About six weeks ago our landline phone rang well after midnight, waking me from a deep sleep. Assuming it wasn't good news I answered and heard the wide-awake voice of a man claiming to be a doctor in a hospital in New York. He explained that my sister was in the Emergency Room and needed surgery immediately, and since I was her only living relative and thus her health proxy by default, he needed my consent to go forward. Still groggy I asked what "go forward" entailed, and was treated to a thoroughly revolting and detailed description of her obstructed bowel that had basically "exploded," spilling its contents on all her surrounding internal organs. A "repair" was necessary to save her life.
I should mention at this point that I have not seen my sister in 28 years. Five years my senior, she had stolen my childhood and cost me many thousands of dollars in therapy as an adult trying to overcome the horror she had rained down on our family when I was growing up. (Turned out the damage was done since you only get one childhood, but if I repeat my mantra enough times I can sometimes drown out the hideous memories.)
Anyway, I told the doctor, "Sure, go ahead," and hung up, hoping to get back to sleep. No such luck as my mind was filled with images of unleashed feces invading body parts. Several hours later, maybe it was five in the morning, the doctor called back and again sailed into an impromptu anatomy lesson, ending with the news that he had removed my sister's entire colon and she would now be using an external "bag" to perform its functions. Still she was not "out of the woods" and they needed to do other things, and would I give my permission for putting in a drain and debriding the wound and a bunch of other sickening things. "Hey, you're the doctor, I just paint pictures -- why ask me? Do what you have to do!" Still, they needed my okay and two witnesses in the hospital had to be on the line to hear me give it.
Over the ensuing weeks I received many of these phone calls, asking for permission to do this or that. She was out of the hospital and back at the nursing home facility where she has lived for the past five years, then she was back in the hospital. Each time I was informed of her transport. In again, out again, they reported that she was not quite conscious, basically incoherent, there was possible dementia, maybe another surgery, "Whatever, go ahead, do it," I always said.
Being hyper-empathic by nature, I became consumed with thoughts of my sister's degrading body, most especially her exploded colon, and how depressed she must be yet unable to communicate her misery. I shared in this misery and have cried daily since then, my tears quelled by repeated squirts of CBD tincture, glasses of red wine, doses of Lorazepam and an occasional hit of pot.
The phone calls from various doctors, nurses and hospital administrators came weekly and without warning, each one plummeting me into a new pit of despair. A message on our home answering machine could only mean trouble. Yesterday, after a fun lunch out with two good friends, I returned home and there it was: the flashing red light. Listening to the message, I was surprised to hear my sister's voice. Crazy as ever, she was under the impression that my outgoing message was actually me and tried talking to it, then became frustrated when it didn't talk back. She hung up and called again, saying "I hear you, I know you're there." Oh well, at least she was coherent.
I called back the number on the caller ID screen and a nurse answered. It was her cell phone that my sister had used earlier. "I'll get her for you," she offered. Finally I could talk to her! Right away I asked how she was. She said fine. I said it must have been rough undergoing so many surgeries. She said, "What surgeries? I didn't have surgery." I asked why she was in the hospital for so long, what did they do to her there, and she said she had no idea. She even laughed about it, and I heard her ask a nurse,"What happened to me in the hospital?" A murmured response in the background seemed to dodge the question. Most amazing, my sister was completely clueless about the loss of her colon since when I asked how that felt, she said, "I don't know what you're talking about." Apparently I was the only one who missed it.
My husband figures she must be on some heavy drugs, like morphine. I wonder if maybe I could get some. After all, I am her health proxy.
I should mention at this point that I have not seen my sister in 28 years. Five years my senior, she had stolen my childhood and cost me many thousands of dollars in therapy as an adult trying to overcome the horror she had rained down on our family when I was growing up. (Turned out the damage was done since you only get one childhood, but if I repeat my mantra enough times I can sometimes drown out the hideous memories.)Anyway, I told the doctor, "Sure, go ahead," and hung up, hoping to get back to sleep. No such luck as my mind was filled with images of unleashed feces invading body parts. Several hours later, maybe it was five in the morning, the doctor called back and again sailed into an impromptu anatomy lesson, ending with the news that he had removed my sister's entire colon and she would now be using an external "bag" to perform its functions. Still she was not "out of the woods" and they needed to do other things, and would I give my permission for putting in a drain and debriding the wound and a bunch of other sickening things. "Hey, you're the doctor, I just paint pictures -- why ask me? Do what you have to do!" Still, they needed my okay and two witnesses in the hospital had to be on the line to hear me give it.
Over the ensuing weeks I received many of these phone calls, asking for permission to do this or that. She was out of the hospital and back at the nursing home facility where she has lived for the past five years, then she was back in the hospital. Each time I was informed of her transport. In again, out again, they reported that she was not quite conscious, basically incoherent, there was possible dementia, maybe another surgery, "Whatever, go ahead, do it," I always said.
Being hyper-empathic by nature, I became consumed with thoughts of my sister's degrading body, most especially her exploded colon, and how depressed she must be yet unable to communicate her misery. I shared in this misery and have cried daily since then, my tears quelled by repeated squirts of CBD tincture, glasses of red wine, doses of Lorazepam and an occasional hit of pot.
The phone calls from various doctors, nurses and hospital administrators came weekly and without warning, each one plummeting me into a new pit of despair. A message on our home answering machine could only mean trouble. Yesterday, after a fun lunch out with two good friends, I returned home and there it was: the flashing red light. Listening to the message, I was surprised to hear my sister's voice. Crazy as ever, she was under the impression that my outgoing message was actually me and tried talking to it, then became frustrated when it didn't talk back. She hung up and called again, saying "I hear you, I know you're there." Oh well, at least she was coherent.
I called back the number on the caller ID screen and a nurse answered. It was her cell phone that my sister had used earlier. "I'll get her for you," she offered. Finally I could talk to her! Right away I asked how she was. She said fine. I said it must have been rough undergoing so many surgeries. She said, "What surgeries? I didn't have surgery." I asked why she was in the hospital for so long, what did they do to her there, and she said she had no idea. She even laughed about it, and I heard her ask a nurse,"What happened to me in the hospital?" A murmured response in the background seemed to dodge the question. Most amazing, my sister was completely clueless about the loss of her colon since when I asked how that felt, she said, "I don't know what you're talking about." Apparently I was the only one who missed it.
My husband figures she must be on some heavy drugs, like morphine. I wonder if maybe I could get some. After all, I am her health proxy.
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