LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMPOut: Be it Ever So Humble... |
by Fay Jacobs |
Saturday, July 8, 2 p.m. When last we spoke, I was camping out with Bonnie at Anne Arundel Hospital in Annapolis, waiting for her blood clotting disorder to be diagnosed and postulating that she would be home and recuperating by the June 30 publication date. Ha! It's now July 8 and Bonnie is still incarcerated, but we are starting to see a light at the end of the laparoscope. For all you ER and Chicago Hope fans, here's the scoop: Following a week at Beebe and three weeks in Annapolis, we may have the answer to the seemingly age-old question of what's up with Bonnie's platelets. Apparently she has an elevated Homocystene (or something) level, which led her to infarct (a vaguely scatological sounding word, loosely translated to "turned into toast") one kidney and her spleen. In the ensuing weeks, the doctors, in an effort to stay one step ahead of the HMO, took my girlfriend apart, one piece at a time, trying to find the culprit. As a result, she glows in the dark from drinking radioactive goo for CT scans and marrow biopsies, with the doctors having kept her uterus and ovaries as souvenirs. As we await the parole hearing, the medical team concurs that Bonnie has a blood disease and it may be Hyperhomocystenanemia. Hell, we've always known that Bonnie was a hyperhomo. Apparently it's now official. This disease is a one in a million thingwe couldn't have won Powerball? But we're relieved to find out that the condition is controllable by medication, blood thinners and diet. Wendy's and Popeye's are in for a recession. And of course, no sharp objects for those on blood thinners. The yard sale for the power tools will begin shortly. Bonnie's convinced that I'm enjoying this part of the fallout. Since Bonnie and I have been doing this hospital routine for over a month now, some things are clear. Mainly, if you sit in a chair next to a patient long enough, you will ossify and develop kennel cough. Especially if said sleeping patient rolls over onto the TV remote, sentencing you to an afternoon of Northern Exposure reruns. While we all loved the Cicely and Roslyn two-parter, all of that "Ed isn't sure he should become a Shaman" stuff can wear real thin. Bonnie's been here so long the sixth floor nurses have made her their mascot. And we're all afraid the HMO will have snipers posted downstairs when we finally leave. And we've been worried about the dogs. During one of Bonnie's very few teary moments, she told my parents she feared the dogs would forget her. My folks assured her that their dog always gave them the same jubilant greeting and never knew whether they'd been gone for a six week vacation or just out with the trash. That made us both feel much, much better. But I'm sure our two are, as we speak, plotting their revenge. I never liked our carpets anyway. Another lesson learned is that truth can be stranger than fiction. In an ironic twist, our friend Dorothy, at whose home I've been staying on Kent Island, had a severe intestinal ailment two weeks ago and also wound up in this hospital. In a move that would have been called contrived if it had happened on Friends, we managed to get Dorothy assigned as Bonnie's roommate. While it was bad that Bonnie and Dorothy had to be here, it was good that they were together to cause laughter, mischief and a self-proclaimed Lesbian Ward. Miraculously, amid the horrors, there were some amusing moments in quarantine. Along with wonderful cards, flowers and balloons sent to Bonnie, one well-wisher provided a gift item that looked like a pager. Push it's button, it growls "F**K You" or "A**hole!" That little gem may have been responsible for the transfer of Bonnie's first roommate and her visiting boys Beau and Luke and their girl-cousin Daisy. Or, following a serious discussion of blood thinners and the warning to watch for internal bleeding, Bonnie visited the ahem, library. Then she started hollering and pulling the emergency cord for the nurse. "Help! I'm bleeding!" she screamed. The nurse took one look and said, "You ate all that raspberry jello, didn't you?" But it was the morphine incident that really rocked the hospital. Following surgery, a seriously delirious Bonnie suddenly woke, reached out, grabbed the person nearest the bed and gushed, "I love you Faysie!!!I love you!!" Unfortunately, I was across the room at the time. Reach out and touch someone, indeed. I think it took two years off that nurse's life. And our buddies on the other side of the room would want you to know they got the biggest kick out of watching a red-faced, mortified me try to keep our drugged out patient from spilling more beans. I stood by, trying to keep her mouth filled with soothing ice chips, a thermometer or whatever else I had in my arsenal, but to no avail. "Faysie, I missed you! Come here!" the wild-eyed one demanded. By this time, Dorothy was trying not to split her stitches and a variety of onlookers burst out laughing with every fresh declaration of morphined madness. "Are you laughing at me???" Bonnie would ask, eyes rolling back into her head. Us, laughing? We were howling. Finally, at a moment when, for the first time in weeks, the hospital corridor was completely quiet, Bonnie rejected all my efforts to button her lip and shouted "Does anybody care if I'm queer???" As it turned out, no. Despite the post-op ruckus, a regular pride parade of visitors (some smuggling small dogs in their backpacks), and lots of commotion, I think that we provided a real eye-opener for some of the nurses and technicians. We made new friends, and, I think, put a good foot forward for diversity. Oops! Here comes the doctor for a pow-wow. Catch you later! Saturday, 4 p. m. and packing: We're sprung! The freedom riders are heading to Rehoboth! Sunday, July 9, 9 p.m.: It's fantastic to be home. The patient is doing great and she's thrilled to be in clothes that meet in the back; the dogs greeted us as if we'd just taken a really long trash run, and the four of us are curled up on the sofa. Friends have called or stopped by all day and we're holed up and catching our breath after this horrendous month. I know that real life will start to intrude by tomorrow, with plans for Bonnie's recuperation, continuing doctors appointments and all the emotional and logistical ramifications of this ridiculous ordeal. But for now, we're so happy to be back home, back at Camp, back at the beach and back among friends. That's all we need to make the rest more than manageable. Cheers to you all from Schnauzer haven in Food Lion Estates. There's no place like home, Aunty Em. Fay Jacobs, a Vice Versa award winning columnist, is a regular contributor to Letters from CAMP Rehoboth. You can find more of her CAMPOut columns at www.camprehoboth.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 10, No. 9, July 14, 2000. |