Tag: Pastor Matt

Another night in the hospital

The last time Beth was in the hospital, I took Dani and Sissy both to see Beth, and with Pastor Matt and me in the room, along with Dr Rossetti and a nurse, it was pretty much a full house, and no one was any worse for the wear. Except that, it’s not policy to allow children under 12 into the room.

Fast forward to today.

My church had given us some gift certificates to purchase items at their second-hand shop called The Common Thread (which is scheduled to close at the end of the month). The Common Thread is just down the hill from the hospital, in Lawrenceville, and so I made plans to drop Dani off at the hospital – the girls were going to have a coloring day – and I would run down the hill to see what I could find.

Well, not long after I got down to the store, I got a couple of calls and messages from Beth – they were asking Dani to leave, and I had to go back up and get her. Beth was heartbroken.

I had picked out a couple of hats for Beth – one she likes very much, and it will be very helpful for when she loses her hair. I got some jackets and pants for my son John (who is just turning 16). And I got some work shirts and a very nice sports jacket for myself.

Dani is extremely close with her mom. The two of them are like momma and baby duck. So it was pretty sad to have to take her home.

Last night, I spent the night in the hospital, and I think I’m going to do the same tonight. I’ve eaten a bit and I’ll grab my bag and go sit with Beth while she gets her chemo. So far, it hasn’t affected her too badly. That is, she’s still complaining about the catheter. The incision is still sore, and the tape pulls on her skin, and it makes her itchy. Likely I’ll grab some sleep in between the nurses running in and out. The older guys are all home tonight. No one else is going anywhere. So I think I’ll finish up some laundry, and head back down to West Penn.

With tears in her eyes

Yesterday, we spent a lot of time waiting for things. And a few “out-of-the-ordinary” moments came about because of some of the delays.

I mentioned that the biopsy didn’t happen until two hours after it was scheduled. You expect this sort of thing, when you’ve got all kinds of busy people having to converge on a single time and space (in this case, the recovery room at West Penn). Beth had 20 or so blood tests for which to give blood. Dr Rossetti was coming in from somewhere else, and had other patients to see besides Bethany. And the “hardware” to be used for the biopsy, which needed to be signed for (and which Dr Rossetti has brought in himself in the past) was delivered by someone else this time.

Beth wants me to be with her constantly, through this whole process, and as much as I am able, I want to be there with her as she goes through this. And the hospital folks are good enough to allow me to walk down to the recovery room (where the procedure will occur), and wait with her while she’s waiting.

During that time, they hook her up to the heart monitor, blood pressure cuff, the thing on her finger that measures her pulse, and we play games with each other. We have learned that spending time kissing (the curtains are drawn, of course) lowers her heart rate and blood pressure. It relaxes her.

After Dr Rossetti arrived, somewhat late, but before the hardware arrived, the nurse anesthetist began to ready herself for the procedure. And at one point, she had given Beth some of the “twilight” or “conscious sedation” medication that is used in the procedure.

This medication functions as a kind of truth serum, and I’m sure that medical people have heard lots of ramblings from people before they actually go to sleep. And we have seen limited glimpses of how this works ourselves. For example, our son Zach, before a surgical procedure for a hernia when he was three years old, went from a hard scream and cry to a calm, peaceful smile, almost instantaneously.

Beth, once the mask went on and the white plunger was pressed, began to cry and talk, and I bent over and stroked her hair and kissed her forehead and let her know I was there. She looked me right in the eye and struggled to articulate the words, but I heard them very clearly, “I will never forget you”. “Thank you for loving me, I will love you forever,” she said to me, and to be sure, it’s a moment I’ll never forget. She mumbled something about “our daughters” but her eyes were rolling, and her eyes were still teared-up and it wasn’t long before I was getting kicked out.

It must have been awkward for her, but I’m grateful to the nurse anesthetist for not booting me out right away, for allowing me to share those moments. Of course, Beth was not merely crying because of the biopsy procedure that was about to occur, but because of the whole process of having a life-threatening illness, and the struggles she’s faced over the past few months, facing the thought that she really could die very soon.

These are incredibly hard, though incredibly human things to face. She has done it with such an exterior calm and dignity, that it’s almost possible to miss what she’s struggling with. I am tremendously grateful to those who have come into our lives – lots of people we don’t even know, her old friends from the 203rd MI BN — her army unit, the people whom I work with, those who know me from my blogging, and most of all, Pastor Matt and the members of my church, City Reformed PCA.