I can’t remember where I first heard it, (maybe I said it, but I
don’t think I’m that witty), but it stuck with me:
“I’m not hungry. All I wanted was a cup of coffee and a fork.”
So, when I saw an opportunity to report one of my favorite jokes
visually, I tried. There’s something about that sentiment that suits me right
down to my hospital slipper-socks. Yes, it’s just plain funny, but it’s also
how I’ve tried to move through cancer:
The right nourishment? The wrong utensil. The right game? The
wrong ball. The right vehicle? The wrong map.
The right map? The wrong directions.
Woosh! We could keep going and wring that metaphor dry, which any nurse-humorist
is wont to do, but you’ve suffered enough with it.
Instead, I could write about how my body-healing is progressing
(my brain remains to be seen), but these two pics will do it better. If I was
in my nursing element charting on myself, I’d be recording the:
--- size of granulating surface area and the beefy wound bed
--- slough and epithelial appearances (staging the wound)
--- length, breadth and depth of wound
--- status of wound edges
--- type and amount of drainage
--- signs and/or symptoms of infection
--- odor
--- reported level of pain
--- patient’s favorite cruising songs
(okay, okay … just checking
to see if I’ve lost anyone).
As a patient, however, when I look at these comparative photos, I
don’t see centimeters and exudate, Wong-Baker faces or proliferative phases, but
rather a hot-diggety damn, a yahoo, an ain’t-that-a-pisser, and a guarded but
firm woohoo! with a yippee! in reserve.
Now, I’ve saved the last for the best, a photo to represent hope
and healing and (dare I say it) even the possibility of one day returning to
life as a life, not an experiment. A field of bountiful sunflowers bright and full,
but facing away from me into the sun.
More as we go, El
