Life Happens Regardless

He Chews His Water

Is this what my friends are talking about? New schedules and old habits mixed with revelations and old comforts? I sat across from Bill for a late lunch in quiet comradery. Idling, he had finished his meal but remained engrossed in some breaking news article.

He chewed on a sip of water.

This chewing, on water, is a habit at least as old as our 35 years of marriage. Often noted, but now noticed, it includes other non-chewable items. In my opinion.

~

We had bumped into each other often during the months of work-from-home mandates. Instead of commuting we rode bikes. Instead of mid-morning text exchanges we met in the corner of the kitchen for coffee (him) or tea (me). Instead of taking lunch alone, we asked, “Do you want me to make you something, too?”

Day was night. Afternoon was vague. The dog got a lot of walks.

Bill felt logy after a longer weekend bike ride. He excused himself for a lie-down. Hours later, feeling worse, he reported stiffness, headache, muscle soreness, and high fever. Perhaps the flu. That was odd, I thought, because we haven’t been near anyone. I called the doctor’s office. However, no one wanted to see him out of an abundance of caution. “Treat him at home. We’ll see how he feels tomorrow. Fluids and rest.”

By morning his joints had swelled beyond his ability to get out of bed easily. The maneuvering took almost 45 minutes. He has rheumatoid arthritis, mostly controlled by medications, and it wasn’t too surprising his joints swelled with illness. But the extent and pain level, excruciating.

By the next day I decided an unsatisfactory phone call with his doctor, who was insisting it was simply something that had to run its course, was now insufficient. “Take him to the ER if you think it’s that bad.” So I did.

I had been reluctant. He had to be bad enough for me to willingly take him to the only hospital, The Hillbilly Heights Hospital. A place of last resort in our rural town.

“Not viral,” someone confirmed in the emergency department. They cultured his blood.

Sepsis. Bacteremia. Staphylococcus aureus. “Though we don’t know how the infection started, we think it might have affected his ICD, the pacemaker/defibrillator. We suggest surgery to remove it.”

Oh no, I thought, I’m not letting them do surgery. Not here.

I arranged for a 2-hour midnight ambulance ride to deliver him to his cardiologists at the university hospital where he could receive better, if not the best care, considering the circumstances.

“Yes,” the university doctors pointed to the screen, “Look at the images. He has bio-vegetation.”

I peered at the images. A small tether ball swung with his blood flow through a chamber of his heart. Pump swish wiggle wiggle. Pump swish wiggle wiggle. It vibrated with the beats. The infection blob, perhaps a generous half inch in diameter, clung from one of the ICD leads that had been implanted in his heart years ago. The ICD had shocked him - saved him from death- twice in his life already. And now to save his life it needs to come out along with the bio-gunk. The blobby sack of staphylococcus aureus that was infecting his heart. The heart that belonged to me.

“We have an alternative defibrillator implant to replace the old one. Less chance of re-infection,” they assured me.

Meanwhile, my husband, never a good patient in the best of times, spent weeks in delirium, hallucinations, and cranky moods. One day he solved math problems on an imaginary board. Another he strummed an invisible guitar, his left fingers finding chords for music only he could hear. Food didn’t appeal. He didn’t care.

Day was night. Night was dark. Time reported only to the shift changes.

~

After weeks in rehabilitation, we are home again, I mused. Across from each other in our assigned seats, I regarded Bill. 50 pounds lighter, not quite finishing a decent lunch, a sweater despite the warm day. Later we’ll mosey around the block. Maybe venture twice around if he’s up to it.

I looked at the clock. Time for antibiotics. I prepared the syringe, alcohol wipes, and sterile gloves.

“Time for my medicine already?” Bill asked.

“Yes, every 8 hours.” I moved to sit near him. “Are you finished?”

“Almost,” he pushed his plate away, sat upright, and presented his IV line.

This man, my partner in problem solving and adventure, lifted his glass for one last gulp.

He chews his water.