dcnovice
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January 5, 2015
Tidings of Discomfort and Joy
Dear Ones ---
Happy Twelfth Night! I hope this icy evening (here, anyway) finds you looking back over delightful holidays and ahead to a wonderful year.
I spent a joyous and love-filled Christmas in Massachusetts with my sister and her wonderful family, her in-laws, and my parents. The simple joys and warmth of family life buoyed my soul tremendously. I made and decorated Christmas cookies with two of my nieces; had a great, grown-up conversation with their elder sister (my goddaughter) during her first stint at the adult table; loved watching the girls sing and dance together (even if their repertoire needs to branch out from Taylor Swift); undertook my usual happy frenzy of wrapping; and thoroughly enjoyed catching up with everyone.
Of course, it’s easy to feel aglow with familial love at such a magical time. But then came Christmas night. Marjorie, my colostomy*, needed attention, so I headed upstairs to where I kept her travel kit. I used the same, soon-to-be-patented, two-beaker emptying process I’d employed for more than a year, only to watch in horror as the beaker full of output slipped from my hand. That was a far-from-fabulous first. Waste went everywhere: all over the toilet, the floor, me, and a magazine rack full of kids’ books.
After a few centuries of staring in shock, I gathered toilet paper and cleaned things up as best I could. So far I’d stayed calm—or, more precisely, numb. That lasted till I looked at the books: sodden and dripping. There was more mess than I could tackle with the tools at hand, and I was pretty sure the books would need to be pitched. That meant letting my sister know what had happened.
My calm evaporated. I walked over to the room where I was staying, sat down on the edge of the bed, and sobbed. This was everything I’d ever dreaded about a colostomy: the replacement of natural function by irksome and complicated mechanics, the ever-present possibility of disaster, the possibility’s becoming a reality, an unholy mess, and the mortification of needing to say, “I’m so sorry, but I just fouled your home and your daughters’ books.”
I finally made my way downstairs and took my sister aside in the kitchen. I explained what had happened, and then came perhaps the most magical of all my Christmas moments. She took the news in stride, looked into my bloodshot eyes, and enveloped me in a giant, loving hug. It’s one thing to feel that your family loves you when they’re delighting over your presents or laughing at your quips. It’s another when love breaks through, as it has again and again during my medical marathon, amid the fog of desolation and despair. I am so blessed on the family front!
On Boxing Day, we headed into Boston to see the JFK Library. I’d never been there before, and I really enjoyed the skillfully crafted exhibits and particularly the opportunities to see footage of President Kennedy in action. I was especially impressed by one of his many press conferences. Reporters asked smart questions, and he gave them candid, intelligent answers.
Tomorrow brings an appointment with my wound surgeon, so I’m keenly hoping for answers about what’s going on “down there” and when, if ever, it will stop. I’ll let you know what I learn.
Meantime, may the star of wonder, star of light lead you to all things beautiful and bright.
Cheers,
DC
* I’ve read that ostomates often name their stomas as a step toward humorous acceptance. So I figured I’d try. Marjorie gets her name from a character in Nice Work, a comic novel by David Lodge. The protagonist’s wife, Marjorie, is incredibly status-conscious, and the great joy of her life is telling anyone who will listen that she has an en suite bathroom. Were there a perfume called En Suite, her husband chuckles to himself, she’d wear it. Well, I figured one can’t get more en suite than an ostomy!
_____________________________
No matter how cynical you become,
it's never enough to keep up.
JANE WAGNER, THE SEARCH FOR SIGNS OF
INTELLIGENT LIFE IN THE UNIVERSE
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