Introductions

Day one, Meeting Cathy. (Friday Nov 4)

I’m on oxygen. I’ve been moved to another room. Recovery? I feel like I’m being wheeled down long corridors. “The Geen Mile” wafts into mind briefly, and do I detect something burnt? I drift in and out.

Now I’m a little more aware. I’m being moved into a hospital room. I’m the second inmate there. A curtain partitions me off from someone else. Neil is not here yet. I was told he would be. People lie so you won’t get upset. How do they know what’s going on in my mind when even I don’t half the time.

Neil, that anomaly of a man I married 22 some odd years ago and who’s never been drunk a day in his life, walks in a few minutes later. The nurse asks him his name. He tells her. He has a different last name than mine.

“And your relationship to the patient?” She’s being thorough but a tad suspicious.

“I’m her husband. She got tired of changing her name back so she kept her maiden name. I’m her fourth.” I hear him say.

This amuses me and I try to smile but only manage a jack-o-lantern grimace. At least they gave me back my teeth in recovery room.

I’m asked if I’m in pain. “I don’t know about pain, but I’m on an annoyance scale of 5” I tell her. “What would you like?” She asks as if I’d just sat down at a cocktail bar. The only thing missing was a napkin or coaster set in front of me.

Neil talks for me. “She’d prefer a Demerol, but I know they don’t serve that up anymore, so probably a couple extra strength Tylenol.”

“And a Dilaudid chaser.” I add.

Nurse Natalie, she has the same name as did my mother, exits to get my order.

Neil is talking to me, says he’ll tell me what the doctor said when I have more of my wits about me. I’m looking at his face and offer him a chair and then he fades out.

A couple hours later Neil is still there, then my Urologist comes in. Now he’s in his civvies instead of his scrubs. He still cuts a handsome figure either way. He was quite pleased with himself on how the surgery went and he explains the details of what was done. Mostly Neil is listening to him, because the Dilaudid is now kicking in—only three milligrams. I’m such a lightweight anymore. But that’s a good thing. I’d hate to have to change my sobriety date.

My handsome urology surgeon leaves. Neil and my nurse get me up to try out my sea legs. I’m hooked on the left by an IV pole and on the right I’m introduced to a presence. It’s attached by a clear hose to my nether regions and into a round plastic bag a little bigger than a dinner plate. One side is see through, the other a sterile opaque white. The nurse tells me it’s a “Foley Catheter”, and it’s going to be with me for a couple weeks.

My drug addled mind registers the name as “Cathy Foleter”.
”Hi Cathy”, I say. They shove a walker in front of me and we’re off down the 7th floor hospital corridor for post-op exercise. Halfway thru the lap my stomach is queasy. I keep the pace and say I’m ready to sit back down now. As we round the corner at the door of my room I dry heave over the trash bin inside the entrance. GAH!

I wake up about midnight-thirty. Neil is gone. I have vague remembrance of him saying he was going to leave the car—my car—in the hospital parking garage and take an Uber to the motel he rented for one night. I reluctantly allowed him to drive us to Boston in my car, but told him if anyone hits us, “God help you, it’s still going to be your fault.” We even did a couple practice runs around our tiny town last month before hitting the highway to Boston. My car has too many bells and whistles for him. Plus, he’s still rather a luddite when it comes to using his phones GPS. He had to teach himself how to download an Uber App a few months ago when I was at Omega in NY. Doing it yourself can be the best teacher, even if there are speed bumps. Besides, nobody gets to drive my car until I put the first dent in it.

I press the ‘call button’ laying near me on the bed. “Can I order another Dilaudid?” I ask the voice that answered. It’s male and sounds young.

A nurse comes in and takes my vitals. She said I’m not due for more pain meds yet, but will come back or I can call her and remind her when it’s about 1:30. I didn’t want her to leave yet, so I asked her if she could plug in my phones charger. She brings me my backpack. Plugging in my phone, I tell her I have to pee really bad. She tells me it’s ok, to just go ahead. That’s where the cramping is coming from, and she reminds me I have a “Foley” in and a patch on my belly to take care of those sensations. When I do let loose, it feels orgasmic. Ahhh. Modern medicine. They love their patches. She leaves. I put on some soothing, angelic, healing music from YouTube and nod off.

