On Friday, I received my morphine pain pump to alleviate the pain in my mouth and esophagus. I was also planning to eat soothing ice cream for most of my meals that weekend. I was excited about my diet of morphine and ice cream. I’ve read my share of rock biographies, and it seems like something a washed out rock star would do on one of his/her last binges. With several hangers-on and groupies, he would hole up in a seedy hotel, living on morphine and room service ice cream.
Alas, my plan never came to fruition. I do have my morphine pump by my side, but I haven’t been able to eat since Friday. And I had to leave my beloved room on floor eight for a smaller room on floor 14.
Friday night, the doctors had done an EKG, because my heart rate was going too fast for their liking. A little after midnight, they decided they wanted to monitor my heart, which decided to embark on its hijinx as I was yearning for sleep.
I didn’t take the heart monitoring as such bad news as the revelation they would have to move me to another floor. I must have looked like I was going to put up a fuss, because the nurses said it would probably be only for a few days, then I could return to eight.
I was upset that I would have to move and pack up in the middle of the night, so that did very little good for my heart rate. I packed quickly so I could catch a little sleep while I waited. When I woke up, I had a fever. So there were cultures and vials and tests. I slept through most of these before I was wheeled up to my new room. It’s a smaller, with space for only a bed, nightstand, rolling food table and a very skinny closet where I can put one computer bag. There are also two chairs that don’t pull out to sleep.
I had my boyfriend take home almost everything, aside my clothes, which don’t fit in the three drawers that I have. My view is a few buildings, but I miss my old room with its nice built-in cupboards, shelves and cabinetry.
The nurses could tell I was upset—especially after yesterday, when they told me I’d probably have to stay here. My fevers keep coming back. They assured me that I’d still be getting the best care, and I told them that that’s not what I was worried about—I just liked my old room a lot better. I know it’s a weird thing to feel upset about, but this room feels like hospital room. It makes me a little sad, despite the extra sunshine. I feel less motivated to go and sit in my chair to avoid pneumonia. I miss my little desk area and routine for my home away from home. Begrudgingly, I’m starting to like my new room, and its improved view.
I’ve just been sleeping since I moved anyway. I slept through all of Saturday, with my boyfriend coming in to visit during the evening. I did the same through most of Sunday, though I managed to get the gist of The Amazing Race and Mad Men.
I have very clear mucus that plagues me and wakes me up in the middle of the night when I need to cough some of it out. I am like an infant—when people wake me up to talk to me or check my vitals, I helplessly blow big mucus bubbles at them and smack my lips up and down before I try to speak.
I just received a visit from the dietitian, who left me a pediatric smoothie menu, a low microbial pediatric menu and a purée menu. I’m still very afraid to eat, but tomorrow I might take the plunge and order a smoothie and begin my infant diet.
Well, I’ve fallen asleep several times writing these last few sentences and I think I witnessed the latch on my closet go up and down by itself, so it’s time to sleep.