Hospital, Day 7…and Counting

"One more day," the doctor told Jimmi when he asked if he was being released from the hospital. That was five days ago. He's still there.

Let me start where I left off last week.

Jimmi was admitted to the hospital early Wednesday morning with a strange infection that was causing extreme swelling and pain in his knee. He was treated with a few different antibiotics to try and knock out the infection but, since nothing was growing in the culture of the fluid the doctor extracted, they couldn't pinpoint the exact bacteria, which made treatment more difficult. And, while Jimmi no longer had a fever and the infection seemed to be staying localized, it definitely was not going away. The promise of "one more day" was made on Thursday and, on Friday, that hope was dashed upon the morning's examination. At that point, I decided to call the emergency veterinary clinic about my dog, Valentino, who was admitted Tuesday night when he choked on some turkey and was found to have aspiration pneumonia. "He's doing great!" the doctor said. "I want to do a few more x-rays and then I'm hoping he can go home later today." 

I went to see Jimmi in the hospital before the boys came home from school. I took a look at his knee, which was much redder and much larger than it had been. Plus, the swelling was beginning to creep down his calf and into his ankle. "I have a cankle!" Jimmi joked but I wasn't laughing. Why weren't they doing anything to fix my husband? Going from one antibiotic to another was clearly the wrong answer, as he'd been on five different kinds and none of them had helped. "Can't they drain it?" I asked. Jimmi shrugged, "They don't think they need to." I wasn't convinced. I wanted to speak to a doctor but I could never seem to find one during my visits. Then I remembered, "Oh CRAP!" Jimmi looked at me with curiosity. I explained, "You're supposed to take Dylan to that concert tomorrow night!" I was referring to Dylan's favorite band. They were playing a show an hour from my house the next night, in a standing room only venue, with four other bands. Being both short and now fragile from radiation damage to my bones, general admission shows were not my cup of tea and I avoided them at all costs. Plus, these bands fell under the category of "screamo," which, according to me, sounds like zombies attempting to sing…loudly. But I couldn't let my kid down; especially since my best friend's brother had gotten Dylan passes for a private meet and greet with the band before the show. "I guess I'll have to take him myself," I announced, knowing I had no other choice unless I wanted a very sad kid on my hands. And that's when the commode was brought in for Jimmi's roommate, who wasn't allowed to use the actual bathroom because they were afraid he'd fall. At that moment I realized how little the curtain between the two beds actually matters. While I was trying to be sympathetic for the man on the other side, it was nearly impossible as the stench drifted across the room, breaking all barriers of privacy and dignity. "Why didn't they wheel him out and bring him somewhere else to do that?" I whispered under the strained grunts. Jimmi shrugged, trying to go with the flow, but I was mortified. I understand people have problems that can't be helped, but this man was essentially taking a dump right in the middle of the room he shared with Jimmi, and we all got to enjoy it. "This is NOT ok," I complained again before jumping up and finding someone who could do something about it. An hour later, Jimmi was collecting his belongings and moving across the hall to a large, private room, complete with DVD player, couch and a small table and chairs. I know how to get things done!

I was eating pizza with the boys that night when my phone rang. It was the vet. "Hi Suzanne. I'm releasing Valentino so you can pick him up at any time." I searched for the correct emotion as I stammered, "Ummm, well, how late can I pick him up?" She replied, "We're open twenty-four hours, so whenever it's convenient for you." I felt the need to explain, "My husband is in the hospital and I was going to bring him pizza and visit for awhile after dinner. I can pick him up after that but tomorrow is going to be difficult. Will Valentino be on a lot of medications?" The doctor answered me, "Yes, four different pills, some once a day and some twice a day." She must've sensed my hesitation and continued, "Why don't you leave him here another day? You need to concentrate on your husband and we love Valentino so we don't mind! I'll switch him to medical board so it won't cost too much and then you won't have to worry about him." I was so grateful for her suggestion, "Thank you so much. I'll call tomorrow morning to let you know when I can pick him up." She was very nice, "We'll keep him as long as you need us to. Just worry about your husband." As much as I didn't want to leave my fur baby at the hospital any longer than necessary, I also didn't feel comfortable bringing him home and then leaving him alone all day right after a major respiratory episode. I'd work it out to pick him up on Saturday.

I returned to the hospital with two large pizzas, one plain and one pepperoni, and dropped them off at the nurses' station on Jimmi's floor. "Enjoy!" I said to the nightshift before walking down the hall to my husband's room. "I brought movies!" I announced as I entered the room with a collection of rockstar favorites. 

I dropped a DVD into the player, walked over to the bed and commanded, "Move over." Jimmi scooted a few inches to his right and I squeezed into the tiny bed next to him. For two hours we almost forgot we were in a hospital as we watched a movie and cuddled as if we were home on our couch. But, when the film was over, instead of heading upstairs together, I put my coat on and got ready to drive home to an empty house, alone. The nurse came in to check on him right before I left. She looked at his knee and said, "That's not getting any better, is it?" I couldn't contain my concern any longer and I had to ask, "Is it possible the sac in there will burst and the infection will spread all over his body and kill him?" She blinked a few times then focused her gaze back on the the swollen area. "I mean, it's possible," she shrugged, "but it's really not likely. He doesn't have a fever anymore and nothing is showing up in his blood so it seems like it's really encapsulated in there. That's probably why the medications are having such a hard time penetrating it." I was still worried. "I hope you don't think I'm crazy," I started, "but you have to understand where I'm coming from. He's not hooked up to any machines. If something happens in the middle of the night, no one will know until it's too late." She could see how upset I was. "Would it help if I promise you I'll check on him every hour through the night?" she asked. A lot can happen in between those hours but it was better than nothing. I thanked her then I kissed Jimmi goodbye, opened the door and started walking down the hall. It was 11:30 PM, long after visiting hours had ended, and, as I passed the nurses' station,  I felt like a college girl doing the Walk of Shame. 

I woke up on Saturday morning and waited for some good news. Jimmi finally texted with just the opposite of that. "I need to stay another night because my calf is still swollen. The doctor said my knee looks better but he doesn't like that my calf and ankle are still red." I sighed impatiently, "This is ridiculous. Can't they just drain it so it goes away?" Jimmi said, "Actually, the doctor told me I dodged the bullet on having to have surgery. He said it's going in the right direction." It just didn't sound that way to me. He kept telling me that he had a splitting headache and Tylenol wasn't cutting it. Then he abruptly stopped texting me, mid-conversation. I waited a few minutes, then tried to call him. No answer. Five minutes later, I tried again. No answer. I started putting the clues together and I didn't like   what I found. Infection, headache, lost contact. Oh, my GOD! He had a stroke! I called the main number of the hospital and asked to be directed to the 5th floor nurses' station. It felt like forever before they answered. "Hi, my husband is in room five-oh-one. We were talking and he said he had a headache and then he just disappeared. He's not hooked up to any monitors and I need to make sure he's ok." She asked me to hold and I waited impatiently for her to come back. Two minutes seemed like two hours before I heard, "He's sleeping. Totally out cold." My paranoia forced me to ask, "Are you sure he's just sleeping and not, you know…" She let a small giggle slip out, "He's fine, hon. Just sleeping."

I got myself ready and ran through the day in my head. I would need to go to the hospital early because Dylan's dad was dropping him off at 3:00 so I could take him to the concert. But what about Valentino? I tried to come up with a plan for our petsitter to stay with him but it just didn't feel right picking him up from the vet and leaving him immediately. What if he had a relapse? I'd be too far away to do anything about it. I called the vet and explained my situation. "Don't worry!" she said. "I know you want him home but it's better for him to stay here so we can watch him. He'll be fine for one more day. Tomorrow you can pick up your husband then pick up your dog and everyone will be home together." That sounded like a good plan to me. I arrived at the hospital early enough to stay a few hours before my next adventure. "Are you sure you can't just get up and take Dylan to the show?" I joked with Jimmi. He knew how much I was dreading taking a 13 year-old to a crowded club where neither of us would be able to see and neither of us would survive if we happened to get caught in a mosh pit. 

