Time of Death: 2:53AM

R.I.P. PT

6 words you never want to hear

“make him as comfortable as possible.”  After meeting with one of his doctors (friend of DJ’s from college) and DJ at some nearby coffee shop, it seems that this is the only realistic option, short of a miracle.  He thinks PT has 1-2 months left.  He’s now in ICU, and it falls to DJ and I to decide where to go from here.  Whether to move him to a hospice, the post-mortem proceedings, or what.  I managed to keep it mostly together during the conversation, wandered around the streets of Shadyside for a while (looked for jeans and grabbed a sandwich that is still lying here beside me), and then walk back to the apartment.  Here, I didn’t exactly keep it together, but nobody was here to judge me except the cat.  Lots of regret, guilt,  and emotion going on.  I don’t even know if I can go in to see him right now, and I have to decide in the next 15 minutes so I can make it on time.  DJ can’t go in, as this is hitting him like a ton of bricks as well.  I just want to go back to bed.  I’d like to wait for DJ before I go in to see PT, but I’ll feel even more guilt if I wait.  Guess I’m not as strong as I’d like to be.  I may just stay, gather myself together, and meet up with DJ later for a beer.  I’ve had exactly 3 beers in the last 2 months, so I figure I can make it 4 or 5.  I’m just leery of drinking what helped lead PT to where he is right now.  Luckily, I’ve never wanted to be a heavy drinker (or any other drug for that matter), especially with everything that I’ve seen lately.  I guess I’m rambling – time to force the meatball sandwich down.

 

I did smile earlier, though.  I walked past a dad and his 2 kids.  The dad was on the phone while his kids were smacking each other around.  I heard the dad hang up and say, “Ok, you jag-offs.  Let’s go.”  It’s a Pittsburgh thing: http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=jag%20off (entry #2)

Things aren’t looking so good.

I went in to see PT yesterday.  I hadn’t been in for a few days, as I was home or on the road.  DJ warned me before I went in that he wasn’t doing so well and was very disoriented.  I went in to his room and saw his mouth had blood all around it.  When he gets nervous, he normally fidgets or picks at things.  Most times, it’s his lips.  He did the same thing with that bandage on his finger cut that wouldn’t heal.  With his confusion, I doubt he even realized he was doing it, to the point where his mouth (and I hate to sound like I’m making light of this) looked like an upside down version of Heath Ledger’s Joker.  Dried blood completely covered his lips and ran down towards his chin a bit.  I asked the nurses about it and they said that there wasn’t much they could do, short of strapping his arms down.  No, that wasn’t an option.  I went back in to visit, but he seemed agitated.  He was twitching, and I’m not sure if that was from pain or from medication…maybe low blood sugar.  I asked him how the pain was on a scale of 1-10 and he said 6.  Evidentally, he always tells the nurses he’s fine, so before I left I asked one of them if they could do something for him in that regard.  I could tell he was struggling to stay coherent and respond when I spoke, so I finally let him know I was going to take off and let him be.  He apologized for not being a good host, but I obviously understood.  I felt bad because I just didn’t know what to say.  I’m never good with small talk, and there’s only so many things I can bring up to mention, especially when it’s a mostly one-sided conversation.

 

I’m now back in PT’s hot apartment, as the AC isn’t working so well.  It works, I guess, but it condenses so much water that it drips heavily.  You have to set a bucket underneath, and that fills up within an hour.  Makes overnight a fan-only affair.  Tommy is meeting me in here, as he is dropping off papers I need from home for me.  I was going to meet him halfway, but he wanted to eat in Shadyside.  I wasn’t sure whether to have him visit PT, since PT’s already agitated and Tommy tends to agitate him more.  I texted DJ to have him let me know how PT was doing, as I wasn’t sure if I could make it in or not.  DJ just called me back.

