I don’t camp. I hate camping. And my definition of camping roughly includes any place where I’m forced to live out of a suitcase for more than a plush “weekend away” in a fine resort hotel.
Yet I’ve been “camping out” for the majority of the past 50 days today—pretty much since Tuesday, August 12, when my friend Rick went into the hospital for a little fluid retention problem—a common side-effect of long-term congestive heart failure.
Seven weeks and one LVAD implant later, I’m still at his bedside. I’ve become both a caregiver and a camper and haven’t spent more than a few hours outside the hospital during daylight for nearly the past two months.
Although I’ve hung up a few clothes in his closet (I brought my own hangers), I don’t even have a drawer here (and there’s no room for one), and I constantly wonder how I got myself into this difficult and nearly impossible situation, and how I can best get out.
And then I remember the bottom line: Rick is alive, and doing well.
Through the miracle of medical technology, and Rick’s willingness to have his lifestyle forever and irrevocably changed, his life goes on. And soon, I truly believe we’ll be able to add the adjective “quality” before “life” in that last sentence.
For years, Rick’s health has been progressively deteriorating. His blood flow, breathing, muscle strength, ability to walk any distance, etc., have all significantly diminished. Until now. Now he’s got a brand new, state-of-the-art pump in his chest, and things are changing rapidly for the good.
By necessity, I am changing too. There’s no going back; Rick has no one else he can count on, 24/7, day in, day out. I won’t sugarcoat it; the going has been really tough. I’ve shed many tears, spent a great deal of money, asked much of my own friends taking care of things at home, and had to deal with many resentment demons.
But out there on the horizon—after another month of daily dressing changes and weekly clinic visits and frequent blood and equipment tests—out there somewhere, in maybe a little less than another 50 days, Rick will be once again be able to live a “self-sufficient” life and feeling better and stronger than he’s felt in years.
And perhaps, as a welcome side effect, I’ll personally emerge a kinder, softer, gentler person as I stumble and bumble and try to navigate my way through my part in his ongoing recovery. At least, we can always hope!