Dylan's dad dropped him off with enough time for me to blow out and flat iron his almost shoulder-lenth locks, which were naturally frizzy, just like mine. We both changed into black jeans and black hoodies, which, I was told was appropriate attire for this type of show, then we headed out. Knowing Dylan was only interested in the headlining band, I normally would've left much later to avoid standing through the four support acts, but, as I mentioned, my friend's brother works for the band and had us set up with a private meet and greet at 6:00 PM. After an hour in the car we arrived at the venue. I was surprised that parking was so readily available until I remembered that most of the audience was being dropped off by their parents since they were too young to drive themselves. And then I saw the line of people wrapped all the way around the perimeter of the parking lot. A giant train of hot pink and electric blue hair, piercings and black clothing. "Do we have to wait in that line?" Dylan asked as I pulled out my phone. "I don't think so," I replied. I texted the band's tour manager, "We just parked the car. Will wait in the parking lot for further instructions." Luckily, it was 66 degrees that day so hanging out in the lot didn't bother me too much. My phone rang and the man told me to meet him at the front of the line, "I'm wearing a jean jacket and backwards baseball cap," he said. We shot past all the people in front of us, who were obviously wondering why we were so special, and found the man in question. "They're with me," he told the security guard as he flashed his All Access laminate. The security guard nodded and waved us through and I had flashbacks of the days when I worked in the music industry and had the same power myself. I missed those days. "We're gonna go right up to the dressing room, if that's ok with you," the tour manager's assistant told Dylan, who nodded in silent awe. We were escorted up the familiar backstage stairs, which I'd ascended a few times for various other acts, and I hoped the smell of weed wouldn't greet us like a smoky wall as it had the last time I'd been up there. Amazingly, the air was fresh as we padded down the hall to the band's dressing room. Mr. Jean Jacket stopped us before entering and asked, "What are your names again? I want to introduce you." Dylan finally spoke, "I'm Dylan." Then the man looked at me and I told him, "I'm Suzanne, but that doesn't matter. It's all about him." We entered the room, where eight guys were sitting on two couches working on various electronics or stuffing their faces with whatever Craft Services had provided for dinner. My son's face showed pure excitement as he took in the scene. I scanned the room, not knowing which of these men were actually in the band and which were roadies or friends. Finally a very tall, very skinny and very tattooed rocker boy stood up, wiped the mustard from his mouth and walked over to Dylan. In a thick British accent he introduced himself as James. Dylan couldn't speak anything other than his name and he just stood there with his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. I must admit, I was a bit speechless myself because, damn, that boy was hot! I had to remind myself that I was not only married, but also, most likely, at least 10 years older than the guy standing in front of me. James, who was coincidentally a drummer, called over a red-headed, bearded bloke named, Danny. "He's the singer," Dylan whispered as Danny made his way across the room. Again, Dylan's vocal chords forgot how to work so I stepped in and suggested a quick photo.

Danny excused himself and Dylan and I stood there, awkwardly, with James until I asked if the rest of the band would be joining us for a group shot. "I'm not too sure where they are," James replied. A few more minutes of forced conversation ensued before the assistant tour manager finally came back. "Ben and Sam are on the bus," he said. Then he turned to Dylan and asked, "Do you want to see where we live when we're on tour?" Dylan nodded emphatically, still not sure how to get his mouth to work. We trudged back down the stairs before we were told that Cameron, the fifth member of the band, was still in New York City with family so we wouldn't be able to see him. I was a bit disappointed for Dylan until I asked, "Is that ok, Bud?" More nodding told me my kid was perfectly satisfied with 4 out of 5. We exited the back door of the venue into the lot where the bands and employees parked. We walked past two tour buses until we neared a third, which was custom painted with the headliner's name. In front of the bus were the two other band members Dylan was about to meet. Of course, I only knew who they were when I saw Dylan's face light up again. Then I noticed the cigarette in the cuter one's hand. Shit! I thought. Dylan is super sensitive to cigarette smoke and he tends to be dramatic and gag whenever he gets near one. This was gonna be interesting. "Hello," said the rock stars to my son. "Hi," Dylan squeaked. This time he was able to get out one, single sentence. "You guys are my favorite band." And, miraculous, my son was able to ignore the cancer stick in the musician's hand without so much as a cough. I snapped another photo, they told Dylan to enjoy the show and we walked back around the building to join the rest of the crowd, as if nothing interesting had happened.

When Dylan was finally able to form words again he turned to me with the biggest smile I've ever seen and said, "That was SO cool!" I put my arm around my son, gave him a squeeze and said, "Let's go get our tickets now." Dylan seemed confused, "Don't we have them?" I shook my head, "Not yet. We're on the guest list so we have to go to the will call window." His eyes were like saucers and his jaw dropped to the floor, "You mean we're on the list?" I could tell by his reaction that he'd heard the phrase, "on the list" before and knew it meant we were important. "Yes," I answered. "Well, I am. You're my plus one." He furrowed his brow in disappointment then shook it off quickly. "What happens if your name isn't there?" Dylan asked and I laughed, "Oh, that's happened to me a few times. But don't worry. I can always talk my way in." We headed to the window and I dropped my license into the slot. "Which list are you on?" asked the girl. "We're with the band," I said. No matter how many times that line has come out of my mouth, it never seems to get old. The girl skimmed the first page, then the second. When she got to the third and fourth pages I started to panic a little bit. "Asking Alexandria's list," I specified, forgetting that there were five bands and we could've been with any one of them. "Yeah, I looked there," she said. Oh, please don't let me look like a fool in front of my kid! "Maybe the record label's list?" I hoped. She shook her head, "I looked on all of them." That's when she lifted the first page again and I caught sight of Jimmi's name, clearly printed on the page. "There!" I exclaimed. "My husband is in the hospital and they were supposed to change his name to mine but I guess they forgot." She smiled and crossed out Jimmi's name, "Whew! I was worried for a minute!" she said sweetly as she handed us an envelope with two tickets and two backstage passes. "If it's not too late when it's over we can use these to meet the band member you didn't see before the show," I told Dylan, who was clearly not concerned.

The building was stuffed to the gills and the show hadn't even started yet. I knew my way around the club very well so I was aware of the only area in the entire place that was elevated to give the short people a shred of hope that they might see some of the action taking place on stage. But I couldn't even get through the wall of teenagers to check it out. Finally I parked Dylan in a relatively safe location and instructed, "Don't move! I'm gonna go check out the spot with the railing and the bench and I'll come right back." He nodded and I pushed my way through the crowd using my hands to physically part the people and make a path. As I climbed the three steps to my secret location I was stoked to see the space was almost empty. I caught sight of one open spot on the railing and ran to it so I could check the short person's view the view of the stage. Once I'd established visual satisfaction I turned to the couple next to me and begged, "Can you please save this spot for a minute? I'm going to get my thirteen year-old." They didn't say a word but the man unlocked the hold he had on his woman and moved himself into Dylan's place so he could save it with his own body. "Thank you!" I called out as I hurried back to get my kid. I found him exactly where I'd left him and I motioned to him to follow me. I parted the human sea again and we made it safely to the railing. "Stand here. Can you see?" He nodded. I handed him ear plugs, pointed to a seat on the bench behind him and said, "I'm going to sit right there. As long as I can see you, that's where I'll stay. If it gets too crowded up here I'll come and stand with you." He gave me a thumbs up and I proceeded to the bench to sit with the other moms. I'll admit, once the first band was out of the way, I didn't mind the rest of the music. When the headliner started I went to stand with Dylan so I could watch the pure excitement on his face. As worried as I was about Jimmi, I was so glad I didn't cancel the night for Dylan. He had a blast. The show ended at 11:30 PM and I was relieved when Dylan decided he didn't want to wait to meet the remaining member of the band that he'd missed. I needed to go home. I was exhausted.

On Sunday morning Jimmi called to let me know they still weren't releasing him from the hospital, but they were about to do an MRI to see if the infection had gotten into his joint or bone. I was getting incredibly annoyed with the doctors because, since Jimmi had been there, all they'd done is change his antibiotics. I think we were on the seventh one, at that point, and nothing had worked. I realized I couldn't wait for Jimmi to come home before picking Valentino up from the vet; it just wasn't fair to the dog. I dropped Dylan at his dad's and headed off to get my pup after a 5 day stay in the hospital. The tech gave me a rundown of Valentino's medications. There were four of them and some were to be given once a day and others were twice a day. She explained that we needed to change his diet so he'd lose weight and handed me a bag of special food. And then I saw the bill. I tried to keep myself from screaming, "Are you CRAZY?!" as I looked at the final number on the bottom of the page. Instead, I forked over my credit card and quipped, "I wonder who's gonna cost more, my dog or my husband?" Then, finally, they brought my fuzzy friend out from the back and we were on our way home. One down, one to go.

After I got Tino settled at home I needed to get to the hospital to see Jimmi. I made sure our petsitter was available to come to the house while I was gone and off I went. Jimmi's knee didn't look any better, upon my immediate inspection, and my fists clenched tightly as I demanded an answer from the nurse as to why the doctors were still playing with this infection instead of just cleaning it out. She couldn't give me an explanation but I could tell she agreed with my frustration. The MRI had been done at 10:30 that morning and I was glad I'd gotten there before the results were given to Jimmi since I wanted to be there to speak to the doctor myself. It was 3:00 now and I figured he'd be back any minute. But the hours dragged on and still no visit from the doctor. I asked the nurse what was causing the hold up. The only answer she could give was, "It's Sunday." Which wasn't acceptable to me. At 6:30 I asked for the doctor's phone number. Jimmi called the service and explained his situation. "MRI results aren't an emergency, sir. The doctor will probably just tell you tomorrow." What crap! Why did he even order the test today if he wasn't planning on doing anything about it until the next day? I stayed with Jimmi until 10:00, when The Walking Dead was over, then I went home to crash. 