Seems the doctors want to meet with us tomorrow.  PT’s liver isn’t working out, and apparently he won’t be eligible to get another.  I assume that that’s because this one isn’t working so well, but they are also fairly certain that PT wouldn’t survive the operation this time around.  I’m not totally sure of all the info, but it sounds like they’re going to tell me tomorrow that he’s not going to make it.  I don’t think that’s totally sunk in yet, but I guess I’m still hoping for the best.  Now I don’t know how to tell Tommy what’s going on.  He’s his brother, so I shouldn’t keep him totally in the dark, but Tommy doesn’t handle things like this well and PT can’t handle Tommy’s stress right now.  DJ seems to think I should wait until after the meeting tomorrow, so I suppose that’s the way to go.

 

In car news, my honda got towed to the body shop and the girl’s insurance is going to handle it, instead of her dad paying out of pocket.  The estimate came to be around $2500.  I’m not in dire straits, transportation-wise, as I have PT’s Jeep, but I wouldn’t mind a rental car with cheaper gas guzzling.  I probably had something else in mind to mention, but my mind’s blanking right now.  I don’t even have a good ending to this post.

Yesterday sucked, too.

So I’m about to leave PT’s apartment, visit him, and then pack up my stuff to head home.  I had been there for a long time, and was getting antsy.  That, and his AC is on the fritz during a particularly hot period.  It works, but it condenses so much water that it drips.  How much, you ask?  I put a bucket underneath it and it only takes an hour to fill up.  Kinda makes it pointless to leave on unless I know I can monitor it.  Leaving it on overnight isn’t an option. 

I also needed some time away to unwind a bit.  I came to a scary realization when I was wandering down the hall in just my bath towel.  Since the fans were on, there was one big-ass fan in the hallway to circulate air and I paused when I walked past it.  It blew straight up my towel, which gave me a bit of a thrill.  I twisted this way and that, while letting the air flow around my naughty bits, while PT’s fat, mouthy cat stared at me with a look that was a mixture of apathy and disgust.  Right then I realized, that I’m this guy:

http://i157.photobucket.com/albums/t61/dooxy/gmg.jpg   (images are acting funky, so I’ll try to edit that later to something non-clicky)

Yes – I’m John Arbuckle.  That kind of hit home, so I retreated back to the bathroom.  I might be worried that I’m beginning to have some mid-life crisis or something, but I’m fairly sure that I had that when I was 19.  According to my math, I’m gonna be dead before I hit 40.  Whee. 

Anyhow, as I’m about to head out the door, I get a call from DJ.  He asked me, “Um…have you been outside yet?”  When I said I was heading out to see PT (although I was going to head to the apartment parking garage and take his car), DJ said I should take a look at my car.  I peeked out the window to see my bumper half-attached and lying on the road.  FUCK.  Seems some girl hit my car while trying to make too sharp of a turn into a side road.  I was parked legally and well before the turn, so it was not my fault.  Her mom left a note, which was cool, and asked me to call her.  I called “Tekla” up and got her insurance info.  She and her 18 yr old daughter have the same agent, I guess.  All and all, not really what I needed.   I checked the mailbox labels in the lobby and realized this woman lives right next door, on PT’s floor. 

This has not been the first run-in I’ve had with PT’s neighbors, particularly the ones on his floor.  There are 3 floors to his building, and the first 2 floors have 6 apartments each.  His floor is a bit nicer, and there are only 4 apartments taking up the same amount of space as the 6 per floor did below.  The neighbor directly across from him unfortunately thinks I’m a creepy pervert.  Be that as it may, she still got the wrong impression.  A while back, Pt and I were getting on the elevator on the 1st floor to head to his.  This was during his 1st stay at home, way back before his transplant.  I was half-asleep, as I had gotten little sleep before waking up early to take him into the hospital for blood work, and then to another doctor in a seperate building.  We then spent most of the day doing random errands and shopping for the apartment.  We needed something from his place, so we had to make a brief pitstop.  I wasn’t paying attention  in the elevator on the way up and the door opened.  Some 20-something, reasonably cute woman came in – I assumed that this was our floor, so I got out.  PT started to say something like, “Um…uh you might want to…”  I figured he was going to head back down to the car and wait or something, so I just assured him I’d be right back.  The confused woman got on, and I took a right towards PT’s door. 

