Instruct Patient to Expectorate

March 29, 2011

The delivery process of medical resources is dismal. My doctor says, "If you like, I can call someone for you." She can call someone for me? A maid? A yardman?  It is apparent that I am woefully ignorant of modern healthcare systems.  Why would I not be?  As a faith missionary we avoid all such conventional healing centers. (Please don't make a theology out of this).  If she called someone is there a charge? How can I pay them? Later my mom gives me a word of advice—about a wonderful agency that took care of my dad. It is fully funded by Medicare, at least for the time being. They can come out and do vitals, give pain meds and bathe him.  I can call them direct or have my doctor call them. Ohh...I am beginning to understand what my doctor meant. But does H. need that now? Is it that bad? I have a flashback to first day of school. I don't even know where the bathrooms are or how much is lunch. All my slick adulthood moxy is out the window and I am reduced to groping my way around this huge industrial complex called healthcare and learning the nuances of their language. For instance, a key medical report says that the ribs 9 and 10 show some "involvement." What is that? Are they having an affair? They are "compromised." That's dirty talk to a preacher. I am giving Hans one pill prophylactically. The dictionary says it is a rubber sheath, used to prevent venereal diseases, or infection. I am learning the subtext of medicine, but I am learning it the hard way. Every word from the doctors hits me like a two by four. Don't they know that they hold my heart in their hands?

I have also been mislead  by the cemetery guy who reminded me and Julianne of a slick car salesman. (No offense to the auto group). The bill will be 3 times higher than he mentioned a month ago. What I thought was the total bill has now become the down payment.  Just like that, my room with a view is gone. It would have been for both of us. Even a single room is too much now. That is just wrong.

Someone says that I am entitled to a social worker. How do I find one? Do I just call them up and say I am entitled to a home visit because I am terribly confused? I am near tears because I am overwhelmed and because I am vulnerable. I cannot navigate these choppy waters. And I'm mad too. Mad because life is not an adventure anymore. Portents of being a widow. There is a reason why they don't call widows "single gals." They are not "single." They are "uncovered." Marriage protected them from the underbelly of culture, of demonic activities in the world, nestled in the grace of God by a partner who cares for their well being and acts as a witness to their pitiable little lives. Marriage says, "I matter to someone." A couple can "worry" together, pray together, but most of all, humanly speaking,  they can "emote" together. I have led a soft life, a sheltered life and it will take some time to get my night vision back. 

We (Jules and I) gave H. a sponge bath tonight. She did the top half I did the bottom half. We washed his hair, gave him a deep heat facial spa, soaked his  blistered head in baby oil, lathered his belly with body ointments and swished his mouth with hydrogen peroxide after flossing his teeth. Unsure how to swish we read the directions. After cleaning, it said, "Instruct the patient to expectorate." Huh? Does that mean "tell the patient to spit?" What is wrong with using the word "spit?"

My left thigh and buttock hurt from lifting Hans all week. I am popping as many pills as he is. One for you, two for me. It is a confusing time for me and my bridegroom. He said tonight, "Well, you've never taken such intimate care of me before this, have you? Flashbacks of thirty years of life with an extremely private man swirl before my eyes. So I say with laughter, "Well, there is nothing left to hide is there?" We both laugh. Mission accomplished.