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dcnovice -> DC Update: Three Rings, Four Words (6/22/2014 5:40:28 PM)
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June 22, 2014
Three Rings, Four Words
Dear Ones ---
I was supposed to go to my cousin’s this afternoon, but instead I went to the circus. Actually, “went” isn’t quite the right verb. It’s more precise to say I became the circus, three rings and all. I also found myself the unexpected, unenthusiastic ringmaster.
Center ring, of course, belonged to not-so-dear old Ivan the Ileo, who’d managed a particularly spectacular leak. Tape and plastic wrap kept it contained for a bit, but I knew there was no avoiding a bag change—and, ideally, a shower. Stepping into running water sounded wonderful, except for rings two and three.
Ring two featured my Mediport, currently occupied by a large needle with a dangling tail of IV tubing. Since the site is one of the blessedly uninfected parts of me, I didn’t want anything to threaten the dressing, which had already been replaced twice by kind nurses at Georgetown. My previous attempt at showering had witnessed the abject failure of what I’d thought was a MacGyer-esque masterpiece concocted from a Chinese food container lid and yards of silk tape. Since then, I’d been struggling to stay clean with the no-rinse “soap” used in the hospital. Wasn’t working in this weather.
Ring three was home to a purple-ink X that literally marked the spot for my new stoma, which will be a colostomy rather than an ileostomy. The marking had already been redone once due to fading, and I wasn’t keen for a third trek to the ostomy clinic.
All this meant I had to somehow find a way to get cleansing, soothing water onto ring one—and the rest of me—without splashing two or three. Just the thought was exhausting. Seriously, the wave of fatigue that crashed over me was fierce. So I did the only thing I could think of: I went to bed.
That worked for a while, but it was clearly a short-term solution. Sooner or later, and preferably sooner, I needed to get up, get moving, get clean. I tried spurring myself into action—never my strong suit—but failed. So I vegged a bit longer and wondered what to do. Help arrived at last from a slightly strange quarter—Queen Victoria.
Back in 1897, at age 78, the queen celebrated her diamond jubilee. She was and remains the longest-serving British monarch. Nearly spherical by then and far from enthusiastic about public appearances, Victoria got herself out and about for the festivities. One of her favorite memories, the story goes, came during a carriage ride through London. A man in the crowd raised his voice above the cheers to yell four words that won Her Majesty’s heart: “Go it, old girl!”
Those four words swam to the surface of my magpie memory this afternoon, as I struggled even to move. “Go it, old girl!” I thought it. I said it. Out loud. Over and over. It became a sort of rhythm: Slow step. Go it, old girl! Slow step. Go it, old girl! Slow step. Go it, old girl! (Yes, I know I’m male, but “old boy” doesn’t alliterate.)
Eventually, the slow steps and old girls added up, propelling me to the kitchen (for plastic wrap), the bedroom (for a new bag and tape), and ultimately into the bathroom. I cut a rectangle of wrap and taped it over the port. I wrestled off the old bag and tidied up a bit around Ivan. I crossed my fingers that the X, already covered by a plastic dressing from the nurses, would still mark the spot.
Then I turned to the tub and stared. I’d made it this far, but did I have the strength to step into the shower—a scary place for a sleepy guy with dodgy balance and unglassed eyes. I stared some more. Go it, old girl! Then some more. Go it, old girl! One leg. Go it old girl! Other leg. Go it, old girl! Water. Go, it old girl! Soap. Go it, old girl! Shampoo. Go it, old girl! Bliss. Good on ya, old girl!
The shower was a success. I felt clean and fresh, no small gift. The dressing over my port rippled a bit but stayed intact. The purple X blurred but remained visible enough for me to upgrade it with a black Sharpie. The new bag went on fine. With luck, it may be the last one Ivan gets.
I realize I’ve just devoted some 700 words to a single shower, perhaps in more detail than you quite craved. But that was the afternoon’s big adventure, and I’m grateful to the old girl for soldiering along with me. And to you, of course, for your listening and love.
Cheers,
DC
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