Triage.
Simple definition?
“The assignment of degrees of urgency.”
The core of my professional life in medicine
has always been thus; it’s the crux of my work in the nursing biz.
Triage.
Where should I start, where should I end,
and how can I do the least amount of harm along the way.
Today, as a cancer patient, it’s moved from
crux to credo.
Recent degrees of urgencies:
Constant pain in my right side, bad enough
to send me to the emergency room. After the mandatory (necessary or not, but
always done) ECG, then a CT scan of the offending flank.
Bad news from the scan, and now the hit
single at the top of my reverse-order billboard: spots/shadows on my liver that
weren’t there a few weeks ago. My oncologist arrived to discuss it. Not a good
doctor-face.
Some of my pain could be from constipation,
along with the fresh tumors. And, because of these “inoperable” liver urgencies,
we’ll probably not radiate the lung/lymph node, and will instead shift to other
courses of chemo drugs.
I felt like a fisherman who’d run out
of his favorite doughball bait, and would have to settle for dead worms.
Fast forward a few days running in place (easy,
if you’ve ever hit the brake and accelerator simultaneously):
Back to the hospital lab after calling-in
my signs & symptoms to the Doc: a low-grade fever, concentrated urine, increasing
fatigue, muscle weakness, some shortness of breath. He said to come in and drop
off blood and urine. The pee came easy; the blood took a few sticks. (We had to
postpone the IV port earlier due to some other little urgencies, so the repeated
probings and pokings go on.)
I received a phone call an
hour after leaving the lab: please return to the emergency room for blood
cultures, more x-rays, and a transfusion.
Well, hell, why not.
How about a brainectomy while we’re at it. And,
let’s throw in an awfulplasty and a fuckinostomy to be on the safe side.
Yes, I’m discouraged. I don’t like shifting
gears on a horse of a different color in the mid-stream of a mixed metaphor.
Dammit. Before today, I’d thought I’d known
where I wasn’t going; now I don’t, and my timetable is yesterday’s no-news.
One transfusion and a few more reassigned
and revamped urgencies later, I went home to hang up a new mental triage game board,
the kind that I hope will accommodate doughball darts.
(Point of order: my computer's spellchecker wants to keep correcting "urgencies" to "insurgencies." Smart computer.)
Next week, when we get the latest MRI results
of my brain tumor, along with the CT scans and new x-rays of my lung and liver
tumors, the docs and I will have to switch chemo baits again and move my bull’s-eye.
My top takeaway from all this: “A
compromised immune system can mask symptoms.”
Great. Now I’ll also need some new disguises.
Right now (for the Monty Pythoners among us), I’m Graham Chapman’s Colonel, interrupting myself in this increasingly improbable
skit, pronouncing me and these fracturing metaphors as “Too silly! Get ON
with it!”
More as we go, El
Even with this bad news, you have me laughing. For a little while, anyway. Keep trying, though.
ReplyDeleteDearest El, Son of a bitch, huh? I'm frustrated. We've been FB friends for some time now. We go back a ways. I love your articulation & while I can pretty much figure things out I can never respond at your level. I will just say you're in my daily thoughts, when I talk out loud to no one (I do have 4 cats who seem entertained by me! )your name comes up so just know I'm continually sending good vibes & healing thoughts your way. A BIG MEOW from all of us. Sincerely, Leslie ������
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