The phone rang on Monday morning and Jimmi's voice was frantic, "The culture finally grew. It's staph. They changed my antibiotic again since they know what they're treating now, but I have to have surgery to clean it all out." I spit out the toothpaste in my mouth to ask, "When?" His answer didn't give me enough details, "Sometime today." I was on autopilot as a finished getting dressed, fed the three cats and two dogs, texted the babysitter/petsitter to come over after work and called my mom, who was visiting her sister in Arizona, to tell her what was going on. "I'm sorry I'm not there with you," she said with pain in her voice. I assured her I'd be alright, but she and I both knew I was lying. I arrived at the hospital at 10:30 in the morning, just in time to hear the nurse say, "We're still not sure exactly what time you'll have surgery, but we know it'll be sometime after five." Ugh! I looked up at the clock then down at the bag in my hand, "I'm glad I brought my baby shower thank you notes to work on. Looks like it's gonna be a long day!" Minutes turned to hours as we waited for information. Then I asked the nurse if the MRI had ever been read. "There's no report in our system," she said and I was starting to lose my temper. How long does it take to read an MRI? When is this surgery going to happen? Why has Jimmi been in the hospital for a week without anyone doing anything to fix him?

At about 2:00 Jimmi was taken downstairs to have a PICC line inserted into his arm. He was told he'd need to be on IV antibiotics for at least two weeks after surgery and the PICC was the only way he'd be able to do it himself. An area on his upper, inner left arm was numbed, then a small catheter was inserted into a vein then threaded down right by his heart. The other end of it was taped and an access tube was left open for infusions. We'd learn how to use it later.

Finally, at 6:38 PM, a man arrived with a gurney. "I'm here to take you to the O.R.," he announced and handed Jimmi a gown. "Take everything off and put this on." Jimmi obliged, then he got on the bed-on-wheels and I followed as he rolled off to the elevator. My sister-in-law waited with me as Jimmi was prepped then they called us in to wait with him until the took him away. Jimmi's knee was sticking out from under his gown and I could see the word "YES" written on it with marker. "Is that to make sure they don't operate on the wrong one?" I knew that actually was the case, which kind of scared me. All of a sudden a nurse came running over, pulled Jimmi's gown down between his legs and laughed, "You're giving everyone a show!" My husband blushed and flattened his legs to the bed, "Oh, shit! I forgot!" A minute later the same nurse came back with a blanket. "Oh, it's warm," Jimmi said as she draped the heated cover over him. I couldn't help myself, "She must've seen that you were cold." 

The surgeon came in and I finally laid eyes on him for the first time all week. "Hi, I'm Dr. H," he said to me then he turned to Jimmi and explained, "The procedure is very simple. You'll be under general anesthesia and I'll make an incision, remove the infection and clean the area with saline. Then I'll stitch you back up and the antibiotics should be able to take care of the rest. It should only take about twenty minutes. You'll go home with the PICC and you'll give yourself antibiotic infusions for at least two weeks. You'll need physical therapy to get your knee in shape again and you might have some lasting pain and tightness. You also won't be able to use that left arm much while the PICC is there." I'm sure that was exactly what my gym-buff, athletic, drummer husband wanted to hear. And then, at 8:30 PM, it was finally time. I took Jimmi's glasses, kissed him on his plump lips and left the pre-op holding area.

Barely a half an hour later the surgeon appeared in the waiting room to let me know everything went well and I'd be able to see my husband soon. As it got later and later I realized my babysitter had to leave by 10:30 and there was no way I'd make it home by then. I texted my friend, Tina, who didn't hesitate when I asked if she could relieve the sitter until I got home. With that stress off my mind, I finally went in to see Jimmi. I was surprised but happy to see him so alert and talkative. Soon it was time to follow the wheel-a-bed back up to Jimmi's room. As the nurses got him settled I ran downstairs to grab some food and coffee for my husband, who hadn't been allowed to eat or drink anything all day. I set the soup, sandwich and cookies in front of Jimmi before leaving the hospital after a 12 hour day. 

All seemed well at home, when I arrived, until I heard Dylan's hoarse voice calling out to me, "Mom!" It was almost midnight and I didn't have enough energy to hear the words, "I feel like crap. My throat hurts and my nose is stuffy." I walked across the room and felt his forehead, which was cool, but a bit clammy. All I could muster was, "Can you try to sleep and we'll see how you feel in the morning?" He agreed and we both passed out in our respective bedrooms. My alarm went off at 6:15 the next morning and I stumbled into Dylan's room for the health verdict. "I still don't feel well," he croaked. "Are you going to school?" I asked without the strength to argue whatever answer he gave me. "I'd rather not," he said. I felt his forehead again, which still seemed fever-free. He went back to sleep and I got Justin ready for school. As I went to make his lunch I realized there was absolutely no food in my house. I couldn't even remember the last time I'd gone to Shoprite or actually cooked a meal. I checked the school lunch menu and was relieved to see one of only two choices Justin will actually eat listed as the day's special. I found $5 in my wallet and stuffed it into his pocket. Once he was safely on the bus I gave in to my exhaustion and decided to take a nap. I wanted to wait a few hours to see how Dylan was doing before heading to the hospital anyway. The sound of sneezing woke me a little while later and I could tell it was the right move keeping Dylan at home. I took his temperature and it was normal. "Will you be ok if I go to the hospital?" I asked him. He was halfway downstairs to the Xbox when he called out, "Sure!" After a quick trip to the bagel shop to get breakfast for Dylan I was out the door and on my way to the hospital.

Jimmi's mom was sitting on the couch when I entered his hospital room but he was nowhere to be found. "Bathroom," she said and I heard the toilet flush. My husband opened the door and barely made it back to the bed. It was difficult to bend his right leg at all and he said the pain was so unbearable during the night that he needed morphine. He had just asked the nurse for another dose but it hadn't arrived yet. That's when the physical therapist came in to show him some exercises to strengthen his knee. "Lift your leg from the hip," she said. Jimmi tried but nothing happened. "I can't" he winced as he used his hands to pick up and move his leg. After a few attempts he was doing better and the therapist suggested a short walk before his next dose of pain medication knocked him out. "I think you might benefit from crutches," she told Jimmi. But before she left to get them I reminded her that his PICC line was under his arm, pretty high up. She took a look and her expression changed, "Oh, that won't work with crutches. You're right. I'll bring you a cane!" It was slightly amusing watching my 32 year-old husband walking around with a cane, but as long as it helped him get where he needed to go I decided to stifle my wiseass remarks and leave him alone. That's when Dylan texted me, "My temp is up to 101.4"

Shit.

"I need to go," I announced as I jumped up and grabbed my coat. "Dylan's getting worse." I kissed Jimmi goodbye and darted out the door. By the time I got home the fever had climbed to 102.4 and I dosed him up with Advil. A half an hour later we were up a few notches to 102.8 and my nerves were shot. I got Justin to bed and allowed Dylan to stay up long enough for me to see the number start dropping as the Advil worked its magic. Once he was under 101 I sent him to bed. I couldn't wait to snuggle under my covers but it's hard to completely relax when you have a sick kid. I must've fallen asleep pretty quickly, though, because the next thing I remember is waking up this morning to the lovely sound of vomiting. 

Shit!

"Mom!" I was already halfway down the hall when he called me. "Are you ok?" I asked as I opened the door, looking around carefully for any regurgitated puddles. "I'm puking," he said with his head in the toilet. Thanks, Captain Obvious. "Be careful," he warned. "I didn't quite make it." As I cleaned up the nasty mess I realized the money spent to rip up the carpeting and replace it with hardwood was worth every single penny. When he was finished and rinsed I took his temperature. It was back up to 102 so I brought him some Tylenol and sent him back to bed. How could I leave him today? What if Jimmi is released? How will I pick him up? It doesn't matter, I thought. The nurse told Jimmi he was in too much pain to be sent home anyway.

Ring! Ring! It was Jimmi.

"I'm getting out!" he said. Of course he is, I thought. "After you pick me up we have to go right down to the infectious disease doctor's office for a two-hour lesson on how to give myself antibiotics with the PICC line." How the hell am I gonna do this? The Tylenol had brought Dylan's fever down but he looked terrible. Pale, glassy eyes and a red nose. His stomach was fine, at that point, and I figured the vomiting was a fluke side effect of swallowing mucus all night. But, still, I didn't feel comfortable leaving him. "Let me figure out how to make it work," I told Jimmi. Then there was a knock at the door. My friend from seventh grade, Jacquie, came by to bring me a venti iced coffee and a large bottle of vodka, a request I'd made only half seriously. After hearing my dilemma, Jacquie offered to stay with Dylan until 2:00, when she needed to leave to pick up her daughter. I texted my sister-in-law and she was available from about 4:00 to 5:30. That left a window of only two hours when Dylan would be alone. It wasn't ideal but it was definitely doable.

