Poor Bastard and the Caregiver

Many of you know that my hubs, The Big Guy is about a week away from under going a bone marrow transplant. What you may not know is that by default, I am his Caregiver.  Part of the requirement is that I attend a “Caregiver Class.”   

First let me just say that I am saddened to think that Big must have drawn the short straw in life when he ended up with me as his Caregiver.

     You see, I’m a puker. Poop, blood and all things bodily fluid make me gag like only cat shit can. You hawk a loogie in front of me and I will throw up on you.

With Sierra in tow, we sat down with a big three-ring binder full of instructions. I opened the book and it fell open to the page titled, “RECTAL CARE.”  WHAAAA????  NOOOOO!!!!  I mean, I didn’t even know there was such a thing. 

     Shit, I’m in too deep, I thought (no pun intended). I’m too squeamish to do this because I’m a card carrying puker and I am not a sympathetic person. Empathetic, yes. Sympathetic, no.  

     I was dying inside; afraid to turn the page because I just knew it was going to say “TOE NAIL CLIPPING PROTOCOL” and this would be when I passed out.

I have no unrealistic expectations of graduating at the top of my class, in fact if my patient (The Big Guy) survives my Nurse Ratchet ways, well my work here is done and I’ll head straight to my next therapy session.  I was still shaking my head in disbelief at Big’s bad luck…MDS and ME, in the same lifetime. Poor bastard.

Then a lady a few rows behind me asked if the Caregiver was expected to stay with the patient 24/7, or if the Caregiver were allowed to slip away for a little while to go shopping. My ears perked up and I practically choked on my own spit, but I knew I’d found my soul mate.  My head spun around ala Exorcist to see who this woman was, and better yet to see who her poor bastard was. 

     I had just been studying my own neglected pedicure and had now found a woman after my own heart. I could almost see us in neighboring spa chairs comparing chemo reigmens.

The subject changed to what was considered an emergency and what warranted a trip to the ER.  

      Temperature spike—yes, bleeding—yes, the shakes—yes, uncontrolled vomiting and diarrhea—hell to the yes!   

     While the real Caregivers where busy asking logical questions, like: are the chills reason to go the ER? (yes), the only thing I could think to ask was, has a Caregiver ever been diagnosed with Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome.

(Authors note:  If you don’t know what that is, click here. When you quit laughing, go back to feeling sorry for The Big Guy because he got ME for a Caregiver. 

   

I leaned over and whispered the question to Sierra, who spewed Diet Dr. Pepper from her nose. And she’s a real nurse so I decided to save the question for after class. That, and I didn't want to scare off my new best friend before we had a chance to bond over French manicures.

Gawd, I hope there is not going to be test. I love this man and I’m sure when the time comes I’ll rally and be able to hand him a Kleenix, should the need arise. Pray for him!

 Poor Bastard and The Caregiver, on our way to class.