SEPTEMBER 7, 2022 – (Cont.) For me, the past 24 hours have been packed with deep emotion. When I put my head down on my hospital bed at 11:00 last night, I was filled with amorphous trepidation, the Ativan taken a half hour earlier having had little effect. My sleep through the night, interrupted by “vitals checks,” unpleasant bathroom breaks, and other episodes of ill-ease, forced me into my fallback position: muttering aloud for myself to hear, “Act enthusiastic, you become enthusiastic [Damnit]!”
I drifted off to sleep, but instead of finding a happy place, which is my usual “dream mode,” my brain came up with some really fraught, ugly stuff—bizarre imagery such as a motorcycle seat (?!) that turned into the jaws of a viciously tempered dog, which turned into a pile of spiked poop filled with cut glass that my right foot wasn’t quick enough to avoid. As I stepped quickly into nearby grass in a desperate move to scrape off the poop, the excrement turned back into snarling dog jaws. I leapt backward and espied some deviant dragging my IV pole up a snow-covered slope to the back of a medical building.
The next thing I knew, I heard a voice. “Eric,” she said, “it’s Angelina. I’m here for your blood draw.” It was 4:00 a.m. I told her that by having announced her name, she’d chased away a bad dream. She drew the blood, flushed the line, and without further ado, let me return to Nod.
When I awoke again, bright sunshine was streaming into the room. A new day. Day 15 of my expedition. Gone was the trouble in my soul. A short while later, an aid arrived to take my vitals plus my weight. He was a young man studying to be a nurse, and his greeting drew from the sunbeams that passed over the foot of the bed. I asked him his name—“Hudson”—and this sparked a rewarding conversation, as he attended to his work on my behalf. When I stepped on the scale, I was pleased with the number—not surprisingly, given that I’d eaten well for two consecutive days.
Throughout the morning, my nurse team—Sarah and Stephanie—plus the P.A. and Dr. Juckett gave me good, expert care, and most critically, reassurance that my trajectory is positive. I was to be released later in the afternoon.
Shortly after noon, while waiting for lunch, however, I felt anxiety on the silent prowl again, and in its folds, a faint wave of depression. I recalled the remarkable strength and encouragement I’d gained from Kristie and Kaylen, the “relay race” nurses who’d extended such extraordinary care during their weekend shifts. I felt sad that I’d be leaving the hospital without being able to say good-bye again to either one of them.
Lunch arrived—a turkey burger on wholewheat bun, chicken noodle soup, applesauce, and chamomile tea. With my back to the entryway of my room, I sat at a small table to consume the meal. Through the stretch of windows in front of me, my gaze fell upon the bend in the Mississippi not far away. I thought of its long journey—and many bends—from my viewpoint to the Gulf of Mexico.
Just then, I heard the heavy room door open and heard not footsteps but the flutter of wings.
“Hi, Eric,” she said, before I could turn around. “It’s Kristie.” She leaned against the end of the bed a few feet away from where I sat. “I saw that you’re being discharged this afternoon, and I wanted to stop by to see you before you left.”
I’m not the least bit embarrassed to say . . . I wept, soon awash in tears of joy. I recalled the old golfer I’d met in “Little Switzerland” months ago (see 5/11/22 post)—the retired physician with U of MN golf club covers, who, upon hearing me tell about my condition had said, “You’ll do great! They have great treatment now for multiple myeloma. You’ll live a long life and a great life! You’ll do great!”
That was God talking. Now, 15 days into my treatment “expedition,” in answer to a prayer that just moments before I’d felt but not expressed, God’s messenger lands at my shoulder to restate the case. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
