The text came at 2:32 a.m. “I am sick. Siiiiiick.” Vomiting. Chills. Sweats. Body Aches. Withering weakness. He thought it might be food poisoning from the cold cuts or hard-boiled eggs sitting in the hospital cafeteria cartons for who know how long. Or a bug. Either way, he was down for the count. The next night, Mom threw up, but she did not get sick, just a bit tired. I drove Steve to the airport Sunday morning, glad he was better, glad Mom did not get sick, glad I had escaped. But about 2:45 a.m. the next night the scene replayed itself, and I was siiiiiick. I was useless to the world, no help to anyone. I just hunkered down under the covers, chugged Pepto Bismol, slept, tried to watch movies, tried to stay hydrated, tried to keep the family abreast, tried to stay abreast. The hospital had sent us home with a norovirus. A gift. A joke. Sarah has held down the hospital fort, with Carolyn and Megan for company, even though her own father-in-law passed away in-between-times. She goes back to work tomorrow, at the facility to which Dad will be moved, perhaps tomorrow. Jeanette flies in the next day to take a long shift. We are all managing, if barely. And it is enough.
(Artist renditions of pathogen by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay.)
“It’s a joke!” Dad has said to me many times. He drops something on the floor and stares at it, unable to bend to pick it up. “It’s a joke!” He relies on Mom to pull on his socks and pant legs, to straighten his shirt collar and do up the buttons. “It’s a joke!” The push mower pulls him faster than he can follow and he falls, but not, of course, until he has reached the concrete driveway. “It’s all a big joke!” I have never thought these jokes particularly funny, but I can certainly recognize the ironies. And at the hospital he found new things to declare a joke, like when he couldn’t hold his spoon and we fed him his mashed potatoes and meatloaf. A joke. And the newest: radiculitis. Encephalitis, as I understand it, is a swelling of the brain. Meningitis, they tell me, is a swelling of the membranes protecting the brain and spinal column. They are dangerous and painful, caused by invading vectors, bacteria or virus. They can kill you. But all of Dad’s spinal fluid tests were negative for both. Had the cause been bacteriological, antibiotics would have been the treatment. Had the cause been viral, merely time and careful attention. Now a new theory, the meningitis and encephalitis are not caused from the outside, but from the inside, from some internal mechanism creating the inflammation in the membranes and nerves, radiating out from the central nervous system. Radiculitis. “Guess what?” Dad quipped. “I have ridiculitis! It all a joke! Ridiculous! My central nervous system is trying to kill me! A big joke!” And he laughed. I was glad he could summon the mental and physical wherewithal to laugh. They injected strong steroids for three days, and he began to move again, and raise his legs and feet, and feed himself, and engage intellectually and coherently with the physicians and therapists. And to be willful and stubborn again.
(Artist rendering of neural network by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay.)