After a series of false starts, miscommunications, damnations, frustrations, aggravations, cuss words, muss words, fuss words, blasphemies, absolutions, misgivings, doubts, pouts, screams, and bewilderments, we've finally begun chemotherapy. That is to say, we've finally secured a room, where I type these words, but have yet to begin the actual treatment. Doctors appointments to secure appointments with other doctors to meet with doctors to secure appointments, we've crossed the bureaucratic and nuanced river of hell to get to this point, whereupon we peer at the banks of progress. Maybe I know how Charon may have felt.
You see, at LACUSC, one must call for an available bed in the oncology/hematology ward before coming in. There are 16 beds available. I'm going to avoid guessing at the number of cancer patients who are trying to secure a spot, as my bewilderment will grow proportionally. We need to make a call to see a bed is available every 3 weeks or so.
Having called Thursday night, a nurse had mentioned that a bed was available for my mother (bed 144) and that we were to call early the following morning to make sure the bed was still available because beds may fill up to make room for emergency cases.
I awoke at 4 a.m. the following day to remove the TPN from mom, give an IV push of Zofran, flush out her lines, and prepare her items for the day. I called again to make sure there was a bed still available..."Sung, S-U-N-G, yes, she's my mother. Is a bed still available?" "Sung? Yes, yes, but you need to come early." My aunt skipped work that day and was on our doorstep at 6:30 a.m. We gathered mom's items - underwear, maternity pads, a change of clothing, plastic cups (so she can vomit in them), bottled water, facial tissues, and an orange (they mask the smell of bile) - and placed her in the wheelchair. Dad wheeled her outside and waited for me to bring the car around. My aunt and I placed mom's items and wheelchair in the car while dad told mom to keep faith, strength, and love in her heart. Once in the car, I changed the radio to the local NPR station, and we headed for the hospital.
I dropped my aunt and mom near the clinic tower while I parked the car. We arrived at the admission's desk and handed over her appointment papers and patient identifcation card. The woman at the front desk called up to make sure the bed was available. "Yes...Sooong. S-U-N. No. N. N as in no. S-U-N-G. G-G-G. No, one G. S-U-N-G. Sooong. Her number is 823-38-50. What? No, it's a woman. Okay, hold on."
And, on and on, it went.
The nurse who I called the night had indeed secured a bed, but it was for another Sung. We were asked to try another day. Sorry. That's how cookies and mothers crumble...
This is how it's been for the past three months. Stutters of progress, where defeat and patience walk hand in hand. We are both thankful and frustrated to be where we are.
