Devices, Dressing and a Diabolical Scheme

Our MacMillan nurse is Caroline, and it is she who has arranged for me to have both a mechanical "claw" for picking things up off the floor (after the chemotherapy, my fingers have lost sensitivity - neuropathy they call it - and I frequently drop things!) as well as the sock device. The sock putter-onner is by no menas the sort of thing you'd expect from Q's supply of devices for Mr. Bond - that's it in the middle of the picture - as it consists of a plastic scoop shape and a piece of linen ribbon. However, it is effective, as all I have to do is to place the sock over the narrower end of the scoop, hold on to each end of the ribbon, insert my foot into the wider end of the scoop and pull. It saves a lot of time and indeed pain, as trying to lift my foot high enough for me to put a sock on manually is surprisingly difficult. The mechanical claw is another simple addition, but a great hit with the entire French household, as it means I can easily get things off the floor, Sarah can pinch me from a safe distance to check I am just sleeping and not passed away on the sofa during Holby City, and Emma - well, Emma has found endless uses for it, from collecting the TV remote which is all of three feet away and requires her to change positions to retrieve it, to tickling the cat, Hermoine, whose neck turns out to be exactly the same width as the business end of the grabber, and on to stealing my walking stick when I am caught unawares. My fault, I suppose, as I instigated the game of "Nick the Stick" one evening when we were both having a tickling fight.
The third device in the picture is my morphine and local anaesthetic pump. The cable you can see in the picture runs from the device into the right hand side of my abdomen, and from there under the skin and round my back until it finally enters my cerebro-spinal fluid round the back. The cable, as you can see, is very narrow guage, and being clear plastic, not very visible, which means that I can walk about with the device put in a bag attached either to my trouser's belt, or slung over my shoulder on a strap, and the presence of the pump itself goes entirely unnoticed. The cassette, which is the whiter coloured part at the base of the pump, is the bit that is changed regularly and contains the drug mixture, and this Monday was the most recent change. For what is a seemingly simple procedure, it takes a lot of time and NHS resources for it to be changed as safely as possible. I go to the Day Unit at the hospital at the prescribed time, wait for about half an hour (although on a bad day, that wait can be as high as four hours) until I am escorted round to an operating theatre manned by a theatre nurse or two, an anaesthetist and one of my palliative care consultants, Dr. Hall. This Monday's change was, as usual, uneventful, although when I mentioned the additional new pains I have been getting, Dr. Hall suggested that next time the concentrations of the cocktail be altered. That means that on the 24th, my 250 ml cassette will have 200mg of morphine and go from .25% of bipuvicaine to .275%. It is hoped that this increase will handle the pain, without greatly impacting my mobility; as I mentioned before, it is this local anaesthetic which causes me to lose the funtionality of my legs, and any increase in concentration will mean an increase in my disability. So I will just have to hope that on the 24th, the small increase will not mean I have to go into the wheelchair.
The new equipment has meant that it is much easier for me to dress myself in the morning, and to apply the necessary dressings to my wounds. You see, in the mornings, as Sarah is still at work, she has to be at her school by before 8 a.m. and is therefore usually awake at around 6.30, whereas I tend to wake at between 7 and 8.30. Sorry, let me rephrase that: I get out of bed at about that time. I don't actually wake up until half an hour or an hour later, and tend to be wondering around getting in the way of both Sarah and Emma as they respectively prepare for work and school. I wander around the kitchen, taking drugs, dropping things and speaking monosyllabically. Anything Sarah tells me at this time of day she knows will be forgotten by 10 a.m., so if it's important enough, she puts it on my to do list. She and Emma leave the house at 7.45, and I normally get my first text from Sarah at about 10.30 to check that I haven't microwaved the cat or buttered my underpants before putting them into the toaster. After their departure, it is obviously down to me to carry out my morning ablutions and the routine of putting on dressings and getting dressed.
I think it is fair to say that, these days, there is no angle from which you could view my backside and say that it looks attractive, but I think it also fair to say that I am afforded what must be the singularly most unattractive perspective as I slowly and gingerly squat down on the floor above a carefully positioned shaving mirror. To glance down at the mirror's surface during this slow descent is to be confronted by a globular mass born of the imagination of some Doctor Who Creative Technician responsible for developing the next Big Thing in the time lord's long list of foes. It is, to use the abbreviation loved of many a mysoginist, "fugly" - those of you who are unfamiliar with the term can invent your own definition. It is, however, essential that I view it this way as I can then place the dressings accurately. Once that has been done, I get back onto my feet, and with the new sock device, and the skillful use of the claw, can manage to get dressed and ready to face the world in about three quarters of an hour.
The only interruption to this routine occurred this week, when I rose out of my bed at 7, just as Sarah was on her way to the bathroom to, in her words, "put enough slap on so that my tired haggard features don't scare the children". In the half light afforded by the bedside lamp, I staggered with my usual lack of consciousness towards the hanger to collect my dressing gown, leaving my pump in its usual night time position - under my pillow. It is at such times that the thin and clear nature of the catheter tube has its disadvantages, as Sarah proceeded to walk between me and the pump, not seeing the tube that connected me to it. The result was the pump was dragged from its position and hit the bedroom door with the force created by a woman an a "make - up" mission, and the adhesive tape holding the catheter to my skin and preventing it from coming out of the hole in my side was also tugged free due to the speed of my wife's movements. I felt the hole in my side stretch as the catheter tried to come out, and let out a half drunk yell of "STOP!!" Fortunately, subsequent examination showed that the catheter was still in place, and all that had been dislodged was a small amount of scab like tissue over the entrance site. Sarah only went to work after asking me twenty times if "You are sure there is no permanent damage?" Even when she was at work, her guilt and fear were so great that I received three more texts to check I was fine. In response to the last of these I was tempted to say that I was onto her diabolical scheme to get the insurance money early, and that I was changing the locks to the front door to ensure my own safety.
Now we have just one more working day of the week to go, and, as I have this week been seen by not only my Palliative Care consultant, but also the Macmillan Nurse, the District Nurse (who gave me a thorough examination in our dining room, ensuring that my bare arse was on display to any persons unlucky enough to have a been looking out of their rear windows from the houses opposite) and the physiotherapist (for whom I did an apparently acceptable demonstration of "how I get up the stairs with use of my stick"), I am looking forward to some peace and quiet family time. We also are going to be seeing my sister Sue and my niece Kelly this Sunday, as they are making the long haul northwards to see us all, so I am once more looking forward to being pampered and fussed over!
Next week, the only medical appointment so far booked is with our homeopath, so hopefully there will be little to report. But once again, I'll keep you posted should anything else happen, or the mood to write some more takes me.
And finally, thanks again for all the support and for the wonderful start to my campaign to raise some money for the MacMillan people. I have found it really energising to think that I could potentially make some difference to them by merely writing something!