I got to the hospital to bust Jimmi out at 1:00. The wheelchair arrived and the nurses wished him well.  He was finally going to breathe fresh air for the first time in eight days. 

Ten minutes after leaving the hospital I parked the car in front of the infectious disease doctor's office. We didn't wait too long before being called in by a young nurse with a brown ponytail and blue eyes. She led us back to an area with a tiled floor and explained, "This is the infusion suite." I had only taken about two steps into the private cubicle when I stopped short with panic. I looked at the green chair with its attached arm table and the IV hanger next to it and my body froze. I started to tremble and my palms began to sweat. I tried to shake the horrible memories of chemo from my mind but they were flooding back in full force at the sight of the familiar furnishings. But this time Jimmi was the one sitting in the chair. My mind went fuzzy and I couldn't hear what the nurse was saying. Focus, Suzanne. Focus! I pulled myself together and watched as Jimmi's PICC line dressing was changed and the area was cleaned. That would only happen once a week and it would be done at the office.

Once the new dressing was applied it was time for our infusion lesson. Everything we'd need was placed on a sanitized table in front of Jimmi. Two syringes of saline, one bulb of antibiotics and one syringe of heparin in SASH order - saline, antibiotics, saline, heparin.

The nurse explained the importance of flushing the line with saline both before and after the antibiotics, then finishing with heparin, a blood thinner, to keep the area from clotting. I already knew all of this from my four long months of chemo, but I listened respectfully anyway. Because saline can be pumped into your veins repeatedly without harm, Jimmi was told to clean and flush the line a few times himself.

 It wasn't time for his antibiotics yet, but when it was, the nurse explained that the bulb would run for 30 minutes once it was hooked into the line. It was pretty simple. Then I asked, "We're supposed to fly to Minnesota next week for four days. Is that ok?" She thought about it, "Well, the medication needs to be refrigerated and there's a lot of it. He needs an infusion every six hours, at twelve AM and PM and six AM and PM, so you'll need to get a pretty large cooler to bring on the plane. Other than that, it should be fine." And then she showed us the amount of supplies we'll need for just one week. 

When the lesson was over I grabbed our goodies and walked out of the office. An appointment was set up for next Thursday, when Jimmi will have his dressing changed, get another week's worth of supplies and meet with the doctor. We drove home in rush hour and I told Jimmi I'd drop him off first, then go back out for his Percocet prescription and some pizza. As we neared the house I called my sister-in-law and asked her to let our dog, Chloe, out in the backyard. Chloe is the sweetest pit bull, but she's a jumper. Since she hasn't seen her daddy in over a week I knew she'd be anxious to greet him and I didn't want her to hurt him by accident. We walked into the house and I made a b-line for Dylan while Jimmi hobbled over to the couch. Dylan's fever was back up over 101 so I medicated him again. I didn't bother to take off my coat since I was going right back out, but I let Chloe back into the house after closing the gate to the family room. She came charging over at the sound of Jimmi's voice but she seemed to know something wasn't right. She jumped a little on the other side of the gate and then got down on the floor. I figured it was because she didn't actually have direct contact with him. After I got back with the food and drugs I helped Jimmi prepare his first self-infusion. Once we got it going he told me to let Chloe into the kitchen, where he was sitting, to see what she would do. I was amazed to watch my spastic puppy walk over, sniff Jimmi then immediately sit down by his hurt leg and stand guard over him. 

After the medicine had finished and dinner was cleared, my ex picked up the boys and I cleaned up the kitchen. Everything was quiet for the first time in over a week and I was able to sit down and breathe for five minutes. When I went to check on Jimmi I found him relaxing, too.

I think we're both ready for this week to finally be over! 

One Thing After Another…After Another…After Another...

The last few days of my life have felt a bit like a bad made-for-tv movie; one that packs in so many twists and turns you end up rolling your eyes at the unbelievability of it. You know the kind I'm talking about, right? Honestly, if I hadn't been living it, I probably would've changed the channel long before Tuesday.

I mentioned that my three-month CT scan was supposed to happen this coming Friday, but it was postponed a few weeks due to my oncologist's vacation schedule. That left me open for a quick flight to Minnesota for Lyndsay's pre-natal appointment today. I was so excited when I booked the flights two weeks ago that I almost forgot about the dull, ache that had been moving around my left arm for the past seven days. I pushed the cough off as weather-related and I ignored the pain was creeping into my knee and thumb joints each morning after I opened my eyes. Clearly I didn't have time to deal with any of these annoyances. I had more important things to think about; mostly, I would finally be able to feel my daughter kicking away in our borrowed baby-cooker. As the days drew nearer, I allowed my mind to picture how I'd feel when I rested my hand against Lyndsay's bump and felt the life Jimmi and I - with a lot of scientific help - had created. My heart beat a bit faster as I rubbed my arm, attempting to alleviate the pain. 

It was Sunday, three days before departure, and I was cooking Jimmi's favorite meal: baked ziti, homemade garlic bread and sautéed broccoli. Just as the bread turned a golden brown, the garage door opened and Jimmi hobbled in. "I think I hurt my knee. It's all swollen and I can barely walk on it," he explained. "What did you do to it?" I asked. "I have no idea," he replied. "It just swelled up out of nowhere." Since moms and wives earn their honorary medical degree the minute they take on these titles, I examined Jimmi's knee carefully. "Hmmm," I thought as I pressed down gently, "It's really swollen. You sure you didn't bang it?" Jimmi shook his head. I tried again, "You did a lot with the kids yesterday. Trampoline, Laser tag and ice skating; any of those could've caused this." He shook his head again, "But I would remember, wouldn't I?" I attempted to convince my husband that sometimes you don't realize you've hurt yourself until a few days later, when the pain begins. "Do you feel ok?" I asked, my mind going down a different path. "Eh. I'm a little achy but fine otherwise," Jimmi said. "You might want to go to the hospital and have them look at it," I suggested. "It might be some kind of infection." Jimmi, who can be a huge hypochondriac until there's actually something wrong, stared at me with fearful eyes, "I don't want to go to the hospital." I shook my head as I looked at my husband, who has tattoos on about 75% of his body, because I knew exactly why he was going to be stubborn about seeking medical help. He's afraid of needles.

We ate dinner and Jimmi insisted on cleaning up, which meant limping and wincing as he moved around the kitchen. "Let me see your knee again," I said. "I want to check for spider or tick bites." I scanned his skin which, luckily, is an empty canvas on his right knee, but didn't see anything that looked even remotely like a creature took a taste. Jimmi saw the look of concern on my face. "Ok, I'll go to the hospital!" he relented like a child who had finally agreed to eat his vegetables. Knowing I couldn't leave the boys home alone, I asked, "Are you ok to drive yourself?" He nodded, got himself ready and headed off to the emergency room. 

Not even twenty minutes after arriving at the hospital, Jimmi called to let me know he was on his way home. "What happened?" I asked, not believing that anyone could possibly have gotten in and out of the ER so quickly. "The doctor looked at it, asked me what I did, measured it to make sure it wasn't dislocated, then told me there was nothing wrong. He said I probably moved it wrong or banged it and I should ice it and take Advil three times a day." I had no words, but I managed, "Wait. What? Did you have a blood test? Did he do an x-ray? Did he look for bites?" All questions were answered in the negative, "He said there was no reason to x-ray it since the knee cap wasn't dislocated." Oh, how I wished I had been there so I could've forced that lazy doctor to do his job! "You're going to the doctor tomorrow," I said forcefully. "I'm sure it's fine," Jimmi assured me.

But it wasn't fine.

On Monday morning I woke up and got the kids to school before checking on Jimmi. "How are you feeling?" I whispered before his eyes were even open. "Shitty," he complained. "I was up all night with chills and sweats. I think I have a fever." I felt my husband's head, which was clammy, but not overly warm. "I don't think so, but I'll check." The thermometer read 100.1. "I'm calling the doctor," I told him. "No! Let me just wait until later and see how I feel." I told him I would allow that, then I headed downstairs, picked up the phone and booked a slot with Dr. M, our GP, at 2:45 that afternoon. 

Jimmi's knee had turned the color of a ripe tomato by the time he left the house to see Dr. M. Once again, he had to go by himself because I needed to be home when the boys returned from school. An hour went by and Jimmi finally called, "He said I have a form of cellulitis, which is an infection under the skin. I have no idea how it got in there because I can't see any open wounds, though. He gave me two strong antibiotics to take and outlined the redness on my knee with a pen so I'll know if it gets bigger. He said he didn't want to drain it because it might introduce the infection deeper into the healthy tissue." I listened carefully then offered to run to the pharmacy and pick up his medications so he could just come home and rest. I quickly Googled cellulitis and only had to read up to the part about it being deadly if not treated quickly enough before contemplating my revenge on the ER doctor who had sent him home with an ice pack and Advil.

