Bump-Bump

Hospital Journal

When I enter the hospital for my stay, I immediately start worrying about coming back home and our twenty steps up to the entrance. Ever since I have been sick, I worry about my bloated (and useless) right foot. The foot made me fall four times on the steps, and for some reason, I think of that foot as having its own identity.

Some months back, I wanted to cross my legs, but I noticed—without thinking—that the right leg felt strong with a vicious heaviness. I had to lift that leg and set it over the left. It dawned on me in that moment that the right leg felt heavy, and I needed to lift it over the left leg.

Over time, the leg swelled to twice the size of the left one, and that was when my doctor told me to wear compression socks. The socks keep the liquid in one’s body moving rather than being pulled by gravity into a puffy, bloated foot. Over a short time, the leg worsened. At times, it looks as thick as an elephant’s leg. Not only that, it grew as heavy as concrete. It was only recently that I found out it’s part of my cancer issue.

When I think of my staircase and try to climb it with this cursed leg, it somehow feels like fate. What else can it be, when the last four times I fell onto its pavement and couldn’t get up? There’s the sense of helplessness, of being chosen by anonymous members who sit on the board of chemo gangs. I’m struggling to get up, but I swear to God there must be a boulder placed on my shoulder.

Today I came home after twenty-four hours of chemotherapy. We arranged a ride home with the hospital—a door-to-door service—but again, because of the height of even the first step, I fell to the ground. Lun*na and the Kaiser worker couldn’t get me up on my feet. My good neighbor, who was walking by and saw what had happened, offered to help, which, of course, we accepted. Both men tried to pick me up, but couldn’t budge me. I was practically kissing the pavement.

Eventually, the idea came up to grab me behind the knees and under the shoulders, lift (sort of), and drag me up to the entrance. I went bump-bump like the Coyote in the Road Runner cartoon, but I did make it to the landing. After that, because we have wooden floors, they pulled me toward the couch. Then one mighty lift, and I was lying there as if I were Oscar Wilde.

I was comfortable, and I could move my legs to the floor, but I couldn’t remove myself from the couch. I realized then that I wasn’t going anywhere. The thought of being on the couch—perhaps forever—did come to mind. Lun*na was very happy we were home, and she didn’t mention I couldn’t move from this spot. During dinner (on the couch, of course), I gently mentioned that I couldn’t move. She told me I was tired and not to think about it.

I did sleep, and I slept well in the living room. As my eyes were gently opening to the world, it took about twenty minutes to realize there was something damp on the couch. At first, I thought my catheter was leaking, but I slowly realized I had diarrhea and had pooped while I was sleeping.

Oh—and on top of that, the internet went out as well. Which is serious, because I need it for the doctor meetings already scheduled. At the same time, I was thinking about the poop and being off the internet.