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troubleDon went into the hospital today for his scheduled Radioactive Iodine Treatment. This should be fine. There is a - get this, you'll love it - a small, previously-undiscussed chance that his lone working vocal cord will stop working due to swelling & inflammation caused by the treatment, and if that happens his voice will be "wispy" for a while. This is a) rare and b) temporary.
On the other hand, the chance that his one vocal cord would get frozen in the first place was a) rare and b) temporary.
I honestly just laughed at the doctor when he said that, because it is so obviously going to happen to Don because Don's body just does that. "Ooh, something can go wrong! Awesome! I'll get right on that!"
Anyway. I'm a bit punch drunk and really not up to normal conversation at this point, so a few details:
He was fine when I left him, although they were just locking up everything so they could give him the radiation. He has books, and hopefully I should get the issue with the t.v. sorted in the morning. I tried to call him, but I suspect either his phone hasn't been set up properly, or he's accidentally knocked it off the hook, so I'm thinking I may head up there this evening to look mournfully through the window and wave until he sees me.
The room itself is the saddest little hospital room. It's got no windows except one in the door. Everything is covered in plastic in case he touches it, and the floor has paper down all over it so his feet don't make it all radioactive. They provided him with a walker for the duration, which they have also put plastic on. The room is that industrial whitish grey colour. The only "colourful" thing in there is Don.
I carried his cane home and got really really sappy. It was kinda pathetic. Thank goodness Katie met me for coffee, where I proceeded to be pathetic in her direction.
Seriously, his cane is just sitting here next to my computer. It's like every showing of A Christmas Carol, with little dead Tiny Tim, that you've ever watched.
This is so pathetic and sad. And yet, seriously, this is probably the least dangerous, least-likely to cause problems treatment for anything Don has had in the past year and a half. I think what's bothering me so much is I can't see him. I can't devolve into horrible jokes about how I'm replacing him with a cat the second he dies and how much nicer it is without him around being all Don and stuff in order to cheer him up. (We have the darkest sense of humour - this is not actually a representative sample of it. It really disturbs some people. Except doctors & nurses, who typically also have very bleak senses of humour.)
Anyway, the point of all this is I know people worry. Your worry and care means a lot to me, and I really appreciate it, and all the support that people so generously give whenever the Latest Don Health Thing (and, of course, so many other things) come up. Don will be okay. I will be okay. But I'm really not in a place where I am able to talk about it with anyone.
♥
On the other hand, the chance that his one vocal cord would get frozen in the first place was a) rare and b) temporary.
I honestly just laughed at the doctor when he said that, because it is so obviously going to happen to Don because Don's body just does that. "Ooh, something can go wrong! Awesome! I'll get right on that!"
Anyway. I'm a bit punch drunk and really not up to normal conversation at this point, so a few details:
He was fine when I left him, although they were just locking up everything so they could give him the radiation. He has books, and hopefully I should get the issue with the t.v. sorted in the morning. I tried to call him, but I suspect either his phone hasn't been set up properly, or he's accidentally knocked it off the hook, so I'm thinking I may head up there this evening to look mournfully through the window and wave until he sees me.
The room itself is the saddest little hospital room. It's got no windows except one in the door. Everything is covered in plastic in case he touches it, and the floor has paper down all over it so his feet don't make it all radioactive. They provided him with a walker for the duration, which they have also put plastic on. The room is that industrial whitish grey colour. The only "colourful" thing in there is Don.
I carried his cane home and got really really sappy. It was kinda pathetic. Thank goodness Katie met me for coffee, where I proceeded to be pathetic in her direction.
Seriously, his cane is just sitting here next to my computer. It's like every showing of A Christmas Carol, with little dead Tiny Tim, that you've ever watched.
This is so pathetic and sad. And yet, seriously, this is probably the least dangerous, least-likely to cause problems treatment for anything Don has had in the past year and a half. I think what's bothering me so much is I can't see him. I can't devolve into horrible jokes about how I'm replacing him with a cat the second he dies and how much nicer it is without him around being all Don and stuff in order to cheer him up. (We have the darkest sense of humour - this is not actually a representative sample of it. It really disturbs some people. Except doctors & nurses, who typically also have very bleak senses of humour.)
Anyway, the point of all this is I know people worry. Your worry and care means a lot to me, and I really appreciate it, and all the support that people so generously give whenever the Latest Don Health Thing (and, of course, so many other things) come up. Don will be okay. I will be okay. But I'm really not in a place where I am able to talk about it with anyone.
♥