I returned home with two bottles of pills, one to be taken twice a day and the other four times a day, and shoved them into Jimmi's hand, "Take them now so they can start working." He nodded, grabbed some water and gulped them down before plopping down on the couch and closing his eyes. He didn't move again until I forced him to go to bed at 1:00 AM, and I was convinced he wouldn't be able to sleep anymore. But I was wrong. Not only did Jimmi sleep through the night, but he got up on Tuesday morning, went to the couch and continued sleeping. He was still limping and the swelling and redness wasn't looking any better. Actually, based on the previous day's outline, it was getting worse. I called the doctor again. "The redness is about an inch past the pen outline," I explained. "Dr. M said to call if it got bigger." The nurse checked with the doctor and came back to the line with exasperation, "He was just here yesterday," she said with a condescending tone. "You need to give the medicine time to work." I wasn't letting her go that easily, "Dr. M said if the redness got bigger he wanted Jimmi to come back." She wasn't concerned, "He's coming back on Friday," she said with conviction. And I assumed she must have been pretty confident in her answer. But waiting three more days just wasn't sitting right with me. "Do you want to go back to the hospital?" I asked Jimmi who shook his head, turned over and went back to sleep. 

So I let him rest. 

And rest.

And rest.

I started getting the boys ready to go to School of Rock at about 4:30 PM. I made them each a sandwich to take with them and eat for dinner whenever they got hungry during the three-hour rehearsal. I ripped off a piece of turkey, handed it to Dylan and said, "Here, give this to Valentino before he has a coronary." Valentino is our little Pomeranian who can smell lunchmeat from two rooms away. He jumped and spun in circles as Dylan drew nearer, prize in hand. When the delicious treat was finally within his reach, Valentino grabbed it from Dylan's fingers and swallowed it in one gulp.

And then the noise started.

Little dogs will often snort when they get overly excited, but this sound was different. It was more like a gasp. Valentino's panting seemed labored and he was exhaling very loudly. "Is he ok?" Jimmi asked from his position on the couch. "I don't know," I said as I wrapped up the last sandwich and walked over to evaluate my dog. He didn't sound good and I knew I needed to do something. "I think he's choking," I said as calmly as I could in order to keep the boys from panicking. But how would I keep myself from panicking? Here's what I knew at that moment: my dog needed help, our veterinarian's office is 40 minutes away, the boys needed to get to School of Rock in the next half an hour, Jimmi was couch-ridden so I had to do it all myself. And then I remembered something that I thought would solve everything, "There's an emergency veterinary clinic in the same plaza as School of Rock! It's closer than our vet and I have to go there anyway!" Justin grabbed his drum sticks, Dylan grabbed his guitar, I grabbed my dog and out the door we went. It was rush hour but, luckily, I take mostly backroads to get to School of Rock. And, on that day, so did the slowest man on the planet who, of course, was driving in front of me. "Move!" I screamed impatiently as I listened to my dog's stressed panting. I rubbed his head with one hand and kept the other on the steering wheel. I pretended to be confident that Valentino would be just fine for the boys but, in my head, I was thinking, please don't die. Please don't die! The sounds coming out of my puppy with every breath forced my foot to step on the gas a little harder and I knew I was going 15 miles over the speed limit but, at that moment, I didn't care. My dog was going to die.

As we drove up to the clinic I said to the boys, "I'm gonna run Valentino in first. Wait in the car and I'll be right out." I didn't want them to come inside in case the veterinarian couldn't save my fur baby. They nodded and I saw the fear in their eyes. "He'll be fine!" I lied. "We got here in time!" Oh, please let him be fine! I took the 9 lb. fluff ball in my arms and ran to the door, which I swung open hastily. Why is it dark in here? I thought as I tugged on the second door. It was locked. "No. No!" I screamed out loud. Then I saw a bell. I rang it frantically and, thank GOD, a technician came out of the back and opened the door for me. "My dog is choking!" I blurted out. She calmly looked down at Valentino, who was panting so painfully I couldn't bear to watch him. The tech looked back at me and said, "We don't have a doctor on staff right now. Sorry." My brain couldn't register what she'd just told me. "What?" I asked. "There's no one here," she told me, without any concern for the dying dog in my arms. "Why not?" I begged. "We're not open yet," she explained, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. "But you're an emergency clinic!" She nodded, "Yeah, but we're only open after normal hours, from eight PM to eight AM."

What?!

"But my dog needs help NOW!" She looked down at him again, shrugged and said, "His color is fine so he's obviously getting air. You can bring him to Fairfield. I know they're open."

WHAT?!

"Fairfield is forty-five minutes away when it's NOT rush hour! He doesn't have that long!" She stared at me with heartless eyes and suggested, "There's a place ten minutes up the road that's open." I quickly asked for the information, ran back to my car, told the kids I needed to run, dropped them at their rehearsal and screeched out of the parking lot. "Hang on, Tino," I said. "Just a few more minutes." And I couldn't hold back the tears I'd been suppressing for the kids' sake any longer. The sobbing started and I began to shake. I called my mom and told her the whole story. "Did you call the other place to make sure they're open?" I hadn't even thought of that. I figured the technician knew what she was talking about. "Call them and let them know you're on your way," my mom insisted. I did as I was told.

Ring! Ring!

"Veterinary Clinic, may I help you?"
"Yes, my dog is choking and the emergency clinic told me to bring him to you. I'll be there in three minutes."

Pause.

"What? Well, I don't even think I have a doctor on staff anymore. They're all gone."

Are you KIDDING me?

"She told me to bring him to you! He needs help!"

Annoyed sigh.

"Hold on a minute, I'll check."

She's taking too long. Hang on, Tino. Hang on.

"Yeah, the last doctor is just pulling out of the parking lot."
"Can you stop him?"
"No, I can't do that."
"I'm thirty seconds away!"
"Sorry. Bring him to Fairfield."

Now I was panicking. I started to hyperventilate. Then I did what I should've done in the first place and called my own veterinarian. The one we've used since I was 10 years old. The one who had saved the lives of numerous cats and dogs I've owned over the years. "Don't worry, Tino. Dr. J will fix you. She loves all the dogs and cats and she'll help you. You're gonna be fine!" You can call me crazy but I knew Valentino understood me. Maybe not the exact words I was saying, but he knew I was trying to help him and he knew I wouldn't stop until I found someone who would save him.

Ring! Ring!

"Hello, Dr. J's office," said the familiar voice.
"It's Suzanne Kane! Valentino's choking! I'm bringing him down now!"
He was calm as he asked, "How long has he been choking and what is he choking on?"
"Turkey," I answered, "and it's been about thirty-five minutes now. I kept trying to find someone closer to my house but no one will help him!"
"Bring him here. Relax. We'll wait for you."

Rush hour was unforgiving as I crept along the main road that leads to the town where I grew up and my parents still reside. "Just a few more minutes," I said to my dog, whose tongue was starting to turn a scary shade of purple. I gently stroked his head to let him feel my love, just in case it was the last thing he'd ever feel. I knew he was scared and I couldn't do anything to make him more comfortable. Finally, I reached Dr. J's office, stretched my arms out and Valentino jumped right in. He knew where we were. He knew Dr. J would help him. I burst through the doors and the two techs and the doctor were waiting for us. It's all a blur but one of them took Valentino as Dr. J said, in a soft and calming tone, "Let's get him into the back and give him some oxygen." I couldn't help myself and the tears started flowing, "No one would help him!" I cried. "It's ok, we'll take care of him," Dr. J said. "Come into the back with us." I followed them as they put my dog on a metal table, the same table where my childhood dog was put to sleep. I shook that memory out of my head as I watched them hold an oxygen mask over my pom's tiny snout. After he'd relaxed a little bit, the doctor told Angelica, one of the techs, to put him down and see how he does. Valentino was clearly still in distress. His tail was down and he ran right to me and jumped on my leg so I'd pick him up. Dr. J gave him some more oxygen and said, "I hate to do this to you because I know how much running around you've done, but I think he needs to go to the twenty-four hour emergency clinic I work with all the time. Something's going on with him and I don't feel comfortable having him here when I'll eventually have to leave him to go to sleep. There are doctors on staff all night over there and they have equipment I don't have. It's about twenty minutes away, though. I'll stabilize him with oxygen and he should be ok to travel that far." I nodded and wiped away a tear. Angelica said, "I'll go with you if you want." I was so thankful for her suggestion. I didn't want to be alone if something happened to my dog.

Dr. J called the clinic to give them the rundown on our situation then she gave me directions and Angelica followed me in her car. I'm glad she was able to keep up because I definitely was not respecting the speed limits. Thirteen minutes later, we pulled up to a small building with a sign over the automatic door that read "Emergency." As soon as we entered the receptionist called a tech who came out and told me she was from triage. It was just like a human emergency room for pets. I gently handed her my dog, then I gave him a little kiss, "Take good care of him." I croaked. She smiled, "We'll evaluate him while you fill out the paperwork then we'll take you into a room where the doctor will talk to you. You'll definitely see him again before you go." I'm glad the paperwork was only my contact information because I wouldn't have been able to focus on much more.