DAY TWO, HOMEWARD BOUND… (Saturday, Nov 5)

Neil is right on time for the start of visiting hours at 11:AM. Nobody gets in before that. A lot has changed at hospitals the past two plus years. All visitors and staff still wear masks. He had wanted to be there for the doctors consult as they made their rounds before releasing me. I told him I’d call him and he could listen in on speaker. However, about 8:30, when three male, baby-faced interns, walked in, I forgot all about calling Neil. Not because I was caught off guard by their youth, but by the first dark curly haired young man wearing his mask just below a signature ethnic nose, and identifying himself as “Doctor Fine”. He didn’t introduce the two interns trailing him. A comic thought cloud over my head billowed out a three stooges script—“Paging Dr. Howard, Dr. Fine, Dr. Howard!” (I’d spent hours watching them on TV as a child.) OH Gods, I’m really dating myself here!

I covered my mouth to stifle a giggle. The young Doctor turned to his even younger protégé’s just out of diapers themselves and briefly told them my case in Doctorese. I totally understood every word. Over twelve years ago, I went through nine months, 900 hours of Massage Therapy school and learned all the “—ologys”.

He asked if they could look at my incisions. What was I gonna say, no? Sure, let’s get them up to speed on the elderly lady bits they’ll be dealing with aplenty in their chosen profession!

They came closer. Dr. Fine used one of the pillows to discreetly shade the area where “Cathy” and I were getting to know one another so intimately, and I obligingly pulled up the granny/Jonny gown to expose everything else below my boobs. “Yes, yes, great, everything looks good.” He proclaimed as the young’uns bobbled their heads in agreement eager to concur with his prognosis. He said I should be able to go home today. They trailed out single file.

Mass—General is a teaching hospital after all. So I was glad that I’d gone there for a second opinion. I remember my mom at the age I am now, being talked about by a doctor as if she weren’t even in the room. He’d been condescending and spoke loud enough for the people in the next room to hear. She let me know after the appointment how upset she was at being treated like she was a child and hard of hearing. The doctors today seem to have a much better bedside manner than they did two over decades ago.

It’s now almost three o’clock and Neil has gone to get my Subaru. A nurse wheels Cathy and me down an elevator and along many halls to the front entrances which are the pickup and discharge areas.

While we are waiting, an older model compact car drives up, horn blaring, and parks across the way, catty corner to the ramp at the Emergency entrance. Three valet’s head over toward the car as the driver, a young man with long hair jumps out, runs to the passenger side and helps a woman out who is crying and gasping. She collapses. He picks her up unaided, cradling her in his arms. They are both small and wiry, and he runs up the steps through the emergency doors. I throw them both a prayer.

DAY THREE, GROUNDING… (Sunday, Nov 6)

I take a couple of Tylenol and a dilaudid after eating a banana for dinner last night. I remind myself I need to start taking some Milk Thistle tincture for my poor liver. I’m having nowhere near the pain I had after I gave birth to a bloated gallbladder in Jan 2020 pre-pandemic. I slept sitting up that night. Laying down didn’t seem an option as my other organs were then jockeying for position to fill the void. It was more painful than when I’d had broken ribs from a car crash—another story—due to the gas they fill you with to do their robotic laparoscopic surgery.

I lay close to the outer edge of my bed. I’m trying to figure out comfortable positions for my legs so as to not hinder Cathy’s job, or cramp her style. (Her bladder is bigger than mine.) There’s a green five-gallon bucket beside the bed and I nestle her all comfy into it. I fall easily off to the land of Nod aided by the comfort meds.

Cathy wakes me up once. At three quarters full, she needs to “relieve” herself. I carry her to the bathroom and hold her over the toilet. While I’m waiting for her to empty, and listening to the tinkling, I remember my “younger drinking daze” when I taught myself to urinate standing up.

One time the eldest of my brothers and I were out “kalooping “ at this lovely dive bar in Florida. It only had one singular bathroom. No male or female adornments on the door, just a —TOILET-this is it— sign tacked onto the header above. (Like I said, it was a real classy place.) We’d just finished shooting a game of pool and downing a beer when we both headed toward the bathroom at the same time. He got there first, but I was right on his donkey and “don’t bend over to tie your shoes I’m right behind you!” He unzipped his pants, I dropped mine to the floor and we both crossed swords as we streamed pee into the potty. When ya gotta go, ya gotta go.

