We soldier on.

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When Nelson‘s father was alive, he used to encourage his young children in a special way. If they were going through something hard—like stitches in an ER—he would say, “You’re being a good soldier, kid. Hang in there.”

These days, if he was with us, I think he’d say the same thing while watching his son fight this hard battle against cancer.

Today, after multiple doctors consulted with each other yesterday, a decision was made to perform a procedure on Nelson, despite the risk. They would transport him to one of the surgical centers here and establish a type of port going into his left lung similar to that on the right. It would be a drain that could open and close rather than remain open like the one in the hospital.

The reason it was risky was because they had to stop his blood thinner meds for six or more hours in order to successfully do the surgery. During that time, anything could happen. A piece of his existing blood clot could break off and move into his lungs—a disaster. Or other clots could quickly form elsewhere in his body.

But without this new drain he couldn’t leave the hospital. With it, Ann Sophie could manage draining his lungs at home, both sides. Today’s surgery would be one more step toward being discharged.

Two days ago we were round tabling the idea of this possible surgery, weighing the pros and cons. Nelson said, “I just don’t want that. Not another ambulance ride, another surgery, and then another recuperation. No thanks.“

But today, there he was, being strapped onto a gurney and wheeled away to an ambulance that was indeed headed for a surgical center, to do what he didn’t want to do. But he was being a good soldier.

When it was all over and he was back in his regular room tonight, he reported that despite pain in his side, he felt great. Also, after his stint in the recovery room, he was left free of all tubes and IV lines and is now taking all meds by mouth. But best of all, tonight the staff gave him the good word that he can be discharged—tomorrow! This soldier has won a victory.

Back at home, I was singing to little Will, and without realizing it, was actually singing about Nelson:

“Onward Christian soldier, marching as to war,
With the cross of Jesus going on before.
Christ the Royal Master leads against the foe.
Forward into battle, see his banner go.”’

You’re being a good soldier, kid. Hang in there.

“Share in suffering as a good soldier of Christ Jesus.” (2 Timothy 2:3)

Nelson’s Day

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Many of you frequently ask, “How was Nelson’s day?” Some days are more dramatic than others, but during a typical day in the hospital, here’s what he’s doing.

Blood draws are frequent, starting at 5 AM. A lab lady knocks and enters every 4 to 6 hours, dragging a massive medical cart behind her. She searches for a good vein in Nelson’s bruised arms and sometimes has to make multiple tries. This is especially hard on Nelson during the night when she rolls in at 1 – 2 AM. It’s not a happy way to wake up.

As soon as the shift changes (6 AM for doctors, 7 AM for everyone else), The medical personnel begin their visits. They take Nelson‘s vitals again and again, change IV bags, check lung fluid accumulation, record it all on a computer and fuss over him till he wishes they would go away.

After that, a parade of other “helpers“ come and go throughout the day— a skin specialist to check on bedsores, a palliative care nurse to ask about pain meds, a social worker, a chaplain, a cleaning crew, a food server, and a transport person to take him away for x-rays, procedures, or tests.

The nurses are in and out multiple times every hour, delivering meds, fetching ice water, checking oxygen, updating the whiteboard, and unnumbered other tasks. And of course the doctors on Nelson‘s team of about 20 are part of the parade, too. When they come in, they often bring students or interns with them. Sometimes a nurse accompanies them, and the visitor headcount increases.

By the end of any hospital day, Nelson is thoroughly depleted. He asks for the lights to be turned off, even when it’s not bedtime. And his frustration mounts when every person who enters his room asks a series of questions. If he has just taken a pain pill for his constant lung pain, he finds it difficult to answer.

Tonight when Ann Sophie, Will and I were visiting, he told us that each day felt like an eternity and he was just marking time so he could call the day done.

 

Wanting to encourage him today, Ann Sophie suggested we all go to a rooftop patio that’s furnished with comfortable tables and chairs, just so Nelson (who loves the outdoors) could be outside for a while. It took a crew of helpers to free him from his many tethers, but he complied and seemed to enjoy the patio, once we got there. It wore him out in a good way, since so much time in the bed wears on him in a different way.

Nelson always thanks us, and his words about the patio were positive, but since he’s been in the hospital, there hasn’t been much sparkle behind what he says–unless he’s talking to baby Will. Then he becomes animated.

Little Will, approaching 4 months old, is a celebrity on the oncology floor. He’s only there with special permission. The nurses call him eye candy, and when he’s smiling, there’s no better mood-lifter than him. 

We’re praying Nelson will get to come home soon, but not too soon. The clot issue, still unresolved, and his swollen limbs will have to improve before it’ll be safe to leave the hospital. He knows that but then said, “This is all so hard.” And we agree.

“When the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears and delivers them.” (Psalm 34:17)

Little Victories

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As we suspected, Nelson is pressing the hospital staff for an exit-date from the hospital. Now that he’s been transferred from the ICU to a regular hospital room, there’s a new set of physical goals to reach. For example, he needs to be weaned off the high density oxygen without his numbers slipping below 95. And he needs to be able to walk around without his heart rate rising above 120. Nelson is doing everything in his power to meet these requirements, but most of it is out of his control. He did have several victories today, though.

1. The cancerous nodules in both lungs that were “too numerous to count“ have all significantly shrunken.
2. The swollen lymph nodes on both sides of his neck have also gotten smaller. They can’t be felt anymore from the outside.
3. His platelet count is up and all other blood numbers are stable.
4. He needs one less blood pressure medicine to keep his pressure up.
5. Two catheters have been removed, along with one IV line.
6. The lab lady was able to find a vein on her first try for this morning‘s blood draw.
7. Pain meds are no longer being given by IV but only by mouth.

But sadly, today wasn’t only about victories. We received one negative piece of news that both shocked and disappointed us: Despite being on blood thinners, Nelson now has a large blood clot under his clavicle bone area.

When his team gave him the details about this, he became overwhelmed with anxiety. After the doctors left, leaving his mind swirling, he called and told us he couldn’t handle “all this“ anymore, because there was no end in sight. They had asked him questions about making choices for moving forward, and he had been unable to organize his thoughts enough to answer. He seemed on the verge of panic, so we quickly mobilized and were in his room in just minutes.

He was still feeling anxious, telling us he felt like his hospital room had become a prison he could never get out of. But he was relieved to see us, especially his beloved Ann Sophie.

Just before we arrived, they had done a 90 minute ultrasound of his swollen arm, looking closely at the clot. They learned it was not just a small, marble-sized clot but one that reaches into four different veins: the internal jugular vein, the subclavian vein, the auxiliary vein, and the upper arm cephalic vein.

As a result, blood is flowing into Nelson‘s arm and legs but can’t get out. His limbs are so swollen now that he virtually can’t bend them.

The head nurse came in to answer more questions, bringing a print-out to help us understand. Once we saw the scope of the problem, we quizzed her at length about how to “fix it.“ She told us three teams of oncology experts would be arriving tomorrow morning: vascular, pulmonary, and radiation. All of them are familiar with Nelson‘s case, and together with him, they will structure a plan. We hope to be there listening in.

Before we left tonight, Ann Sophie questioned Nelson‘s nurse about his anti-anxiety meds, and they promised to be sure he had enough. Nelson never asks. He just carefully thanks every person who enters his room, telling them what a good job they’ve done and how he’s thankful for their care. This goes for everyone from medical people to food servers to cleaning crews. We’ve watched him bring light and goodness to each one.

Nelson is making a difference in the lives of many at the Clinic. As the old Sunday school song says, “Brighten the corner where you are.“

And despite today’s bad news, that’s what he’s doing.

“You are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light.” (Ephesians 5:8)