It seemed like an hour before they called us back, though it was more like 10 minutes. The doctor came in and explained that the x-rays weren't definitive, but they showed something in the back of Valentino's esophagus. "I don't know if it's just skin folds or maybe a piece of turkey or something else, but we'll keep him in an oxygen chamber tonight and get another x-ray in the morning to compare. At that point we may sedate him and put a scope down his throat to get a better look. We did notice a lot of inflammation but it may just be from the stress of everything that's going on." I signed a few more papers to allow treatment before the triage nurse escorted me to the back to say goodbye to my dog. He looked up at me as I neared the glass and his fuzzy, curled tail began to wag. He was still panting rapidly but he seemed to understand why I'd brought him there. "You can reach in and pet him," the tech explained. I stuck my hand in and scratched his back and rubbed his ears. "You're gonna be ok now, Tino. They're gonna take good care of you." The sobbing started again and the tech told me she'd be there all night and I could call to check on him at any time. That was comforting.

When I finally left the hospital it was 7:45. I had to go right back to pick up the boys since rehearsal ended at 8:30 and I was 45 minutes away. I thanked Angelica and headed off. I was starving, exhausted and emotionally spent. I still hadn't packed for my trip to Minnesota and I was leaving the house the next morning at 9:00 AM. I pulled up in front of School of Rock, got my kids into the car and started driving to their dad's house where they were sleeping that night. That's when I heard the coughing. "That doesn't sound good," I said to Justin. "Do you feel ok?" He shrugged, "Yeah. Except my throat hurts a little when I cough."

Shit.

Justin is my non-complainer. The kid can have a fever of 104 and tell me he feels fine. "When you get to dad's ask him to take your temperature, ok?" He agreed. I dropped them off and went home to finally eat something. The text came through as I walked into my house, "100.8" it said.

Shit.

After begging my ex to stay home with Justin the next day and take him to the doctor, if necessary, I looked at Jimmi, who was off the couch and limping to the bathroom. His knee was enormous and bright red and his cheeks were flushed and his lips were gray. "How are you feeling?" I asked him. His answer didn't surprise me, "Like shit. I have chills and I'm sweating and my knee is killing me!" I checked the size of the redness which was now about two inches outside of the outline the doctor had drawn the day before. I stated the obvious, "It's getting worse." Jimmi nodded, "The doctor said it will take a few days to get better." Then why did he draw the line at all? I thought.

We sat down to watch Ink Master and I started Googling "Cellulitis" on my phone again. What I found scared the crap out of me. "If condition worsens, head straight to the emergency room. Without proper treatment, the infection could spread throughout the body, causing death." I looked at the time. It was 11:00 PM. I was planning on packing as soon as the show was over. After all, I would only be away for 24 hours. I didn't need much. But a new plan was forming. "I think you need to go back to the hospital," I told Jimmi. He shook his head. "Let me wait until tomorrow. If it gets worse, I'll go." That wasn't working for me. "I won't be here tomorrow. I need to know that you're ok before I leave." It took a bit of pleading until I finally got Jimmi to agree that he needed medical attention. Now.

By the time we left the house it was 12:30 AM. I knew it was going to be a very long night. I called my mom, even though I knew I'd wake her, and told her what was happening then I whined, "How am I gonna leave tomorrow?" She assured me that she would help me work out the details of pet feeding, hospital visits and dog pick-up if Jimmi was admitted, which I knew he would be.

The emergency room seemed surprisingly empty when we walked in, but we soon found out that the barrage of patients had already been escorted out of triage and into the crowded exam rooms in the back. Finally it was Jimmi's turn and the escort, who needed a makeover in the worst way, came to take us to a room. We passed by sick people on gurneys in the hallway and the smell of IV bags and surgical gloves made my stomach turn as it triggered memories of long hours of chemotherapy. "Here we are!" said our escort before her expression changed upon entering the room. "It's not clean. Wait here." And we stood in the hallway for 20 minutes as she stripped the bed and wiped down every surface with sanitizing towels.

It wasn't too long before the first resident arrived to check out Jimmi's condition. "What brings you here tonight?" she asked right before her gaze landed on Jimmi's bare, cherry red, gigantic knee. He pointed, "The doctor said I have cellulitis." The resident nodded in agreement, "Looks like cellulitis." She pushed and stretched his leg and asked questions as he grimaced in pain. Then she told us the antibiotics clearly hadn't touched the infection and he would probably need IV antibiotics to get right into his bloodstream. She mentioned something about the possibility of the infection being in his bone or his joint, so an x-ray was necessary, as that would require surgery. She stepped out and an IV was started so he could have a dose of medicine right away. They took some blood and came back a few minutes later to bring him to radiology. I was dozing on and off since it was now 2:30 AM. I remembered the painters were coming to finish our kitchen at 7:30 and I wondered if I could leave them  alone for a few hours when I left for the airport until my mom could get to my house in the afternoon. It was too late to call and cancel them. I felt like we were in the exam room forever when I looked at the time. It was 4:00 AM and we hadn't seen a doctor for an update at all. At that point, I e-mailed Lyndsay to let her know what was happening and that I was probably going to try and take a later flight. There was no way I'd be able to get out by 9:00 AM. At 4:15 I went out the the nurse's station and asked, "Will someone be coming in to tell us what's going on soon?" He seemed surprised that I was still there, "Oh, he's being admitted. We're just waiting for transport. You can go home if you want."

Hey, thanks for letting me know!

I kissed my husband goodbye and walked out of the hospital at 4:30 AM. I was so exhausted I wondered how I'd make it home. By some miracle, I arrived safely at my house at 5:00 AM. I got into bed and set my alarm for 7:15 so I'd be awake to let the painters in.

The taste of toothpaste was still fresh in my mouth when the music woke me. Ugh. I stumbled out of bed, brushed my teeth again, threw on some sweatpants and took the dog out. The painters were 15 minutes late and, after letting them in, I went to my room, shut the door and crashed for another hour. When I woke up I called Delta to change my flight. At least the 2:30 would give me time to get myself together and get out. Yes, the 2:30 flight was available, I was told, but it would be an additional $150 plus 7000 more SkyMiles to change it. "Do I have seven thousand SkyMiles?" I asked. "No, you have fifty-nine hundred. Sorry." I looked at the time. It was 8:00. Would I be able to get out of the house in an hour? My body was so tired I couldn't even process the amount of effort it would take to make that happen. "I guess I'll need to cancel the entire flight," I said sadly. "Ok, but since it's less than seventy-two hours before the flight, you won't get your miles back." That's bullshit! "What? I'll just lose them?" She said, "Yes, that's right." I was pissed, "But my husband is in the hospital!" Then her tune changed, "Oh, that's different! We'll just need the name and number of the hospital and your husband's name and we can return those miles to your account, no problem!" I e-mailed Lyndsay to apologize and the excitement of feeling my baby kick for the first time slowly faded from my mind as I drifted back to sleep.

At about 10:30 AM the vet called to update me on Valentino. He had started sounding better during the night but had a setback with his breathing again that morning. She wanted to keep him longer to do the scope procedure to try and see what might be causing his issues. "I just don't feel comfortable sending him home sounding like this," she said and I agreed. I finally left my bedroom and found that my house had been covered in plastic and country music was blasting from the Mexican painter's boom box, which was both unexpected and annoying. At last my mom came to babysit the painters so I could get to the hospital and visit Jimmi.

I walked into his room with coffee and chocolate croissants, plus a small bag of toiletries he'd asked for. His knee was still very red and alarmingly swollen. There was an IV bag of fluids dripping into his arm and a smaller, empty bag still hanging on the pole.

The curtain was closed but I could hear his roommate talking to his companion on the window side of the room. Jimmi spoke in a whisper, "He's a young guy. Had a stroke. Really sad." I sat down and asked for an update on his own condition. He told me the doctor mentioned she might drain some the fluid for a culture and he wasn't looking forward to that pain. "I hope I'm here for that so I can film it and post it on Facebook!" I joked. He told me he was getting one antibiotic every three hours and another one every four hours and they made him feel woozy and hot. His knee was still throbbing at rest and still hurt when he'd stand. "Have you been walking?" I asked him, knowing how unhealthy it was to let your body stay immobile for long periods of time. He shook his head. "Ok, get up!" I commanded and handed him his shoes. We left his room just as the nurse was entering, "Good, you're walking! Just don't leave the floor," she instructed. I couldn't stay too long because I needed to pick the boys up from my ex's house. I was happy to hear that Justin was feeling better and would probably go back to school the next day. That's when the vet called again.