Cathy had finished draining while I was flashing back. In bed again, I turned over and adjusted my legs accordingly until we both were comfy once again.

I get up early, take Cathy to the bathroom—again. We stay up this time. I sit up in bed but she continues to recline in the bucket on the floor. Kinda like a good little dog, only quieter. I check emails on the iPad and start writing this blog. Or post, or whatever it’s called. I’m still new to Substack. But I’ve got til Mid December until the doc releases me to start back living life fully unencumbered. It’s a good way for me to get back into a writing routine.

The weather the past four days are an Indian Summer fare. Up in the 70’s for the beginning of November. I’m lovin’ it and would be content with weather like this all year round. But then I’d have to be in another country. A friend and I had talked about expatriating to Boquete Panama a couple years ago. I got my very first passport and everything. Then covid became a thing. A BIG thing and it put the kabosh on our plans. I got over it, especially when I learned how much it rains there—daily.

I ask Neil if he could move my “comfy” chair out to the grass by the bird feeder for me. It’s a plastic patio chair with a high back that I use in the house year round. The other three are in the garden shed. I have this one out-fitted with extra pillows. We don’t own a sofa. Our house is too small. He has his own comfy chair I got for him at goodwill a few years ago while he was recouping from both knees and hips replacements. He’s bionic now. We use these chairs to sit and watch Netflix on the computer at night.

Cathy and I go outdoors and sit facing the bird feeder. I call to the chickadees. “Deedeedee!” They’re being shy. I’m sitting too close. Dragging the chair a few feet toward the electric birdbath, Cathy and I settle in again. They come and grab seeds and flit away. The sun feels awesome, the wind is “Florida balmy” and I’m barefoot. If I gotta be in recovery mode, it don’t get any better than this!

After awhile I’m thinking I should probably walk around for a bit. Get the circulation moving. Cathy and I walk the mowed parts of our 13 acres, stopping to talk a bit with Neil as he’s stacking firewood into the shed.

The Visiting Nurse arrives just before two. I had forwarned her to disregard the new “STOP”, “No Tresspassing” “Residents Only” signs at the beginning of our dead-end road. Two long-terms residents—a brother and sister who were related to the original owners of the road and property—now subdivided—were at it again. It was a good thing I did, as the VN got stopped by the ‘sister’ who became less than friendly that this strange woman would have the gall to ignore the signs, even after flashing her VN credentials and telling her it was none of her business as to who she was going to visit. Alas, that will have to remain another story for another time. Or not.

The Nurse, Jen, is lovely. Neil and I so rarely get visitors here, we probably talked her ears clean off, but she was very congenial and showed me how to give Cathy a break and introduced me to “Little Cat”, which would give me more freedom. However, little Cat would need to visit a “sandbox” more frequently. I will try Little ‘Cat Foleter’ at some point this week.

Jen spends almost an hour and a half with us. I in turn show this young nurse the tinctures and homeopathic remedies I am using to heal myself. She’s nodding, fascinated, and writes everything down.

I find nurses are much more amenable to alternatives to healing than are doctors. Unfortunately by the time we put ourselves into such diseased states, its what the allopaths have to deal with. The time to treat the whole body is before it gets to that point. I’ve been working on the emotional components of my body’s physical issues for the last little while now, and intending I am enjoying total health and wellbeing after this. To change the outer state, one must first change the inner state. To quote Neville Goddard, “Negative inner talking, particularly envious and evil, is breeding grounds of future battle fields and penitentiaries of the world.”

I’ve put myself on a mental diet. It’s a beautiful day to think thoughts of gratitude, joy and love. So I do. I even include the annoying “brother and sister”.

DAY FOUR … Nov. 7, Monday

My son, Lee, texts me this morning. Asks how I’m doing and says he broke off his LTR again and will be a free man and coming up to visit later, and do I want or need anything. “Vanilla Häagen-Dazs” I text back. I’m happy he’ll be here. He tried to make it yesterday but spent the day in ‘break-up’ mode. It seemed Anytime he wanted to visit me, she would give him a hard time. I allow him his space to work it out or not. I’m here for emotional support but I don’t have to engage or get involved.

