3212 Bits and Pieces

Friday, April 8, 2011

Omission is the greatest form of lie.
-- George Orwell --

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Predictions:

Remember when I said that Nature's mothers reject their babies only when the babies are unlikely to reach reproductive age? So Knut the polar bear probably had something wrong with him that his mother could sense? Turns out he had a congenital brain malformation that caused him to stop breathing. One point to me.

Remember when I said that although the Egyptian military seemed to be friendly toward the revolutionaries, it seemed to me that the army brass was just using the movement, and would be unwilling to give up power once they got it? According to Lisa Goldman, a journalist currently in and blogging from Egypt, the Army is "acting in an increasingly repressive manner." See her report at http://lisagoldman.net/2011/04/03/1276/. Two points to me.

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Annoying People:

We have all known at least one person who made us cringe when we saw them coming. There's usually something a little "off" about them, an intellectual or social deficit of some kind, that isn't their fault exactly, they try, but it's just "off".

They are very aware of their alienation and desperately want to be liked, to be friends, and it's painful to them because they don't know why it's not working, so they try harder to be friendly and helpful. They give too much. They're like puppies, panting, watching you for reactions, licking your hands and frantically wagging their tails, which is endearing in a puppy, but not in a human. It's beyond simple neediness.

It's so sad. Their attempt to get past the passive alienation turns it into active alienation.

You don't dare take pity and let them in (you can't even say "thank you" when they give), or they'll smother you with their gratefulness. You'll never take another free breath unless you can be cruel enough to cut them off.

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Something I wish I'd never heard:

In the hospital, I acquired a roommate on Monday. She'd had major surgery Monday morning, and arrived in the room early Monday afternoon accompanied by her husband. Within minutes, her children and their spouses and her sister arrived. (They were pretty loud. I kept thinking please let the woman rest!) Anyway, I heard her say several times as people arrived, and a time or two to phone calls, "It was cancer, but the doctor said they got it all. But they want me to do chemo anyway, so they put in a port." People congratulated her on the "got it all".

Very early the next morning she got a phone call from her sister, who had gone straight to the ER from our room the night before and was admitted with diverticulitis. She was on the floor directly below us.

A bit later, but still before breakfast, her surgeon came in to talk with her.

Now, I understand that when there are two beds in the room, sometimes there's not much privacy, especially if the person in the other bed can't just get out of bed and leave. But I had been walking all over the floor, and when he came in I was standing at the window. He had to have seen me when he came in. Given what came next, I think he really should have asked the nurses if I could easily leave the room. I wish he had. But then, surgeons are not noted for their sensitivity.

The curtain between the beds was partially closed, so I couldn't see her and she couldn't see me. I was unaware of what was to come next, or I would have left then, but it quickly became too late. He confirmed that she had ovarian cancer, stage three, and she would start chemo as soon as her incision was healed. She said "but you got it all, right? The chemo is just in case?" He said, "well, we got all we could see, but with ovarian cancer, there are always cells that have traveled and set up camp elsewhere, and we can't see them." "So the chemo is to kill them?" "Well, it won't get them all. The chemo will just give you maybe another three years."

(What the hell? Has he never done this before?)

She said, "you mean I'll die in three years?" The shock in her voice, and what must have shown on her face made him backpedal fast. He said, "well, maybe five. Or even seven. Who knows?" But even I didn't believe that. He sounded too panicked. He was also fool enough to point out that she was actually lucky (yes, he did use that word) because there are many cancers that would have given her even less time.

She talked about her son's new baby. She talked about how she'd been complaining about bloating for the past year or more, but doctors always blamed it on something else, like her trip to Mexico. How maybe if someone had believed her, had taken her seriously....

I didn't know what to do. I wanted to climb out the window. What could I say after the doctor left? I'm a coward. I decided to pretend I'd been still asleep.

Now, what happened next caused me to have enormous - make that the biggest word possible - respect and admiration for that woman.

Almost as soon as he left she got another phone call. She pulled herself together and chatted happily, suggesting that whoever had called, when they came to visit, should visit her sister, too, "she's right below me, if I stomp on the floor she'd hear it, isn't that amazing?", and "yes, cancerous, but they got it all". During breakfast, her other sister, the ICU nurse (at another hospital) visited, and again she was cheerful, and didn't mention the prognosis. Given her reaction with the surgeon, I don't think it was denial. It was more like she just wanted to keep it to herself for now.

After her sister left, the priest arrived. She looked at him and said, "You here for last rites?" and her face fell. I left the room.

And then her husband arrived, with the son, daughter-in-law, and their 3-week-old baby. Again, no slightest hint of anything wrong. I went for walks several times while they were there, and every time I returned, they were still being happily raucous.

She must have enormous amounts of strength. I don't think I could have done it.

They discharged me somewhere between noon and 1 pm, and I left as soon as they let me. Went to the drugstore down the block to fill the antibiotic prescription, and then waited for Daughter in the lobby. When I had left the room her visitors were still there and I didn't say anything to her beyond goodbye.

I'm a hopeless clod.
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