"Hi Suzanne, I have an update on Valentino. We scoped him and found his esophagus is still very inflamed. The area we saw on the x-ray looks like skin folds and nothing more, but it's still hard to see because of its location. It's possible he has a condition common to the smaller breed dogs where the esophagus basically collapses on itself like a straw when you're trying to suck up a really thick milkshake. He's also very overweight, which tends to make the condition worse. Unfortunately, it's almost impossible to know for sure because we'd have to catch the split second it's happening on an x-ray. Because of the excessive swelling and because we still have him on oxygen, IV antibiotics and bronchodilators, I want to keep him here for one more night. I think he needs to be watched very closely." I kicked myself for not buying pet insurance when I considered it in December, thanked her and hung up the phone.

The rest of the night was satisfyingly uneventful and I slept so soundly I don't think I moved at all. I woke up this morning, slightly refreshed, got the kids off to school and signed on to Skype. Dr. C would be calling soon with Lyndsay in his office.

Ring! Ring!

I clicked the video icon on the screen and Hallie's big blue eyes and dimpled cheeks greeted me. "Hi Hal!" I said to Lyndsay's almost four year-old daughter. She proceeded to talk to me about her giraffe shirt before I was allowed to greet her mom and the doctor. When Lyndsay stood up to climb onto the table I could see how much my baby had grown in the last month. Dr. C started with, "Lyndsay's weight and blood pressure are good. We're going to measure her uterus now." As Dr. C explained his actions to the medical student who was accompanying him, Hallie chatted away into the computer. "Suzanne, I know your baby's name! It's Awwwia!" I giggled at her adorable pronunciation of "Aria" while I watched the tape measure be stretched from Lyndsay's pubic bone to the top of her uterus. "She's measuring at thirty-two and a half weeks, which is perfect." Even though that's a full week more than we are, I knew the measurement was normal, give or take a week or two. Then the doppler came out and my baby's heartbeat came across clearly with a few clicks in between. Dr. C laughed, "I think she has the hiccups." Lyndsay got up from the table and the three of us started a discussion about other forms of pain management during labor since her last epidural left Lyndsay bruised and sore and she isn't sure she's comfortable having another one. We then moved on to the possibility of induction on or around our due date of May 18th, since Jimmi and his band will be going on tour a few days later and I'd be heartbroken if he missed the birth of his daughter. We talked about scheduling Lyndsay's next appointment on April 4th, since Jimmi and I are both planning to go out there that weekend to have pregnancy portraits taken with Lyndsay. Dr. C informed me that he'd be away that week and asked if we could extend our trip one more day so we can make the appointment on Monday, April 7th. I didn't think that would be a problem. Finally, Dr. C told me his big news, "I'm being deployed on April fifteenth. I'm in the Army reserves and I've received orders." I wasn't sure what to say. "Don't worry," he continued. "I'll leave you in excellent hands. I'm just sorry I won't be able to deliver the baby."

I reported the information back to Jimmi before calling the vet, who had left a message during my Skype appointment. "We took another set of x-rays this morning and it's becoming clearer now. Valentino has aspiration pneumonia. It's possible that he was choking on a piece of turkey and it went down his airway, into his lungs. We need to keep him on the bronchodilater and oxygen and get him stabilized before I'll feel comfortable sending him home." I knew she was right.

I got dressed and drove to the hospital. Jimmi's leg was all wrapped up and I gave him a puzzled look. "They drained some fluid last night," he said. "And I missed it? Did you record it?" I asked. "No, I couldn't! I was so freaked out! It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, though. But the nurse just told me I might need to stay until tomorrow night because the fluid culture takes forty-eight hours to grow." Great. First Valentino and now Jimmi. I wondered whose hospital bill would be worse. Right before I left, the doctor came by. "Do I get to go home?" Jimmi asked. "That's why I'm here," she said. "I get to make that decision but I need to look at your leg first." She unwrapped Jimmi's bandage, assessed the redness, which was better on the side that was drained but had started creeping further down his calf on the other side. "One more night," she announced. Then she took out a marker and started making a new outline, "I can see from all of your artwork that you won't mind if I draw on you." After that she told us she'd be changing his antibiotics again and she'll want to see him in her office in two weeks. Then she was gone.

I picked up the boys and drove them to music lessons. As I waited and e-mail came through from our lawyer.

In plain English, that means the papers have been signed and officially filed with the court. Jimmi and I will now legally be recognized as Aria's parents! Our names will go on her birth certificate and I will NOT have to adopt my own baby! I texted the good news to Lyndsay.

It's been a hell of a week and it's not over yet, but knowing my baby will be legally recognized as my baby by all doctors, nurses, lawyers, judges, social workers and anyone else who asks, makes it all a little easier.

A Perfect Shower

If you've known me since my cancer diagnosis in 2011, or even if you've read my original blog, weddingtocancer.blogspot.com, you'll remember the elaborate lengths my mom and best friend, Jen, went to in order to make my bridal shower truly spectacular. It was a shower unlike any I, or anyone else in the world, had ever attended. How can I write that statement with such confidence? Well, you tell me.

Have you ever been to a bridal shower where a rock star surprised the 40 attendees with a private concert?

That's right! Sebastian Bach from the immensely popular, late 80s band, Skid Row, wowed the crowd with almost two hours of tunes and banter that allowed me to forget the cancer world for a little while and lose myself in utter joy. But let's be realistic. Rock stars don't regularly show up to entertain a roomful of women who are supposed to be unwrapping lingerie and toaster ovens and playing Bridal Bingo. It's just not normal. But I had cancer and was set to start a nightmare of chemo and radiation just  6 weeks before my wedding, so my mom was determined to give me something that would lift my spirits and help me to enjoy my last days without needles or poisons or medications or side effects or wigs.

And now, here we are in 2014. I've managed to keep the cancer monster away for almost 2 1/2 years and I'm expecting a baby via Lyndsay's uterus in just two months! 

Planning for the baby shower began in January, right after the holidays. I needed to be involved in at least choosing the date and submitting names and addresses to my mom and Jen so no one would be missed. But that was all. The date selection turned out to be more tricky than I'd hoped since we had to work around when my ex-husband would have the boys, when Jen was able to drive down from Massachusetts, and, the worst part, the fact that my next CT scan was looming in the not-so-far distance on March 21st. My mom was adamant that she did not want to have my shower that weekend, just in case something turned up on the radiology report. April 6th seemed feasible but I was hesitant to do anything after my scan at all. If the results show cancer, I'll most likely end up back in treatment immediately and would miss the shower or not feel up to attending it, anyway. March 9th, though it seemed a bit early, ended up looking like our best option. "As long as the weather holds up," my mom had said. And, quite honestly, in January I'd scoffed at her suggestion of any crazy snowstorms hitting us this winter. "It'll be fine!" I'd insisted, rolling my eyes. But, as blizzard after blizzard crushed New Jersey, I started to think my mom might have been right. 

As the weeks went by, I'd try to trick Jen and my mom into offering up any information about my "surprise" shower, to no avail. I'd joked, "How can we have a shower if there won't be a rock star there to entertain me?" Dylan, who was in the car at the time, heard my comment to my mom on speakerphone and asked with complete shock, "There won't? Why not?" I laughed and shook my head, "Wow, Dylan. I sure have given you a warped sense of reality."

Jimmi and I made sure our registry was complete and I shopped for the perfect dress, which I only found the day before the shower, after purchasing two others that just weren't right. I kept my eye on the weather report at the beginning of last week, which showed a picture of little white flakes falling from a cloudy sky. Seriously? I thought. As I worried about my mom's prediction of bad weather ruining my day, the phone rang. I recognized the number and panicked when my brain registered that it belonged to the office of Dr. L, my oncologist. "Hello?" my voice quivered. I wasn't sure why I was so nervous since I hadn't been to see him for any scans or tests lately, but something about seeing my cancer doctor's number on the Caller ID, no matter what the reason, tends to send chills up and down my spine. "Hi Suzanne, I'm calling from Dr. L's office. I know you have a scan and a check-up scheduled on March twenty-first, but Dr. L won't be in the office that day so I need to reschedule you." I finally allowed myself to breathe. "Oh, ok. When?" My brain was scanning the calendar I keep in my head, knowing Dr. L is only in the New Jersey office on Fridays. This Friday would work, though bad news would ruin my shower. Next Friday is ok, too, but we're going out that night for my birthday. "He can see you on April eleventh at two-forty for the scan and three o'clock for your internal," she said happily. 

What? No. That won't work.