About 1:30 He texts me a picture of the ice cream(s). There’s two different vanilla’s. Vanilla plain or Vanilla bean. I choose Vanilla bean. He texts back, “OMG!” I laugh knowing he bought the other one and had to go exchange it.

Neil wants to go grocery shopping but doesn’t want to leave me alone today. So he waits for my son to arrive. When Lee gets here he puts the ice cream in the freezer and sits down. Neil starts jabbering away conversationally about political stuff. Fifteen minutes later I tell him, “didn’t you say you were going grocery shopping?”

“Oh, right,” and he leaves.

I introduce Lee to Cathy Foleter but stop short of letting him know just how attached we are, and show him the surgeons tracks across my tummy. He asks if I’m in any pain. Not really. Though I did take two Tylenol after getting up. No Dilaudid chaser. It was mostly for the bursa pain in my right hip today. Now that I can’t really do my PT, the aggravation scale for the hip comes into play off and on. Definitely need to double up on the milk thistle, I think.

Since its another beautiful sunny and balmy day we go outside. I’d already sat out barefoot, facing the sun for a half hour earlier while waiting for him. He refills the bird feeders for me and then takes off his own shoes and socks.

As we walk, we talk about relationships—his mostly. I’ve been through so many relationships and marriages I should have it down to an exact science. But I don’t. Here, take my advice, I’m not using it.

DAY FIVE…Nov. 8, Tuesday, Voting Day.

Neil gets up early. It’s midterm elections. I’d already voted. A ballot was mailed to me which I then filled out and dropped in the ballot box at the entrance to our town hall last week pre-surgery. I knew I’d be in no shape to go in person today. Besides, Cathy isn’t registered to vote, so no sense dragging her along.

Neil says he’s going to vote and then go look at a small carpentry job for a friend. At 70 years old, and four joint replacements, he’s still doing what he did that got him into the condition he was in before he needed surgeries. I don’t argue anymore.

It’s almost 8:am. I tell him I’ll see him around noonish then. “Ah, no, it won’t take me that long!” he says. “Ok, sure. See ya!” I say, but smile. I know him. Twenty-four long fucking years. I know him. He doesn’t know me quite so much. It’s ok. It works for us.

Cathy and I hang out in the kitchen after Neil leaves. Hmmm, prune juice; Allbran cereal; banana and a toasted English muffin. Sound good, Cathy?

There are times in a person’s life when having a great BM is almost as good as an orgasm, and where I’m at right now, it is way better! What? Don’t tell me talking about farting and pooping is taboo, that’s some funny shit right there! Just ask anyone who’s had laparoscopic surgery. Or who’s over 70. Or an infant as it’s scrunching up their little body; face turning red; and explosive sounds emanating from its nappy region. Not to mention the telltale odor. And just to make sure, mummy will then stick her finger into a leg-side of the diaper like a dipstick. (Oh-Ya, any mom will tell you they needed that visual proof.) No sense wasting a perfectly good disposable diaper on a false alarm.

Cathy’s not that interested in what I eat. She’s more concerned in what fluids I put into my body. Right now, she’s good with the prune juice. Usually lemon water precedes the juice, then the rest of the day its water, water and more water—distilled—with trace minerals I add separately. She’s good with that.

Neil shows up just after noon. Didn’t I tell ya?

DAY SIX…Nov 9, Wednesday.

I got up in the wee hours with a leg cramp. Twice. Each time I turned over and tried to swing it over Cathy. First one leg. Turned over, then other leg. WTF!? They attack my lower calf muscles. I reach for the homeopathic remedy of Zincum Metallicum 30c. I pop five of those tiny sugar coated balls under my tongue as I’m standing there beside Cathy. She’s unconcerned and doesn’t move. I get no sympathy. Bitch.

