hyperdanja

Moving

Whenever I see the word “moving” on the sleeve of a video, it means I don’t want to watch it. Easily sucked into emotions, I’d rather watch a cop drama or action. What I’d not reckoned on was that I’d see such a thing first hand.

I really hate sick-person blogs too, move on now if you feel the same.

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Caroline had a swollen face so (after the insistance of a neighbour, it did look bad) I took her to hospital, assuming it was an allergy thing. The immediate diagnosis was something like “idiomatic” - I forget the word, but basically it meant random cause, because antihistamines and cortisone made no difference. But in the local hospital they did a load of tests, in which they discovered her white blood cell count was low. There was a suspicion of leukemia, and I believe a biopsy confirmed there was a problem. After a few of days home, the medics were convinced she needed immediate treatment.

Caroline didn’t want to go back until she felt better after the swelling. But the doctors were insistent. I asked my father, who recovered from bladder cancer more than a decade ago but maintains links with people in the know. Everyone (except Caroline) thought it in her best interests to go for chemotherapy asap. She was persuaded, and went to a big hospital in Pisa.

She’d spent maybe 10 days twiddling her thumbs in the local hospital, but things ramped up down in Pisa. To visit you had to wear sterile coveralls. They shaved her head to about #2.

At the time I was mostly interested in where I could get a ciggie and beer. While Caro was starting chemo.

Then I saw her and she’d had a revelation, actually agreeing with my life evaluation for her (bravo Danny!) saying how she was wasting her time on the poxy teaching work she’d been doing, how she should concentrate on her artwork, music, doing stuff she was into rather than feeling obliged to earn a crust (when we were financially ok).

Then I saw her again and she was only semi-lucid and said she’d seen darkness a couple of times - I wish I could remember her exact words.

Next day I went down with Reto, they are strict about visiting hours, but we hoped Reto would see her for a half hour, then me for a half hour. Reto called me and said words to the effect that I should go in sooner. He had a train to catch so I sent him packing. When I saw Caroline then she was on a respirator. I asked the doctors if I should book a hotel for the night in Pisa, they said no, just hang around for the next 3-4 hours. It’s critical.

I got myself a lemon soda at the hospital bar, then went straight back to the waiting room. By this point I was really, really scared. I found a little plastic Marge Simpson on the street.

Then I went in again, and the fuckers asked me if they could do an autopsy. She was still alive. After a little time by her side, one of the women said something like “the next hour”, and soon after I was bundled out. I assume that’s when the switched off the life support.

I saw her dead for a little while after, and was also told (in a way they expected me to appreciate) I could go see her after the PM. Thanks, but no thanks.

Next time I saw her was in a little tin box, ashes.

Morals of this story:
1) if I’d trusted Caro over how she felt, perhaps she’d have got through that
i.e. the patient might know how they feel better than anyone else
2) Your loved ones can die. It happens.
3) I could/should have intervened to stop the treatment when she was seeing darkness, as above
i.e. don’t trust received wisdom.
4) don’t live life as if you might die tomorrow, live life as if your partner will die tomorrow