After the indeterminate MRI results, I was scheduled for a needle biopsy at Methodist Hospital. It’s only about 15 minutes from our house. I needed to check in at 6 am, ungodly early for us, when my phone alarm is set for 10:30 am most days. I suggested to Bob that I would just take an Uber to the hospital, he could stay home and deal with the dogs, and I’d call when I needed to be picked up. I checked about the timing of everything; I’d have to hang out for a least an hour if not two after the procedure. It was a solid plan.
Everything went smoothly. I was going to have conscious sedation, which, by all accounts, is truly lovely. I looked forward to that. I’ve had so many different IVs and procedures and surgeries that I’m not freaked out by the steady commotion getting me ready for the test. I remember being a bit irritated by my nurse, who wouldn’t stop talking. About nothing. “My sister’s name is Kathleen and someone called her Kathy once and she didn’t answer!!” Jesus. Please start the drugs.
The drugs did indeed start, and they were as terrific as advertised. It’s true that I was conscious, but I was also floaty and euphoric and just fucking great. The doctor doing the biopsy asked if I wanted to see one of my samples, and I said, “Yeah!!” It looked like a tiny red wriggler worm. One of the benefits of the drugs is that they act as an amnesiac, and while you’re awake for the procedure, you don’t remember it. I definitely remember the little red worm, and worse, I definitely, clearly, remember the doctor saying to the nurse that he’d “be surprised if this isn’t cancer.”
Well, fuck. I was running out of outs. This wasn’t the final determination of cancer, but it wasn’t sounding good. Back in my recovery room, I had to lie on my right side to put pressure on the area where a big needle was stabbed into my belly. What was totally unexpected was the feeling that there was a bear trap clamped on my shoulder. I told the nurse and she said that’s a common occurrence after this procedure, something about a nerve getting stimulated and anyway, here’s a Percocet. Okay, awesome. She also set me up with some rice cakes and cranberry juice, got my phone out of my locker, and told me I could go home in an hour and fifteen minutes. I called Bob to let him know the plan. He didn’t answer.
For 42 calls.
I’m lying on my side, high on Percocet, just found out I’ve probably definitely got liver cancer, and Bob isn’t answering his phone. My nurse keeps coming in, “Did you reach him?” No. Nope. Not yet. I asked if I could take an Uber home. Negative.
I text my next door neighbors Ryan and Anne: “Are either of you at home? This is an odd request: I just had a medical test done, and it’s time for Bob to pick me up, but he’s not answering (sound sleeper and our day doesn’t typically start for another hour). If you are home, would you mind going over and ringing the doorbell? That will wake the dogs, and that will wake Bob…”
Ryan rings the doorbell once, and nothing happens. No barking dogs. I ask if he can try again…multiple rings later, there is still no activity. No dogs, no answered phones. Nothing.
There was only one logical explanation: a carbon monoxide event has killed them all.
We have a lockbox next to our front door, and I momentarily considered giving Ryan the code so he could go inside. But I didn’t want him to find the bodies, and I really didn’t want him to get carbon monoxided. They have young children. Anne offered that Ryan could pick me up, and being without any other option, I said thank you, that would be lovely.
My nurse seemed satisfied that I had an appropriate ride, and sent for a wheelchair transfer. I was dressed and ready to go when Ryan texted to say he was there. Still no wheelchair transfer. My nurse had also disappeared. Since she’d already gone over my discharge instructions, I said fuck it and walked out. I totally could have escaped in an Uber.
I was barely holding it together the whole drive home: I’d just found out I probably definitely have liver cancer, my husband and dogs were dead. The cats don’t sleep upstairs, so they’d likely still be alive, but they’re generally unreliable for anything important. I was going to die alone, soon. It seemed weird to mention any of this to my very nice neighbor Ryan, so I just worked to not slip into catatonia while I asked if the kids were enjoying school. I have no idea what the answer was or what else we talked about.
A couple blocks from home, I got a text from Bob. “Bob’s not dead!” I said to Ryan, who looked at me like he didn’t know Bob being dead was an option. Bob called my phone as I was walking toward our front door, and I said I was coming in the front. Got to the front door, expecting to see a very sorry Bob throw the door open, asking for forgiveness. Nope. Nothing. I rummaged in my purse to find my key and let myself in.
Bob and the dogs were still in bed upstairs. The dogs barely even lifted their heads, opening one eye like “Wait, were you gone?” Bob asked, “Did I fuck it?” as I dissolved into sobbing hysteria. “I thought you were dead! I’ve got cancer! What the fuck? Why didn’t you answer? Do not touch me DO NOT TOUCH ME!!!”
Bob not turning on the ringer on his phone was a significant error. Bob hadn’t been sleeping much recently, due to a combination of chronic neck pain and worrying about losing his wife. However, it seems he slipped into the deepest, most restful sleep of his life about the moment I took an Uber to the hospital alone.
Bob was repentant. He promised me that he would take care of everything from now on. He would make dinner every night; I wouldn’t have to do anything. He really felt terribly that he wasn’t there for me in my time of need. He should feel bad. That was fucked up. He asked why I didn’t give Ryan the lock box code, and I explained I didn’t want our neighbor to find the bodies, but Bob had issue with this decision; what if Bob had experienced a heart attack, and was still holding on, and Ryan could have found him in time to get an ambulance? Well, I had actually considered that, because even high on drugs and nearly blacking out from anxiety, I’m able to play out all scenarios quickly and efficiently. And I decided fuck it. Too fucking bad. If he wasn’t already dead, Bob would have to wait until I got home.
I can report that Bob has made dinner every night since. We were recently in Raleigh, North Carolina for Farm Aid, and I needed some documents printed. It was late at night, and the only option was the hotel business center. I told Bob he needed to get dressed (he was already in bed) and go down and do some printing for me. He grumbled a little, but brought the documents back, and asked, hopefully, if we were even now. Hahahahahaha! Oh, hell no. Not even close. And even if he does ever make up for that colossal biopsy fuck up, he’s still got a cancer wife to take care of. He’s just fucked. Forever.