I went to unlock the door and got confused.  On PT’s door, there’s a regular keyhole and a deadlock keyhole.  I only saw one keyhole and it wasn’t in the right place.  I was too tired to figure this out, so I tried my key anyways.  Nothing.  I wiggled it, retried it, and even tried the deadbolt key.  Suddenly, the door opened up and some very confused/wary black dude in a wife-beater tank top stared at me.  I looked at him, looked at the stairwell to my right, and realized there were still stairs going up.  I was only on floor 2.  Oops.  I mumbled to the guy, “Um..sorry, I must have the wrong door” and retreated upstairs.  As I left, I heard the door close and lock.  With me looking as tired and confused as I did, he must have thought I was some crackhead in the wrong neighborhood.  I made it up the steps and came out on the 3rd floor.  There I saw the woman from the elevator coming at me.  She got very confused.  Now let’s look at it from her point of view:

She gets on an elevator, and it opens up with 2 strange guys inside.  Knowing she can’t back out gracefully, she still gets on and sees one of them bolt for some strange reason, while the other guy mutters something almost unintelligible.  She stays on the elevator with the remaining guy, who clearly looks like he has some type of medical condition, both due to his appearance and his slower, uneven walking style.  She rides the seemingly slow elevator to the top and slides out past the strange man.  As she’s leaving, she becomes very aware that this guy is following her.  As she gets halfway to her apartment door, the door to the top of the steps (beside both her door and her neighboor’s door across the hall) opens up and the OTHER guy from the elevator comes bursting through.  She now realizes she’s trapped between 2 strange men, both looking slightly worn down and crazy, and pauses.  I somehow figured out what this seemed like, and merely turned towards PT’s door without a word to him, and opened it up.  She had to have thought it was a clever plan to corner her and have our way with her or something – I let both of us in and heard both the lock and deadbolt quickly slide into place in the neighbor’s door.  Nothing like creeping out 2 neighbors in the span of a minute, huh? 

That isn’t the only time I’ve creeped her out, though.  When it came clear that PT needed to go back to the hospital a few days ago, the visiting nurse called 911 and had an ambulance crew move him out.  I heard them buzz in below, so I figured I’d go out into the hall and direct them once they got off the elevator.  I stepped into the hallway and saw the woman from across the hall and some dude hanging out next to some boxes while waiting for the elevator.  I stopped, unsure of what to do while they stared at me.  Do I stay there and wait, further creeping her out?  Do I announce my intentions and tell them I’m waiting for ambulance people?  I figured both of those options were kinda weird, so I did the least weird thing I could think of and turned around back into the apartment.  Of course, they still had to wonder why I would come out, stare at them, then wander back inside without a word.  I heard her say something like, “what the hell was…” but at the time I was worried more about PT than being labeled “crazy neighbor guy.”  I listened at the door until I heard the elevator open.  I peeked outside, saw the ambulance people, and let them in.  I was kinda hoping the woman saw me doing that, so she’d know I was waiting for them, but who knows if she did.  Sigh.

Although I’m fairly sure this guy didn’t live in the apartment building, what exactly is the proper ettiquette for this situation?  I was heading into PT’s garage under the building with 2 bags of trash.  The dumpster is located behind the building, so the easiest way to it is through his garage door.  The door is automatic and will close at random intervals unless something blocks the sensor.  I had planned on quickly throwing the bags in, so I didn’t bother blocking the sensor first.  I walked through the door to see some guy piling different objects from the dumpster into piles.  Upon seeing me, he quickly said, “Don’t worry – I’ll clean it up!”

Do I say:

A)  “Thanks – I appreciate it.”

B)  “Doesn’t bother me a bit – I don’t even live here.”

C)  “Here are 2 more bags if you want.”

D)  mumble something that sounds like, “uh, ok.”

 

Looking back, I wish I had picked something similar to B.  I figure A comes across like he has to answer to me, and C comes across as being kind of a prick.  Unfortunately, I had no ready answer, so I chose D.  Just then, the garage door came down, so I had no easy way back out.  I just dumped the bags and said, “Take care” while he muttered something about, “The things people throw away…man.”  I walked the entire way back around the building and luckily had my key so that I could get back in.  So tell me – what’s the proper thing to say in that situation?