Later when I finally feel I’ve slept enough, and just waking up, my daughter texts me at 5:47. Our circadian rhythms are pretty much in synch no matter what time one of us wakes up. She lives in PA, I’m in Maine. She said she couldn’t sleep well because of the full moon—and the election…

Full moon? I’ve been so preoccupied with tending to Cathy’s needs and wants I’d forgot it was that time of month. Hence probably the reason for my leg cramps and waking up at the howling hour. Twice. Usually I get an urge to grow fur, scratch at fleas and chase rabbits. Damn.

She tells me she’s crying tears of relief over PA’s political outcome. That sets me to crying empathically. We do this often. She then texts me Maines’ stats and I’m happy all over again. More tears of joy. But it’s still early and all the votes haven’t been counted across the country yet. Some may never get counted. Sad.

Cathy doesn’t care about the state of the union, country, world or anything else. She needs to empty. Off to the bathroom we go…

Neil fires up the wood-stove this morning. First time this year. It takes the chill off. We do have propane, and supplement with BTU’s—what we call fire-wood. He used to cut down trees from our property, but now we buy cut cordwood and he’ll chop the bigger pieces with the log splitter, and then stack it all in the woodshed. A chore he actually enjoys doing.

One year he’d stacked a cord of wood in the back of the shed and I saw it had a wicked lean to it in the middle. I mentioned this. He said it was ok. As I walked away I said, well just don’t be standing next to it when it comes over. A little later I happened to look out my studio window just in time to see him turn his back and walk to the wheelbarrow. The pile toppled just then. Opening the back door I called out to make sure he was ok. He’s standing there, literally in cartoon fashion, scratching his head and saying, “Huh! How’d that happen?” I closed the door and left him to figure it out.

My daughter always thinks I cause these strange occurrences. “Mom, your words!” She’s convinced I have that kind of control. Mostly, I just have a keen power of observation and a good ear and I’m going to leave it at that.

Cathy and I don’t get to do our walkabout today. It’s too chilly for walking barefoot. So we hang out updating this blog.

Mid morning Lee texts me. He’s worried about little brother who has “issues” and hasn’t checked back in with him for 3 days. Last communication was texting him a picture of his forearm with a long gash in it with six staples. It looks like a zipper. Included was a cryptic message saying he was in hospital and had cut his arm. No more information forthcoming.

Since I’m the mom, Lee wants me to do a wellness check on him. He lives 3 hours north of us. More drama, but I’ve got nothing but down time so I gather info and call the Milo Maine police. I give them the particulars. I wouldn’t be too concerned except that he’s supposed to be watching his ex-girlfriends two middle-school aged boys while she’s in jail for 10 days. (I didn’t even ask.)

He’d told me all this when last I talked with him late October. He then texts me a pic of himself. He looks like he hadn’t got close to a razor for a couple months. I tell him he’s lookin’ a little furry.

We talk a little longer—all this on “Messenger.” I told him I was going in for surgery on the fourth of November. That’s when he told me about his ex and the baby sitting job and she was going to jail on that same day.

The officer calls me back around noon, and says there was no answer at their knock. I reiterate that the two boys may be at school and no clue about my son. Maybe if he, the officer, would try again when the boys were home from school…? I trail off, I didn’t think I should really do this cops job for him. He asks me what time would they be getting out of school? Ya, he really did ask that. I live 3 hours south, but having had school aged kids at one time, I suggest maybe around 3:30 or 4? Am I dealing with an officer Fife here? The cartoon bubble over my head is scribbling up a pen and ink drawing. {“But Andy!” “No Barney, you just go on back now and do your job.”} ← I don’t know what these little parentheses are but they looked kinda clouds-like so I’ll just go with them.

So now it’s 4:30 and I’ve not heard back—yet. Or if I even will. I let it go.

Cathy is needing to take a walk around the house and if I know her, we’ll end up in the bathroom. Geez. I wish she’d just go without me.

DAY 7…Nov 10, Thursday.

I often dream about dead people. Last night was no exception.

I’m in pain, it’s my right hip, and one of my dead ex-lovers, Michael, and I are together. He’s trying to comfort me, but only making it worse in how I can care for his needs. Par for how our stormy relationship went in real life. (If I had lucid dreams, I’d love to just drop-kick him into the ‘Light’ .)

“Go, be free Michael, how can I miss you if you don’t stop haunting my dreams!”

