Matt is in surgery right now. As I write, he is on the table and they are repairing an abdominal hernia that developed after his splenectomy. That was just over four years ago - hard to believe. It feels so far away but close, details are blurry and painfully vivid, all at once.
On November 2nd, 2009, I went to work leaving a tired Matt in bed to sleep a little longer. At some point that day, he called to tell me he had taken a sick day and would go into the doctor. After school he called to tell me he needed a ride home, but when I got to the office I was told to take him straight to the hospital. They told me before they let me see him. He was bright yellow. It was exactly one month shy of our one-year dating anniversary.
Looking back, we were a fairly new couple in the eyes of the outside world. It was a done deal for us and we unofficially decided we'd marry in that ICU room. After I witnessed some sort of embarrassing procedure Matt said, "I guess you have to marry me now." I told him I had already planned on it. Weeks later, when my mom and sister came to visit us in the hospital, Mom confessed she thought we might have gotten married in the chapel.
By the next night, he was transferred to the ICU. It was presidential Election Day and we had been watching coverage of the polls in his hospital room when his vitals dropped too low and we were shuffled upstairs. The ICU is like a prison with smiling wardens. You buzz in with the patient's legal name. Who is James, anyway? The efficiency is alarming - too efficient, too planned for the worst. And somehow everything is a secret. Staffers know the secrets of procedure and you aren't made privy until it's the right time.
I walked into the ICU with a small cactus, a plastic bag of Matt's personal belongings and a card with a now inppropriate joke - something about how I knew he was an MU fan, but highlighter yellow skin wasn't the way to show it. Cacti aren't allowed in the ICU. I was acutely aware and my irrational mind was worried I'd be kicked out for having that spiky plant. I took it home later that night and it lived on our sill for two years. I was happy when it died.
They shuffled me out into the waiting room with couches that work double time as pull out cots, a coffee and snack room , pillows with those sanitized paper pillowcases. This is a place where people camp and wait unconcerned with physical comfort. It was around 9:00pm as I sat in the corner, wearing my sky blue Obama rally t-shirt, hiding from the cowboy boots and trucker hats who outraged for what seemed like hours at the election coverage under the tiny television that was bolted to the ceiling. My guy won - that had to be a good sign, right?
During those weeks, I was kicked out of the ICU every night at 11:00pm. I went home, yelled at Griffin who had no doubt peed on the floor, fed the dogs whatever I could find (I admit to peanut butter on saltine dog dinners for more days than I'd like), and sent an email to my friend and teaching partner with the next day's lesson. He graciously led my students through a disjointed Transcendentalism unit that year. When I taught it again one year later, I had no memory of those lessons. I woke as early as I could after going to bed around 2:00am and either checked in at work or just went straight to the hospital. On the good days, I would stay and try to teach a bit. The morning of Matt's surgery followed a good day. His oxygen levels were good, his red blood cell count had improved, the plasmapheresis treatment had seemed successful. He told me to go to work.
Around 9:30am I called him to check in and he casually mentioned surgery, but I knew that had not been the plan the day before. This was an unexpected twist. I left work immediately so I could hold his swollen hand as they dumped unit after unit after unit of blood into is draining body in preparation for his emergency splenectomy. The sudden rush of fluids made his wrist a baseball-
sized water balloon.
A week earlier, he had called out for me when they added the direct line - the IV that went from his neck straight to the heart. That had been added to administer cytoxin, a chemotherapy drug they hoped would stop whatever was attacking his red blood cells. . Hemolytic anemia. Apparently his spleen was acting as a giant net, catching all of those fragmented red blood cells and he didn't have a lot of blood to get him through the surgery. The surgeon, the newest of the secret-keepers, was quick to tell me that he might not make it and that he hoped Matt had enough blood to make it through. He also seemed surprised that I'd be waiting alone. Everyone I knew was out of town or at work so this unplanned surgery in the middle of the day was not on the radar for anyone but me. They gave me a pager, let me sit with him for a few minutes while the OR was prepped and they sent me packing.
I wandered. First to the waiting room where I found too many people. Happy, smiling, planned surgery, outpatient people in groups, making jokes, talking about People Magazine articles. That lasted for about five minutes before the horror of my isolation grew too big. Instead of hanging out with them, I went to the bathroom and crouched in the corner of the handicap stall. I called my mom, but I'm not sure I was making much sense. She offered to come sit with me, but I told her not to.
I had hours to kill, and I hadn't eaten since the day before. Through blinding tears I found my way to the cafe that used to be on the lobby level of the hospital. I kept thinking that the people passing me must have wondered who this lost, smeary girl was, but no one even flinched at my twisted face or choked voice. What was this place where fear, loneliness and pain were commonplace? I ordered a full order of fries and a bowl of ranch dressing with a Diet Coke since they didn't have Pepsi. I ate the whole disgusting mess and felt sick for a new reason. Somehow the waiting didn't kill me and I was paged by a doctor who brought me to a small room to tell me the surgery had been successful, but more difficult than anticipated. Matt's spleen was the size of a football and they had to make a much bigger incision than was normal.
At least it was done and I would get my Foster back. This was not the end as there were follow-up surgeries, gall bladder spasms, infections, medication changes, etc. At that moment I wasn't sure, but I hoped we had reached our peak.
Today I wait with those smiling, People Magazine talkers and not even in the same hospital. This time I am not sobbing uncontrollably in the bathroom stall. I grabbed a cup of coffee, read my book, answered a few work emails and phone calls, and am now writing this post. There were no French fries in my diet today, although I did indulge in some locally-made trail mix that had some white chocolate pieces in it.
Still, the memories of our last time through this were enough to make me tear up when I left Matt with his surgeon in that room with the far too efficient furniture. If the splenectomy was the peak, maybe this will be the base of that mountain. The trail that leads to the base. Even better, maybe the parking lot at the entrance to that trail.
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