Another Week: Number 50

On Monday morning, at the procedure to administer chemotherapy in her head, Amy’s doctors noted the distension from fluid in her abdomen that has slowly been increasing — ascites as her liver begins to fail. They ordered a paracentesis to drain the fluid. On our way home, they called us to say it was scheduled for Wednesday morning at 8:30. That means leaving the house at 7, after waking up at 5:30 or 6.

I winced, because getting Amy dressed, down the stairs, and out the door for these early morning runs to Wauwatosa can be something of a feat in itself, and she would not have time to recover from Monday’s trip and the chemo effects. Returning home, she ate some fried rice that I whipped up, then went to bed for four hours before I woke her for dinner.

Tuesday was rough. Up at 11, Amy vomited the scrambled eggs she requested for breakfast and spent parts of the rest of the day back up in bed, suffering from digestive pain. In the evening, my mere suggestion — “Pistachios?” — produced projectile vomiting and a bathroom emergency. She was awake most of the night with heartburn, shivering, wheezing, and coughing.

I let her sleep until 6:30 while I got ready, then attempted to rally her, but it was not happening. She could only sit up for a second before flopping back down on the bed like a rag doll. The staircase was out of the question.

I phoned Froedtert and a woman in the Imaging Department was wonderful about rescheduling Amy for Friday. In ten years of cancer visits, we have never been late for an appointment until now.

If Amy could not get back on her feet, I would need to call an ambulance. It would take her to our local hospital, with which we are almost completely unfamiliar. I phoned Amy’s local doctor’s office to talk through this Plan B. But I felt that in time, she would recover some strength.

She came downstairs at dinnertime and ate some yogurt and blueberries.

She recovered some more on Thursday, and kept the paracentesis appointment Friday morning.

Returning to Racine before noon in gorgeous weather, Amy requested a McDonald’s cone, so we got one at the drive-thru and sat next to the park with the windows open as she ate it and watched the dog walkers.

Back at home, though, our three concrete back steps with no railings spooked her, and Amy could not step up. I helped her into a lawn chair, and we conversed with our neighbor while Amy gathered herself for 45 minutes, then climbed the steps with our neighbor on her other side.

Now I’m shopping for a ramp. Handrails are a must, and the 24-inch height would require a 24-foot ramp per ADA regulations, but in a home setting, you can maybe get away with half of that. We have about 15 feet of space to work with. The place I found wants $4,ooo. Another place, found by our friend, is more like $2,000.

As last-minute stocking-stuffers go, these are a little cumbersome.