It’s my turn to be the sick one. Thank God… finally!
I felt a flush of excitement rushing through my body as I drove back home from the ER. By now the pancreas pain had gone away and I was left with a surge in adrenaline — what would become my most common response to intense pancreas pain — so not only did I feel high as a kite as I made my way back home, but I felt a great sense of relief at the timing. At last, I would be the one who got to rest, who got to do whatever they wanted because they were sick, who got all the attention. I mean, Stan had just completed his radiation treatments, so all that was left to do for him was wait.
And take my turn.
And God, if I didn’t tend to Stan well when he was sick. I could hardly wait to let my husband repay the favor.
My mother looked as though I had died when I walked through the front door and told her I had pancreatits. She had been playing with Krystal on the floor — they were building blocks.
I tried to tell her without a smile, but I was just so excited to get to rest (a real reason that had medical validity!) and have Stan fuss over me for once. But then, my mother has dealt with pancreas pain her whole adult life; she had reason to look so pale. Mom’s not a stranger to that sort of pain; I know the expression on her face bespoke of experiences I hadn’t had yet, once I couldn’t know of before living through them… of being in so much pain it makes you vomit, of not being able to move, of wishing for death, and praying for pain medications that actually worked.
My mother is allergic to morphine. And most other narcotics. So, she often took Tylenol during a bout of pacreatitis, if anything. And then waited for it to pass. If any of my readers have ever suffered an attack of pancreatitis, you know what sort of pain my mother lived through. I’m amazed at how much she’s still able to do with chronic pancreatits.
“So, what does that mean?” Stan asked when I announced my diagnosis to the family.
“It means that the pancreas is inflamed,” Mom explained, turning to him. “Violet needs to rest when she has an attack and shouldn’t be eating any protein or fat for a while, so her digestive fluids can take a rest.” She looked at me. “Have you ever heard of the BRAT diet?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No.”
“It stands for Bananas, Rice, Applesauce, and Toast. Since you’re allergic to bananas, I guess it’s just rice, applesauce, and toast. We give it to young children who have stomach pain to help the inflammation go down. I would stay on the BRAT diet for the next couple of days to give your pancreas a rest.” Mom turned to Stan again and put her hand on his cheek. “You will make sure Violet rests, won’t you?” she asked.
“Yes of course, Mom,” Stan answered, looking surprised. “Whatever she needs I’ll do for her.”
I told everyone I was going to lay down and went into my bedroom, hearing Mom, Dad, and Stan talking quietly as I closed the door.
Finally… my bed. I lay down gingerly, drinking in the Sick Violet development, this unexpected new identity. Of course, I had felt like hell since the beginning of the pregnancy, but now I had a reason for feeling so rotten! My mind went to the prescription the ER doctor had written for me. Vicodin seemed a little extreme; I had gotten through the pain thus far — I should be able to wait it out. I hoped so, at least.
The voices in the living room continued and I heard Stan laugh. I shifted position in my bed, wondering what was so funny. Mom laughed a few moments later and I started to feel a pang of loneliness. I rolled over onto my side, frustrated that I couldn’t lay on my stomach anymore — my favorite position in bed.
I scanned Stan’s nightstand for any good books. We’d read through most of R.A. Salvatore’s work (I had a private crush on Drizzt the reformed bad boy night elf, of course), but I wasn’t in the mood for the dark musings of Drizzt’s futile existence just then. I wanted something else. Not a book, not food, not…
Attention. That’s what I was missing. Stan was supposed to be fretting over me and fussing about my doctor visit. Not hanging out in the living room laughing with my parents as I lay alone in our bedroom. This wasn’t the way Sick Violet was supposed to be treated. Not left to her own devices. Not even Mom came in to check on me. What was going on here?
With a strong sense of resentment, I opened the door of my bedroom and walked down the hall into the living room. Krystal was charming Dad with the few words she knew and Stan looked like he would burst with pride.
“Hey,” he said as I sat down on the couch. “Feel better?”
No, of course I don’t feel better. You’ve been shooting the breeze with my parents while I sit in my room alone.
“A little,” I say. “I’m starting to think my diet triggered the attack of pancreatitis.” I thought back to how many milky way bars I’d eaten in the past week. It must have been at least one per day, probably more. And that bag of mint M & Ms I was working on just before I made the trip to the ER.
