I am afraid to leave the hospital. The world outside this building takes my breath away…like being sucker punched. In here, there are things that we know to be self evident. Breathing treatments are at 11:00 and 5:00 am and pm. O2 levels need to be above 92 percent. Blood pressure, temperatue and Art’s oxygen saturation are measured before and after shift change. Food comes in a green covered plate.
Nurses are good people. Cindy, Glenn, Jack, Chamara, and Julian all come when you push a button. There are two people whose discreet and quiet manner make it seem like the garbage magically disappears. We are called sir, ma’am, Kim, Art, and honey. Before we came here, in the days leading up to and after his diagnosis, our days were filled with chaos. They were rhythmless. In here there is a steady pattern that lulls me. I don’t want to leave.
He starts chemo in about an hour! Oncologist just came in and asked if we were ready to start. The cancer is an atypical seminoma, easier of the two types of testicular cancer to treat. I am scared and just spent the last 15 minutes hysterically crying, not being able to breath and wanting nothing more than to vomit. This is all too fast. I have no idea what to expect. Art’s calmness is the only anchor I have at the moment and it’s supposed to be the opposite right now. He is ready to move and I am ready to stay in this little world we have built.
Not 10 minutes after my last note, Matt walked in. Matt is an testicular cancer survivor. He shared his experience (day three is when you start feeling like crap), gave us tips (buy Purell and us it all the time), told me some things to buy that would help Art (get a zip up sweatshirt with a hood so when he gets chemo he won’t have to exert the effort to take both arms out and the hood to keep his hairless head warm.)
My shoulders are now down to pre chemo announcement level, which is say they look like I’ve been power lifting for only 6 months and not 4 years.