Getting back to the woman whose daughter hit my car, I was actually kind of worried that it might be the one from across the hall.  It was the one on the same side of the hall as PT, though.  That’s 2 out of 3 neighbors on his floor that I’ve had issues with.  The only one left are a korean couple that keep to themselves, so hopefully I won’t complete the floor.

Before I sign off on this puppy, I’ll leave you with a video I’m about to post in a sadly relevant topic on another message board.  Enjoy “Chinese M.C. Hammer:”

 

Today pretty much sucked.

PT got readmitted to the hospital today.  Over the last week, I had been taking care of both him and the apartment.  The hospital initially released him to help his mood, in hopes of that triggering his appetite.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.  Over the last week, he probably ate as much as I do in one sitting.  His legs/arms are frighteningly thin, for a guy who used to play defensive line in high school football.  At one point, he used to weigh in the 230 lb range.  Now?  155 lbs.  His musclature (fairly sure i misspelled that) is equivalent to that of a 6 year old, his physical therapist told him.  I tried to lighten the mood by assuring him that he could still kick my 3 year old niece’s ass, but it had mixed results.

I now have a ton of respect for those in the health care industry, especially nurses.  As PT was so weak, he really couldn’t get out of bed after the first night home.  That night gave me a crash-course on what I was going to be called into duty for.  I checked in on him late that night to find him in the bathroom and an ungodly smell was coming from his bedroom.  Evidentally, the bed pan was put into use.  After covering my lower face with my shirt, I attempted to hold it out at arm’s length and dump it in the spare bathroom toilet.  Normally, I pride myself on having a strong stomach, but I started dry heaving and realized I was about to puke inside my own shirt.  I kept it together and cleaned things up as best I could.  I then ventured back to the bathroom and checked in on PT.  From what he told me, he woke up, knew he wasn’t going to make it, and afterwards tried to clean up as best he could in the tub.  He then found he couldn’t get back out.  I steeled myself, opened the door, and did what i could to both help him out and make him feel less self-conscious.  Unfortunately, there was no easy way to help him out.  I still have a shitty knee, and there was a good amount of blood smeared around both him and the tub.  For some reason, his finger was pricked near the cuticle for a blood test, and hadn’t healed.  It continued to drip blood for 4 days straight.  I ended up calling PT’s friend DJ to help me get him back to bed.

The next morning, the home care nurse arrived.  She showed up every other day to take blood samples, and flush out the lines that he has attached to his arm to allow easy sampling.  That’s done with saline syringes.  On the days she doesn’t come, it fell to me or DJ to do this.  PT also has a “t-tube” which is a tube running directly from his gall bladder through his abdomen.  It drips bile into a bag, which needed dumped out every day.  When I first got the crash-course on doing all this, I was a bit overwhelmed.  Before the nurse arrived, however, I went in his room to find something that looked like a M*A*S*H unit.  PT was in bed, bedpan mercifully empty, but blood was EVERYWHERE.  He had it soaked through his shirt, all over the sheets, soaked into both the pillow cases and the pillows, and caked on his wrist/hand.  He has a tendency to fidget with bandages, and the bleeding soaked through them, so he just took them off.  I cleaned up as best I could before the nurse got there, but I wasn’t that effective.  The previous night’s events had gotten to me, so sleep wasn’t happening. I maybe got 3 hours.  In the span of 24 hours, I had to deal with blood, piss, shit, bile, puke, and needed to inject saline into his veins. I was also responsible for making sure that he got every single medication at the proper time, from 8am to 8pm, with stops along the way at noon and 5.  Needless to say, I was a bit frazzled.