I leave him and walk down some steps into a woodworking shop. Now my first ex-husband is there. (He’s still alive) and is working on making something. It looks like a bird house but he’s just using polyurethane to put it together. The pieces keep drifting apart. I can’t concern myself with this, my hip is in too much pain… besides, I’m all done telling people what to do or how to do. He’ll figure it out.

I wake up. My right hip is indeed bothering me. It seems to hurt worse when I lay on it. Cathy and I head for the bathroom. Moving around alleviates the pain and I lay back down on the left this time. I even took two Tylenol before bed last night. I look at the time and see it’s long worn off by now. I may as well stay up.

Today I write more on this tome. I’m trying to figure if I should make it a two parter.

The visiting nurse comes later. It’s a man this time and he’s been for-warned to ignore the STOP signs at the beginning of the road.

Chris takes my vitals, asks me questions, re: pain, (annoyance levels), etc. Cathy shows him her bladder, and I show him the five healing tracks across my tummy.

Do you know they use medical super-glue? No staples, sutures or butterfly stitches this time. I like it actually, as the adhesives from the tape make my skin rashy. AND, I was able to take a shower the day after getting home.

Today not quite as warm as yesterday but good enough for Cathy and I to do our barefoot walkabout and sit in the sun.

DAY 8…Nov. 11, Friday. (One week post-op)

Only one calf cramped up last night as Cathy was needing to go empty. They only happen when I am trying to disentangle myself from pillows, blankets and Cathy’s and my “umbilical”. She’s starting to get on my nerves. I must be getting better, I’m irritable.

I’m basically an impatient patient. Oh I have my huge gratitude moments daily, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t do down time well. My friend Yvonne and I have this saying, “We don’t get sick, we get injured.” And this feels more like injured to me. I was perfectly whole, healthy and happy before the doctors and their sharp, pointy, instruments got ahold of me. Not to mention the nurses who tried to draw blood from my veins. I tell them my arms are like pruney turnips—so hard to get blood out of no matter how much I hydrate. Right arm only if you must! Forget the left one completely please. I still have bruises. Both arms. They didn’t believe me.

I do my laundry. I’m running out of baggy sweats. I already cut the legs off a gray pair I inherited after Dad croaked—I love that irreverent word—besides, he wouldn’t mind, he was even more irreverent and especially during what should have been sensitive moments. One time he called to say a mutual acquaintance had passed. “Oh? Sorry, What from?” I inquired. “Nothing serious,” he said, “Just a heart attack.”

I see my old gardening overalls hanging just behind the bedroom door. (Yes!) I was going to put them away for the winter, but there they stayed—until now. I was please I hadn’t put them outta sight, outta mind. I wrangle Cathy and I into them with all their side buttons and over the shoulder buckles. Perfect! I roll the right leg up a little higher for her and we’re set for the day.

Another warm late morning, but supposed to rain a little later. After breakfast, Cathy and I are off for our walkabout—barefoot of course. We head down to the brook and I see my neighbor way up the hill on the other side walking her dog and one of her cats is following. The one that always shows triggers our outdoor cam. I wave, she throws a wave back. She walks on, out of sight behind trees that separate our properties.

Cathy is getting heavy and needs to go. Seriously? I’m not going to walk all the way back to the house right now. “Just let loose in those bushes.” I tell her. “You don’t need to be prissy, you’re not a ‘Karen’!

When she’s finished, we walk another acre and go back to the house and re-fill the bird feeders.

I get a call from my errant son. At least now I know he’s ok—sort of. My detective work paid off. His girlfriend never did turn herself in for the 10 days, so now she has a warrant out for her. It was probably why nobody answered the door when Officer “Fife” knocked.

He tells me when he gets out of the ‘psyche ward’ he’s going back to her house. I visualize a giant palm-to-forehead emoji in my thought-cloud. I remind him of the definition of insanity. At twenty-seven years sober, I want to impart so much more to him but I remind myself he has his own Higher Power and I’M NOT IT! I’m all done giving my adult kids unsolicited advice. He has his own path and all I can proactively do is hold him in his Higher Light.

Only six and a half more days with Cathy.

Stay tuned…