She aced the exam.
I was reminiscing about this instance while she was holding my hand in the hospital on Day 4 post her emergency admission.
“I feel my neuropathy has worsened,” she complained to the doctor, who suggested she get examined by the neurologist. My friend had to be subjected to a nerve conduction test. “I’m super worried. I remember, they did this before I was diagnosed with Tilotama. They send electric shocks and that part of my body would pulse,” she said. “Calm down. You’ll be holding my hand. Remember that,” I said.
The neurologist was kind enough to ensure the electric pulses were limited. The oncologist was trying to see if my friend’s neuropathy was worsening due to one of the chemo drugs - Vinblastine. The neurologist said that the drug can be continued, but expressed worry regarding the reflexes in her legs. She said, “I’d suggest an MRI of the spine, but that’s not important now. Finish your chemotherapy and then we’ll get all of these things fixed.” She also advised her to wear the compression gloves as my friend has been suffering from carpal tunnel syndrome too.
Her mental agony was just the same, but her sudden bout of diarrhea had stopped and she was talking better. “I’m not asking any questions. Don’t keep nagging me to speak to the doctor,” she said, irritated when I pestered her to remain her usual self when the doctor arrived. Well, I had jotted down a couple of questions on her behalf.
She was maintaining her oxygen saturation without external support for the first time since being admitted on emergency.
“My neck is killing me. Every part of my body is weak. I want to get up,” she complained as I rushed to help her out of the bed. She was fighting to trudge up to the door with hands held behind her back, when the doc and his team walked in. My friend and I admire this doctor. We often discuss his trademark dialogues, exchange looks when we recognise his voice echoing from the other end of the corridor and even get disappointed if he doesn’t show up on time.
This time, she seemed aloof. She kept hauling herself painfully up and down. “So, how are you?” the doc asked her. She didn’t even turn around. “I’ve nothing to say today. You can talk and I’ll listen,” she replied, very matter-of-fact. The team of doctors were stifling their laughter. They always enjoy her witty remarks.
“So, you have no questions for me? It’s gonna rain today,” laughed the doctor.
“No,” she said. “I’ve jotted down a few,” I claimed immediately.
“That doesn’t count. You can’t delegate,” he remarked pointing to her. My friend continued with her business - strolling up and down in discomfort.
I questioned the oncologist about the next course of action regarding her chemo. “We will knock off Bleomycin. And continue with A,V and D,” he said.
“If you were thinking of removing Vinblastine too, had the neurologist confirmed, what would happen to her disease cells?” I wondered.
“I would have reconsidered introducing Brentux,” he answered.
“I heard that,” she commented, turning around. “Good, I wanted you to,” he replied.
“I am just tired of all this. I was telling my friend if I could just stop all this and go home,” she mentioned to the doctor.
Every single person in the room fell silent.
“Just have faith,” the doctor said, almost reassuring us that he would do nothing to compromise her quality of life.
I requested the doctor to visit her in the evening once as I explained how her mood and emotion plunge to a new low as night follows day. He promised he would.
And he did. My friend was glad to see him and so was I. The obvious question was to know if she can get discharged soon.
He soon nudged my friend to get a PET CT done so she can get a green signal to get discharged. Her night sweats were a cause of concern. He has a knack for convincing my friend. What took me 20 years took him 120 days!
“I’d like the senior doctor at the radiology department to insert my IV needle. He did it very gently the last time,” she stated. The doctor smiled and said yes to her demand.
Another PET. Will it be clear? The answer was 12 hours away from us then. The nurses on night duty took care of her so well. She was lying down there chatting with the nurse, while fidgeting with the stethoscope and listening to her own heartbeat. She even urged me to click a picture. The nurse knew she was a light sleeper. Cetrizine for her mild cold didn’t help either. As the bottle containing the antibiotic got empty, the nurse was there even before the alarm went off so as to not disturb her. I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I don’t remember when I dozed off.
The nurse woke me up early in the morning to remind me not to feed her anything. It was soon time to wheel her in for the PET scan. The nurse said she’d stay with her inside. “Baby, thank God, this sister will be with me inside. That’s some support,” my friend said, flashing a smile.
The same ordeal as before. She was cold. I could catch a quick glimpse of her inside. As I waited outside, I heard her scream. I realised the IV was set for the contrast. An hour passed, the nurse, who was with her, told me the scan had begun.
Another 30 minutes and she was wheeled back to the ward. “This time, the IV was painful,” she whimpered. I hugged her tight. We both kicked ourselves for having forgotten to apply Prilox - a cream that can be externally applied to keep the skin numb. My friend finds it helpful while handling pricks - be it for her IV, blood tests or even while inserting the needle into her chemo port. Or is it a placebo effect?
I quickly ordered some cereal for her breakfast. While she was halfway through it, the junior doctor hinted that she may have to undergo another CT.
My friend was seething in temper. “I just ate. They should have clubbed both the scans if they were necessary. You can’t poke me again. I’m done with this,” she screamed.
There was a miscommunication. The nurse had mentioned about a CT scan, but we asked them to cross check since the doctor never mentioned this to us. “Even then, I can’t get poked now again baby. This is it!” my friend asserted. I was quiet. I thought it’s best to face the doctor and let him explain. We waited.
As the doctor entered, my friend was preparing to get combative. “There is no need for a CT scan,” he first said. It took us a while before the words sank in. I could hear her cool down. “The good news is, your PET is clean!” he continued. A single tear dropped from my right eye.
My friend didn’t react. I gently patted her, signalling her to say something. She asked me to help her sit upright. “But?” she asked, speculating a complication like in the last PET report.
“No buts,” he emphasised.
We were all in delight, but I am not sure if we thanked him enough. Left to me, I’d have jumped on the bed zillion times.
So, what now? “Get ready to go home! You have had your break. See you next Thursday for the next chemo,” the oncologist cheered her and left. “It’s a big deal to get a clean PET baby. I should have thanked him more,” she said to me, echoing my thoughts.
It was a conditional discharge - long list of antibiotics, frequent blood tests followed by GCSF shots.
I felt that lump in my throat as she held my hand in the car after getting discharged. It was her way of saying ‘thank you’.
Our love for each other will always remain unconditional.
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