It got easier to deal with throughout the week, although I never got used to bedpan duty.  PT got weaker and weaker, and refused to eat.  Both the depression and the meds he was on made food taste bad, but he wasn’t even trying.  He just had no desire.  He’d drink a supplement drink every now and then, but had hardly any solid food.  The thing about PT is that he’ll go out of his way not to do something if you’re pushy about it.  I didn’t know exactly the best method of getting him to eat, all the while letting him know how fragile his health was appearing.  I tried everything – taking a written inventory of what was available that I could make, asking for requests, placing unasked for food under his nose, guilt…everything.  After Monday’s blood test results came back, the transplant coordinator called me to give me the news.  His protein levels were a tad low, and his white blood cell count was something like…1200?  I think 5000 is normal.  I don’t know what that means, other than he had 1/4 what he should have had.  She asked me if I wanted him readmitted. 

I think I covered the whole role reversal thing earlier, and I was just starting to get used to the idea that my main role is to keep PT alive.   Now I’m supposed to make the call to get him out of his home?  He may not have been eating well, but he had his own bed, and could curl up with his cat.  He could sleep without being woken up repeatedly by nurses.  I didn’t know what to do, so I decided to let him stay there but reinforce the food concept.  Unfortunately, it didn’t work.  Today, the nurse came and got his vitals.  PT was weaker than before, and after being weighed, we saw he lost 9 lbs in the last week.  He had a low-grade fever at 100.2 and low blood pressure.  The decision was a lot easier, although I let the nurse play a bit more of the “bad guy” role.  I would nod my head up and down behind PT when she’d make a case for admitting him.  With PT being as stubborn as he is, he can hold a grudge for a LONG time.  I didn’t need him to hate me for wanting what’s best for him, although I obviously supported the nurse’s opinion.  She called 911, as I had no hope of getting him down his hallway, through the building’s hallways, and into the elevator and down 3 steps to his jeep.  They came quickly, and loaded him into a chair.  PT wasn’t thrilled, but he later confessed that he knew this was coming.  I did as well, and that’s a major reason why I’m running on 2 hours worth of sleep.

They took him into the emergency ward.  I stayed behind so that I could shower (bed pans, blood, and bile – oh my!) and gather up stuff he needed.  Luckily, a lot of it was still packed together.  I kinda wish I had decided to nap first, since I got there to find he wasn’t in a room yet.  I could either sit in the tiny room he was placed in for the time being, or spend it with the colorful cast of characters you find in the emergency room waiting area.  I chose the waiting area.  I stayed out there for 3 hours, trying not to make eye contact and avoid the guy who would randomly get REALLY LOUD, and then either burst into tears or fits of laughter, while confined to a wheelchair with a guard nearby.  He finally got moved up to his old floor, which was kinda nice, as he already knew the nurses.  The doc came in pretty soon after, and checked things out.  Evidentally I didn’t look so good.  Not only did one of the receptionists in emergency ask if I was admitting myself, but the doc upstairs told me I should go home and rest.  After checking PT out, he discovered that PT’s T-tube (bile) was funky, and that bile was gathering in PT’s abdomen, causing pain.  Lovely. 

He needed to go under for a minor surgery to correct this immediately.  I figured it would take a while, so I wanted to get back to the apartment.  To be nice, I asked, “Well, I guess I’ll take…um…unless you want me to stick around.”  He then said that’d be nice, as he was being wheeled away. 

…

I sat in his empty hospital room for 2+ hours.   No sign of PT.  I was drifting off, my head nodding like crazy, and finally realized that I could very well be in there for a long ass time, miss the Pens game, and find that PT was still conked out from anesthesia.  I didn’t feel great about leaving, but I at least left a note.  After all was said and done, I had been at the hospital for about 8 hours, and was barely running on any sleep.  I got back without crashing, drank some Mt Dew, and watched my Penguins lose the Stanley Cup to Detroit.  Honestly?  I was half-watching the game.  I had little interest in it.  Usually, I see the Stanley Cup and get chills.  When the Pens get eliminated from the playoffs, I always get depressed and sad.  I saw both the Pens lose AND Detroit win the Cup.  Nothing.  I just looked at the tv, shook my head, and switched it off.  After today, I guess it really didn’t matter.  Maybe a week from now I’ll randomly start swearing, but I just have no reaction for now. 

 

In other news, I think I just got another reader – my cousin just got a link to this puppy.  Hi Anne.  No sharing anything incriminating, or I reserve the right to edit that puppy right out.