That trip was another thing. Why did I have to drive to the hospital on my own? Stan never went with me to my OB appointments, unless I told him I had an ultrasound scheduled. And now I had to drive to the ER by myself. I know that he’d have told me to take Krystal with me if Mom and Dad hadn’t been visiting. How come he never had to do that? I always took care to make his life as easy as possible when he was still going through diagnosis and treatment.
I felt my face flush with frustration and rummaged around the kitchen for some bread.
“I wouldn’t eat anything just yet,” Mom called from the living room as she saw me opening cupboards. “Give it a few hours. Inflammation has to go down a bit.”
I suddenly realized the reason for my over-sized stomach. I wasn’t carrying excess fat; it was inflammation that I had just over my stomach and pancreas area that made me look more pregnant than I was. I allowed myself a private smile. I know that Stan considered me quite the heifer, even though he made a point not to say it outright. It would be such a treat to show him that my stomach wasn’t really all that big once my pancreas relaxed.
I don’t recall it getting much smaller. To tell the truth, even on the BRAT diet (or the RAT diet as I liked to call it, since I couldn’t eat bananas), I still experienced pancreas pain.
At first, I went to the ER when I had an attack. Always alone, while Stan stayed with Krystal. Nine times out of ten, my enzyme levels would test normal, so the doctors would take one look at my belly and assume that I was one of those pregnant women: oversensitive, irrational, hormonal, etc. They didn’t believe that I was actually in pain. One nurse actually gave me Maalox spiked with some sort of numbing agent. A few minutes later she asked me what my pain level was. I told her it was still an 8, but only now I couldn’t feel my throat.
Over the course of the next month, I very quickly learned what Mom’s grey face was all about. The shooting, stabbing, unrelenting pain of a pancreas in distress was far more agonizing than the pain of labor. I would have breathed through it, but it hurt like hell to breathe, so I just took my Vicodin, prayed to high heaven that it didn’t affect my newborn, and then drew a bath or laid on my couch, waiting for the narcotics to kick in. They did eventually, but all that really did was make me not care about the pain (and not be able to move my body). It didn’t make the pain go away. Nothing did.
Afterwords, I’d have my usual spike in adrenalin (sometimes accompanied by a narcotic carryover) and life would blur in front of me. I quit going to the ER since my levels almost always tested normal.
Mom told me the same thing happened to her, too. Only since she was a nurse, the doctors would be wary of her knowledge of the body and the drugs she was asking for. Eventually she was labeled as a “drug-seeking” patient and was refused any pain medicine other than Tylenol or Motrin. Most attacks that she had happened at home, too. Better than being humiliated by a nurse who’s seen her chart and figured she was a well-educated drug addict.
I think Stan probably did what he thought was required of him after my initial visit from the ER. He didn’t have to cook for me since my food was basically taken care of (loaf of bread, anyone?) and Krystal was easy enough to feed; she just ate what Stan ate, which was usually Sonic or Wendy’s. I still had to take Krystal with me anytime I went anywhere, and Stan still had to work.
He never fussed over me. I began to get angry with him with increasing frequency. But what was I going to do? Tell him to coddle me? I mean, that’s how he would see it, in any case. This was a guy who spent three hours in the gym every single day, even after he found out he had cancer. Especially after he found out he had cancer. There was no way he was going to understand a desire for rest.
Turns out my turn didn’t really come. Not the way I had hoped. I was Sick Violet, yes, but I didn’t get the same attention and devotion I lavished on Stan when he was going through hell.
I asked him once why he didn’t help out more. He looked at me and said with a shrug, “You never ask for help. I just assume you don’t need it.”
I nearly hit him when he said that. Couldn’t he see that I needed it?
As it turns out, there wouldn’t be much time for help anyway. In late December, Stan got a call from his mother relaying a distressing message.
Juan, Stan’s father by birth, was on his deathbed and had been asking for his son. His firstborn. Stan had not sp0ken to his father in eight years, having walked out on a conversation that had Juan bragging about having an affair. Stan didn’t make contact again.
“Dying?” I said with a shock, as Stan let his cellphone drop from his face. “From what?”
“Cancer,” came Stan’s reply. And then he began to laugh. I shook my head, understanding Stan’s reaction. Truly, if he didn’t laugh, he’d be sobbing on the floor.
Guess it’s Stan’s turn again, I thought to myself with a heavy sigh. Oh well, I signed up for this marriage.
Still, I never thought that I’d have to give up so much to make it work.
© 2012
