and phoned Art to tell him he was off the hook.  “I could have done it,” he said.

---Florence

Terrance Tanner, A Memory

George Ritzkin phoned.  “Florence, Terry is dying.  He’s in the hospice.  You have to go say goodbye to him.”  “I can’t.”  (Terry is young.  I am much older.)  “You have to.”  “I can’t, it will break my heart.” “Go.”

The next day I walked into a crowded welcoming room.  A man got up from the bedside for me to sit down.  Was this dear young Terry behind the old mask lying there?  “Terry,” I said.  “It’s Florence.”  I put his hand in mine.  “Florence,” he murmured.  “Terry, I love you.  I’ve always loved you.  I love you very much.”  His hand responded.

I reminisced with him about book activities we shared.  I talked about the annual Book Appraisal panel at the Newberry and how we deliberately goaded each other for our own entertainment.  “The Dumpster” was your mantra and of course you were right, they were mostly terrible books. The lady with the poetry book?  Nothing poetry, nothing poets, nothing publisher and she said it was her aunt’s only book and her aunt said it was precious.  “Dumpster,” you said.  So I said, “No it is a precious book.  Her aunt got it as a love gift and you can’t measure sentiment.  If you loved your aunt, treasure her gift.”  I reminded Terry he sat with his arms crossed looking like he could vomit.  “And the Pinocchio?  You said this was one of hundreds of printing of Pinocchio, nothing distinguishing about it.  And I was truly outraged because I personally own a copy of that edition and I lovingly showed why it was so special.” Terry’s face has softened, our hands embracing.  “And I said (was it a Willa Cather?) this is the only book ever published in orange vellum.  And you proceed to list early classics I never even heard of that were published in orange vellum.”  Terry was responding.  Finally I said goodbye and kissed his cheek.  “Florence,” he murmured.

The next day I thought I had given Terry a few moments of pleasure.  I will go again.  I return to the hospice.  I stand at the door of an empty room.  Staring at an empty bed with the bedding pulled taut.  I stand staring.  A nurse comes over.  “Did Terry go home?” I ask stupidly.  “Terry died last night.”  I start to howl.

--- Florence

Rehab. Reflex.

So I am at the oncologist’s office. Complaining. “I can’t wake up. I want to stay in bed.  I don’t want to eat. Pavlov’s dog? The opposite – I see the food tray and I get heartburn. It would be so easy to stop eating and drinking and just slip away. I’m so weak, weak, weak.” I don’t remember what he said but it was some smart-ass remark, so I sharply kicked him in the shin.  He wanted to see whether I made the connection, then said, “for someone dying, that was a pretty brisk reflex of a kick.” It was a good visit.  He said the chemo treatment has its cycles and I was at the bottom of this one, and in a few days I would be much better. And then another chemo treatment. He said, “Let’s give it a chance. Your ovarian cancer can be controlled by chemo. Give it a chance. You can make decisions later.”

---Florence

Rehab. Don't Take Away My Book!

Donald visited me with his Kindle. It was in a handsome black case with a flap.  “Oh, let me hold it,” I said. Heavy. Stiff. Large. “Take it out of the case. I want to hold it like I’m reading in bed.” He tries to slide it out. It is such a tight fit, he can’t. “How can this rigid board compare to a soft flexible paperback when you cuddle up in bed?” I asked.

“Let me see it again.” I try to read it. “Show me how you make the print larger.”

He taps every icon. He sweeps his finger back and forth, up and down. Nothing happens. “Nothing happens,” he said. Damn thing is frozen. He said, “I’m still learning, I’ll find out.” But I know the truth. These brilliant electronic wizardries can read the DNA on your fingertips. “Ha! 20th century! Obsolete generation! Let’s drive that old fogy crazy!”

Hey, world, don’t take away my book.

---Florence

Rehab. Oh, Gawd!

AAAAAAARRRGHH!  AAAAAAARRRGHH!

Chemotherapy #1 plus 13 days.

Look at all the hair on my brush!!!!!!!

---Florence

Rehab. Hosed Down.

No, I’d rather not take a shower here again.  The shower room is a far corridor ride in a wheel chair which did not have the foot rests for my feet which were thrust out ahead as we rushed along.  In the large room were small sections divided into two, a large stall for standers and a small bench for sitters like myself.  No handholds.  I gripped the edges of the seat while I was stripped.  A hand-held spray sent hot water all over me.  The hot water was good on contact, but every other part of me was immediately chilled.  Then towels patting me, but not really drying.  I suggested a towel to cover my wet hair for the ride back.  As Sharon put me back in bed, I had to ask for a towel on the pillow before I rested my wet head.  No, it was not refreshing.
A week later when she came for my shower, I gripped the bed and refused.

---Florence

Rehab. Random. #4

I can’t keep my eyes open.  It’s such an effort to open my eyes, so much energy required to lift those lids.  I keep the TV going so I have something to look at.  Good grief, such nonsense!  I can’t hear it, my hearing aids seem not compatible with the TV sound.
NOTE  Major Observation:
There are so many racially mixed couples paired as commentators, friends, panelists, in drama, but it is always a white woman with a black man.  Always.  I have not seen a white man coupled with a black woman.  Unless it happened when my eyes were closed.

---Florence

Rehab. Random. #3

Since when did food become so unattractive.  The food at the Highland Park Hospital is offered on an eight-page menu.  Here they plunk down – listen to this - fat hot dog with beans and limp white fries.   Even if the fries had been crisp, it is crap.  I haven’t eaten a hot dog in years.  I see the tray coming and the heart burn starts.

---Florence