Certainly love Cam (& Dr. Levine's news!)

Yesterday morning (which feels like several days ago), I thought it was still Monday (it was Wednesday). And since I was sure it was Monday -- or Sunday? -- Friday was a long time away. And so my reaction was, "Who knows? Maybe. We'll at least humor the doctor about this possibility of only five more days."

But yesterday was, as I keep telling myself and you, Wednesday. And when someone pointed that out, I revised my inner response to Dr. Levine. "He's nuts," I said knowingly. 

I said this to myself, of course. There's so little certainty when one lives in a hospital room, that I long ago gave up asserting certainty about anything -- even and especially what day of the week it is at any given moment. So I thought, somewhat certainly (because Dr. Levine saved his life, but I was the one actually monitoring Cam's every moment,) "Cam won't be leaving by Friday."

Good thing I didn't say it out loud. Oh, wait, I think I did. To Cam's brother, Mike.  See what I mean about certainty? If it's not recorded in my blank book of thorough notes, it's haze, all haze.  

Anyway, this afternoon Dr. Levine announced, "Well, we need to get you outta' here."  

He's a pretty straight-shooter.

He says Cam will be discharged tomorrow!

We're not sure -- now that Dr. Levine has left our room of course -- exactly when tomorrow, seeing as another 3-hour dialysis is on the docket, and from check-in to check-out, the dialysis process is really more like 5 hours . . . buuuuut, details, schmetails.

How do we feel? Thrilled. I think. (Again, the certainty thing . . .). Also, we know that we're still tied to the hospital for awhile, as Cam will be treated as an "out-patient" for his "acute renal failure."

In non-doctor speak, that means this: no one has a reliable crystal ball with which to learn how long Cam will need dialysis. "Acute" is being used in its third definition: (for a disease), brief and severe (as opposed to chronic). 

So, Cam will continue to return to the hospital for dialysis treatments three times a week.

But you live in Los Angeles, some astute (not to be confused with acute) reader reading this is saying.

Indeed. Could be a brutal commute to Winston Salem, North Carolina. Especially since qualifying for release from a hospital after one has been disemboweled and filled with poison does not necessarily mean one will feel robust enough to withstand a six-hour journey on a pressurized aircraft. Not only that, Dr. Levine and any decent HIPEC surgeon won't allow travel for about a week after discharge, and almost every HIPEC patient does have to travel, since there are few facilities in the country who can offer HIPEC.

Luckily, there are really wealthy people who are philanthropists, and a local philanthropist set up a "family house" for people who need to travel to hospitals. It's cheaper than a hotel, only a few years old, a few miles from the hospital, has a comfortable room waiting for us, a communal kitchen, and several "living" areas.  As our mothers, who stayed there a week and two weeks, said about a hundred times, "You will just love it there."

So there you go.  We will just love it at the SECU Family House in Winston Salem until Cam is thoroughly convinced, with certainty, that he's ready for the cross-country trip that generally genuinely wears out a healthy person.  

And more certainly than I know that today's Thursday, I know there's NO WAY I'm putting him on an aircraft until he feels ready . . . you've mainly heard details of his kidney failure, but there were other unglorious details that as yet have not been published, including but not limited to severe breathing problems (he was still off and on oxygen all day yesterday), acute (as in severe but not permanent) nausea, and we shouldn't forget the pain from being disemboweled and filled with poison and having part of his diaphragm removed and a tube stuck through the remaining diaphragm with which to put in the hot poison, in order to kill the other poison growing in him.  

So yeah, I'm not rushing the guy.

By the way, Dr. Levine -- who's a straight-shooter, remember -- consoled Cam in an interesting way the other day when Cam had a tiny moment of "I was healthy before I came in here, and you've nearly killed me."  For the record, Cam would never say "You nearly killed me."  That's me getting to his point and invoking poetic license.

So here's how Dr. Levine "consoled" Cam about being healthy and then having an 8-hour surgery and hot chemo bath: "Let me tell you a story I heard from a professor.  A man decides he wants to see what it's like to jump off the top of the Empire State Building. So he does.  

"About the time he's falling past the 40th floor, another guy sticks his head out a window and yells, 'Hey! How's it going?'  

"The man falling yells back, 'It's GREAT so far!!' Obviously, we know what he'll be feeling very soon.

"Cam, you were that guy, and when you came in here, you were passing the 40th floor. You were feeling great, but if you had not come when you did for this procedure, you maybe would have had a year."

Sobering, right? If it's not, you weren't paying attention and should re-read, or you're heartless and should see a shrink.

Well, if you think that's sobering, you should hear how it was that we even ended up getting Cam to this hospital for this procedure.  

But I'm tired of writing, so that will have to be another day. We'll generously call this a cliff-hanger that will hopefully get you to read the next post, since the story of the past four months preceding Cam's surgery are really quite inspiring and I really feel compelled to share them with anyone who has been following Cam's harrowing adventures, and quite frankly, to anyone who's mortal.

So tune in next time.

Oh. The Pee Report? About a tablespoon per trip the last couple of days (about a 1/2 cup total each day). But this morning we both nearly cried with gratitude when his first trip to the bathroom produced as much as the entire day yesterday. A whopping 50 cc's. (Half cup.)

And there wasn't water in my eyes at the time, but I swear my whole body was metaphorically crying during another cherished moment this morning. Cam and I experienced something that I've longed for these 17 days that I've been beside his bed.

He was able to hug me.

Pictured: Cam goes outside for the first time in 17 days. Here he overlooks the city of Winston Salem, North Carolina from a terrace at Wake Forest Baptist Medical Center.