The above photo is a triangular contraption that hangs above my hospital bed. I think it looks ominous or like something I would ring to call people in for vittles. A friend who is a nurse says it’s for orthopedics. Another friend, a nurse with a darker sense of humor, jokes that when patients are unruly, it’s lowered down so the patient knocks himself/herself out if trying to cause trouble. And someone else says it’s for a strolling hospital mariachi band.
There’s live music later, but it’s a pianist. There are plenty of recreation activities. Tomorrow, they’re showing The Hobbit, but even with three hours to kill in the hospital, I still don’t think I can see that film again without mentally picking out all the parts that could be cut. On Friday, there are pastry chefs and Gone with the Wind — a movie that is plagued with adult issues but that I’ve never watched all the way through after boycotting it as a kid because of an animal death — but I’ll be home by then.
My boyfriend noticed that there’s a hat decorating workshop on Sunday. “Do you think it will be those hats you’ve been peeing in?” he asked. I think and hope they’re regular hats, though a urine-hat decorating workshop would save me a second or two of label-reading.
As I mentioned — and this is probably TMI — I have to pee in something called a urine hat. Then I have to call the nurses to tell them about it. I haven’t found the right wording. “Hey, I peed in my hat,” sounds too informal. Sometimes I avoid calling altogether, if I can help it.
People seem concerned I might get bored. But aside from the peeing in a hat thing and the IVs, this is pretty much a normal day for me, sitting around in my pajamas with my computer.
I’m exhausted, though. I got only three or so hours of sleep. But actually being able to sleep whenever I want to doesn’t make it more appealing. I may take a post-lunch, post-lfosfamide nap.
My first dose of ifosfamide was last night. I was supposed to alert the doctors and nurses of any chest pains. Instead of pain, I had a mysterious chest fluttering. I struggled to find the right words to describe it. Either way, it didn’t hurt or sound too alarming. After thinking about it, here are some things it felt like:
- A tiny upper chest earthquake.
- Like someone had released a few miniscule scampering squirrels into my chest.
- Somewhere between being nervous and being in love. Butterflies in the chest? The nurse asked last night if it was like a panic attack, and as a former panic disorder sufferer, I can say that it’s not the same feeling at all. A panic attack is somewhere between feeling as if you’re dying and losing your mind at the same time.
- Like a tiny person farted inside your chest.
The rumbling eventually stopped. I managed to get a few hours of sleep, but then my roommate’s beeping machine went off. Then I couldn’t sleep and the second I would drift off to sleep, my own beeping machine would go off or I’d be checked on for a test or an IV.
Maybe I can’t sleep without the inspiration I see every day of my napping cats soaking up the afternoon sun. I’m going to curl up with my cat blanket — a big hit with everyone so far — and picture the sleeping cats. I’ll see if that works.
UPDATE: Apparently, the activity center is hopping here tonight, but I feel as if I don’t want to go by myself. Who else would I go with? And I’m wearing my glasses, which still plagues me, even though I’m 36 and have a bunch of other stuff going on, like IVs in each arm. (Has Bob Costas and his pinkeye made wearing glasses when your public persona is a contacts-wearer acceptable? Also, I am so susceptible to pinkeye that after I saw the opening ceremony and his eye, my left eye swelled and turned red.)
I have to be more proactive about showering here, but I’m grossed out by showering with my IV in. And I don’t know where my robe is. I don’t think I ever got one. I once thought cancer could make me brave enough to take on anything, but apparently I suffer from the same social anxieties and lack of hygiene/wardrobe organization as always.