There is a certain euphoria when you are finally home after a long hospital stay. Mine did not last long. The limitations of living in a small rowhome are difficult enough under normal circumstances, but when you are tied to that home by illness, it quickly can become a prison.
Climbing the stairs becomes an event you try to limit. Taking a shower becomes a personal Mount Everest. If you are as lucky as I, your spouse is there by your side every step of the way, she is your best advocate for good care. I watched with dismay as she stressed herself out trying to figure out how to give me the intravenous antibiotic. The contraption is tunneled into me and must be kept free from infection. After some resistance, we were able to get an infusion nurse out to the home each day to give me the antibiotic. Cutbacks being what they are, you might be surprised at the do-it-yourself nature of home healthcare. It is a burden I expect many could not meet.
The days grow sunny and warm without you. You can’t ward yourself off from life as you can in a hospital room. At home, you know life goes on outside without you. You wince at the scenes of the Shore on the local news. You try and not let your partner know how depressed you have become.
You are not tired when it is time for bed. All day long, the farthest you have traveled is up or down the stairs — from your bed to the bathroom or your recliner to the kitchen. Your butt is sore from sitting. You have not used up the requisite energy for sleep, yet, what else is there to do? The resulting sleep is filled with tossing and turning to try and find the old sweet spots where you used to be able to nod off at a moment’s notice. Your restlessness is disturbing your wife, who lies alongside you wondering what nightmares are tormenting you and when you will be well again.
Doctor’s visits are encouraging. You are making progress, they tell you. You think only about the tremendous effort it took to swing your legs in and out of a cab in midday Center City, with every motorist honking at you.
You are finally ready to venture outside to take a short walk using a cane. You do well, so you figure the next time will be even easier, but it isn’t. The day is hot and you get tired quickly and cut the walk short, happy that your wife decided to accompany you.
Slowly, as you get stronger, your interests lie less in your medical condition and more in the world around you. You have taken a month off from Campaign 2008 and yet it is remarkable how little has happened. The campaign has deteriorated into an exchange of gaffes gobbled up by the hungry media. The national figures show little has changed.
There is a new tell-all book by formerly loyal-Bushie Scott McClellan. It frames the Bush administration, particularly the president, the way most of us have seen him for these last eight years. Everyone wants to know what McClellan’s motive is. What do I care, so long as it rings true.
Yet somehow I don’t feel a part of this race as I once did. Why? What does being personally housebound have to do with any of it? Somehow the batteries of my mind need to be recharged by a return to normal life. I need to walk to the butcher on a sunny morning. I need to sit out at the ballpark and watch the Phils score a ton of runs. I need to see my friends and have most of the conversation not deal with encouragement about my health.
Despite all I hate about being ill, I must have gained something by slowing down my world this past month. I have been blessed with the best, most courageous wife in the world and terrific friends who are guiding me back to my real life.
This will be the last column that I write about this illness. I will give it no more time, no more thought. There is a world out there with which we must engage. I hear Bruce Springsteen again. He is singing in my ear, low at first and then building to a mighty crescendo. He’s singing "The Rising" and that, my darling loved ones, is the direction I’m heading.