"Ummm," I started, "That's not ok. I'm due for a scan in two weeks. How can I wait another three weeks after that?" I heard her nails clicking on the keys. "That's the earliest he can see you," she explained. The typical fears flew through my mind. What if the cancer is back? Three extra weeks will give it time to spread. What if that time is the difference between life and death? "Ok, I'll make it work," I said. I hung up the phone and stormed around angrily for awhile until I figured out a way to make the schedule change work for me. Lyndsay's next appointment with her OB is set for March 20th. I texted Jimmi, "I'm going to MN in two weeks." I wrote Lyndsay to let her know my plans and smiled as I booked my flight with the airline miles I've been saving. Then I e-mailed Dr. C, Lyndsay's OB, and asked, "Would it be possible to bring in the portable ultrasound machine again? I'd really like to see my baby blinking and practicing breathing." He responded with, "That will be no problem at all." And I realized my plans had been rearranged for a reason.

And then my focus was back on my shower. Excitement grew as the days drew closer. Jen arrived from Massachusetts on Friday, the same day my sister-in-law, Meghan, flew in from California. Aria's Godmother, my friend, Laura, took a 48-hour hiatus from her beach chair in Florida and, unbeknownst to me, my Goddaughter, Laura, jetted in from San Francisco to make sure she'd be in attendance as well. I'm always amazed that so many people are willing to travel so far just for me. 

We had a small family dinner on Friday night to celebrate Justin and my birthdays, which are coming up tomorrow and Thursday. That is where my mom finally handed me an invitation to my own baby shower. I opened the envelope and pulled out a baby carriage in pink that was tied with a polka-dotted ribbon to a card with the shower information behind it.

I was excited to see that my mom had chosen La Strada, one of my favorite restaurants, as the shower venue. The food was bound to be delicious, but what would keep the guests busy without a long-haired rocker boy to serenade them during lunch? I started to worry that people would get bored and slowly excuse themselves and head to the bathroom, never to be seen again.

The sun was shining on Sunday morning when Jen and I met in my kitchen in our bathrobes. Six diapers, each labeled with a number from 1-5, plus one tie-breaker, were spread out on the center island. I grabbed six small dishes from the cabinet and lined them up. Jen looked over the pile of candy in front of us. "Ok, Rolos, Nestle Crunch, Snickers, Peanut Butter Cups, Peppermint Patties and Whatchamacallit for the tie-breaker?" she confirmed. I nodded as she set the dish filled with Rolos into the microwave. Seconds later, a mushy mess of caramel and chocolate was mixed together and spooned into Diaper #1. "Gross," I said as Jen prepared the Snickers Bar for the same fate. "Nice and chunky," I joked with a grimace and the nutty mess was smeared into another diaper. Each chocolate surprise had a unique consistency that was sure to wrinkle noses and turn heads when my guests were asked to identify the "poop" to win a prize. Before the last diaper was dirtied, I ran upstairs to finish getting dressed and head to the mall where my friend, Amy, was waiting to do my makeup before the party.

Once I was fully beautified I hobbled out of Lord & Taylor in my way-too-high-for-the-mall heels and tripped over my dress as I stepped into my car. I checked for rips which, luckily, I didn't find then hurried off to my shower. My mom had asked me to be there ten minutes earlier than start-time to greet my guests. One glance at the clock told me that wasn't going to happen. I pulled up to La Strada at 12:25, handed my keys to the valet and rushed through the door. The main dining hall to the right was decorated with pink centerpieces but it was dark and empty. I followed the sound of laughter to the back room where I immediately recognized way more of my family and friends than I'd expected to see there so early. "Hi!" I announced as I entered the room. The chatter stopped at once as everyone turned to look at me then applause and cheering filled the room. Hugs and kisses were exchanged and, for a minute, I wasn't even bothered by the fact that I wasn't actually pregnant at my own baby shower. Weeks ago I'd considered freaking people out by wearing a fake baby bump, and had even purchased one from Party City, but I'd decided against the accessory at the last minute since it wouldn't have fit under my dress.

After I'd greeted each member of the swarm of well-wishers I was finally able to stop and look around. Pink filled the room but it wasn't overwhelming. Small floral arrangements filled with pink roses, pink carnations and other pink flowers that I should be able to identify but can't, were set on each of the five tables. Attached to each centerpiece was a single pink balloon with the words, "It's A Girl!" bobbing happily on its pink ribbon. On the middle table, where I was told I'd be sitting, a tiara that read "Princess" sat on top of the flowers. The tables were set with white linens and on each bread plate was a pink cookie wrapped in cellophane and tied with a pink swirl. The cookies were shaped like a baby carriage and had my daughter's name, Aria, written in white. In front of the room stood a long table overflowing with gifts, mostly wrapped in shades of pink, that were spilling over onto the floor.

And then I saw the cake. A tiered beauty in pink and gray, the colors of my baby's newly decorated bedroom, with a large bow made of fondant, small pink and gray sugar flowers, the name "Aria" spelled out in icing and the most perfect topper for my future fashionista: a pair of tiny, pink shoes with a tulle ruffle at the toe. Sprinkled on the table, all around the cake, was confetti with the word, "Princess."

I couldn't contain my emotions any longer and the tears started escaping from my perfectly made-up eyes. I begged for a tissue to blot the inevitable streaking that would run down my face. "You can't cry yet!" my mom said as she reached into her fully-stocked pocketbook and handed me a tissue. 

I mingled with my my guests for awhile until we were instructed to be seated so the adorable waiters could take our order. A long list of choices was rattled off: stuffed mushrooms with crabmeat, eggplant rollatini, or caprese salad for our appetizer followed by tilapia, salmon, chicken francaise, or penne with vodka sauce for our main course. Meals were selected before Jen got up and passed around the chocolate-poop diapers, which were an instant hit. After being told to figure out the candy by look and smell, my sister-in-law, Kay, always the life of the party, grabbed her spoon and dug in! The food was served and it was beyond scrumptious. And the cake. Oh, the cake! Chocolate layers with cappuccino chip filling melted in my mouth with each sinful bite. 

"Time to open presents!" Jen sang out and I made my way to the front of the room. My friend, Laura, who will be Aria's Godmother, was in charge of handing me gifts while Jen recorded who gave me what so I'd be able to write Thank You notes. Minutes later the other guest of honor, Jimmi, made a guest appearance. More cheers and applause greeted him as he worked his way around the room, saying hello to all of our guests. My dad, the only other man allowed, followed shorty after. I continued unwrapping what seemed like hundreds of generous presents. Tiny dresses and shoes and hats, handmade blankets, bouncers, jumpers, boosters and more baby must-haves were set in front of me to the chorus of "ooh" and "aah." My friend, Maureen, deserves an honorable mention for the baby basics "hoagie" she brought. 

But the gift that brought down the house came from my mom. A small, white bag was placed in my lap. In the bag was a rolled and tied piece of paper and a clear tub filled with pink tissue paper. "Your mom wants you to read the paper first," Jen instructed as the audience went silent. As soon as I looked at the words on the page my eyes blurred with tears. I tried to blink them away but more and more kept coming. "I can't read it," I sobbed. I looked at the table to my right and saw my niece, Jenn, who is a trained and incredibly talented opera singer. "Jenn, can you please read this for me?" She agreed without hesitation and walked over to take the paper from my hands. With her powerful voice, she read aloud:

PRINCESS ARIA'S CONVERSATION WITH GOD

ARIA: "God, they tell me you are sending me to Earth in a couple of months, but how am I going to live there being so small and helpless?"

GOD: "Your angel will be waiting for you and will take care of you always. You will be the angel's very special princess and wear a beautiful crown."

Aria: "But tell me, here in Heaven I don't have to do anything but sing and smile and be happy."

God: "Your angel will sing for you and will also smile for you. And you will feel your angel's love and be very happy."

ARIA: "And how am I going to be able to understand when people talk to me if I don't know the language?"

GOD: "Your angel will tell you the most beautiful and sweetest words you will ever hear, and with much patience and care, your angel will teach you how to speak."

ARIA: "And who will protect me on Earth?"

GOD: "Your angel will defend you, even if it means risking its own life."

ARIA: "But I will be sad because I won't see you anymore."

GOD: "Even though you won't see me, I will always be next to you."

ARIA: "God, if I am to leave soon, could you please tell me my angel's name?"

GOD: "Aria, you will simply call her, Mom."

I turned to look at my mom as Jenn read the beautiful poem. She was staring back at me and crying as much as I was. After the last line was spoken, I reached into the bag and pulled out the clear tub. I pried off the lid and removed the pink tissue paper to reveal the tiniest, most beautiful princess crown I have ever seen.

After all the gifts were unwrapped and the last guest wished me well and strolled out of the restaurant, I replayed the events of the day in my mind. All I remember was a constant stream of smiles and laughter. I was so thankful to have my parents, who have done anything and everything possible to give me a wonderful life. My huge family is the best and I love them all. I'm so lucky to have such supportive friends who have stood by me through all of the hard times and are now sharing in my joy. That's when I realized a private concert by a famous rock star wasn't necessary to make my baby shower exciting. It was just perfect exactly how it was.

My sister-in-law, Meghan, who flew in from Los Angeles

 My friend, Laura, the baby's Godmother

 My BFF, Jen

My mother-in-law

My mommy