Sunday, February 05, 2012

  If there's one symbol of this entire ordeal that I hate the most, it's this contraption, dubbed the Hoyer Lift by the Awesome Nurses, but also known as a Patient Lift:

  In short, it's a crane to lift my wife out of bed.  Not because of her 6'2" frame.  Not primarily for safety reasons.  Because her cancer, which has pinched her spinal cord, has turned her lower body into dead weight which will only move millimeters with the most intense willpower she can muster.  Of all the things she's had to endure, it's this machine that rips my heart out every time I see her forced to use it.  I've been able to deal with every other thing she's had to go through, wheelchair, walker, in home therapy, rearranging the entire house as needed, running my kids all over town so I can spend time with her, bringing our family to the hospital so we can spend time together and help J with his homework, her near hysteria from 2 hour long MRI sessions, the occasional clumsy hospital bed to bed transfers, and emptying the commode, and dealing with her inability to get to the commode as necessary steps to recovery.

  We can spend time at her bedside, laughing and enjoying each other and our witty banter.  Chuckle as we try to remember rules to childhood card games, or trying to compare Word of Warcraft to it's TCG counterpart, or bitching about how even the most excellent hospital food that has been known to man can be replaced the fine cuisine of Taco Bell when you've been in for over 3 months.  Those moments are enjoyable, pleasurable, and they don't seem so bad, even when we're interrupted for blood draws, finger sticks, or medicine time.

  It's the lift I despise most. 

  It may represent my inability to provide that type of mobility for my wife.  It may represent how inadequate our home may be should it be required that we own one of these diabolical machines.

  It does represent the over 300+ days that I haven't been able to sleep side by side with my wife.

  It does represent nearly a year of internal pain, struggle, and the feeling that I may not be able to do what I feel I want to do for all the members of my family.

  I am thankful such a device is around, and would gladly assist my wife in using it an infinite amount of times per day without complaint.  Every movement an act of pure care.

  But I don't have to like the machine.

  Epithelioid Hemangioendothelioma.

  I still hate you.


Mrs C said...

I hate it too. I'm hoping with all my might that by the time radiation is completed, my legs will "hear" me again and I'll be able to at least stand, and not ever need a Hoyer again.

Becky Carleton said...

Wow. Great post. Thanks for sharing this with us. Let us know anything we can do to help.