Bright lights, big city

Recently back from my caregiver responsibilities with Broschat in Washington, DC. I never gave a second thought to making this trip. When I heard he was going in for prostate surgery, I knew immediately that I would be going out to join him.

I find it hard to put the right word to this decision. It wasn’t a favor. It wasn’t a responsibility or obligation. It was simply what I was going to do. Our almost fifty years of friendship was certainly a big part of the decision. Friends help out friends when they can. And I was the obvious guy for the job. I had the time, being retired and having no important plans for a few weeks in summer, like going to the beach. I’d been through the surgery myself and knew what recovery looked like. And since I knew Michael would never let me spend a dime of my own money while I was there, finances were never an issue.

Actually, I became quite uncomfortable with his unwavering insistence that he pay for everything, but you can’t out-stubborn some people on some issues, and I knew I would never win this one. “I’ll have the filet mignon, and have room service send up more ice.”

The visit itself was mostly an enjoyable vacation. My real caregiving responsibilities ended after the first few days when he got the hang of changing pee bags without ripping out his catheter. Still, since I’d been through it myself only two years ago, I knew the first few days would be difficult to manage alone when you’re still foggy from the effects of anesthetic and nervous about having a tube coming out of your Weiner. I actually liked having a catheter since it allowed me for the first time in my life to sit through a whole movie without getting up to go to the bathroom, but it definitely takes a little getting used to.

We faced only one minor crisis, which didn’t feel at all minor at the time. After his discharge from the hospital, it became clear—I’ll spare you the details—that the catheter wasn’t catheterizing, and I had to put in a call to one of his urologists. The good doctor handled it beautifully, telling us to come back into the hospital and directly up to the ward Michael had just left, avoiding the blunt-force trauma of going through the emergency room. A quick (but obviously painful) flush of the system with saline solution and everything was back to normal. We went back home and I made the patient some broth from a can of chicken noodle. I ate the chicken and noodles.

By the next day, we were on solid foods again and going out for short walks. Despite his admission on his own blog that he was scared shitless, (pissless, actually, but never mind), Michael never showed any outward signs of emotional stress. He seemed to take it all in stride, which made my modest duties easy.

Within a few days I was completely in vacation mode, and it was a great visit. Two days in Colonial Williamsburg, where we always ate with only the best people and stayed on site in a converted something—a mill or granary or privy, I wasn’t quite sure which. Williamsburg has been restored to its condition of roughly 1750, and its many homes and other buildings, concerts on period instruments, and historical reenactments create in even a jaded historical revisionist like myself a swell of patriotic fervor. Nor did they ignore some of the dark side of our revolution against the British: One reenactment of the mob trial of a loyalist whose only crime was his not very prudent political pronouncements caused, I hope, conflicted feelings in even the most ardent jingoist when they started to tar and feather the poor accused. He was saved only at the last minute by a forced “confession” and a promise to get out of town, which meant back to England.

My favorite event of the visit was an outdoor performance of slave music and dance, which we attended after dark. No actual whippings, but I found it inspirational to watch the human spirit rise up in song and dance under the harshest conditions possible.

Later in the visit, we went to a baseball game, which the Nationals won, if only on the strength of two monumental errors by the Cubs in the first inning. I don’t even follow baseball, and I had a great time.

Plus a few drives in the country in the new Miata, with the top down, of course.

Overall, I recommend a visit to Broschat next time he has major surgery. Two weeks together in his small apartment and we showed no sign of getting on each other's nerves. He’s a wonderful host and a gifted story teller, and he has a great collection of DVDs. We watched a different movie almost every night.

Even though I loved Washington and environs, it’s good to be home. Yesterday, Mary and I decided to go for a drive and a walk in the country, enjoying a high temperature of eighty degrees, our dry climate, and a cooling breeze. We drove with the top down in our aging but still-satisfying Eclipse Spyder for about twenty minutes to get out of town, then through some lovely and largely empty country roads to the trailhead, where we walked for an hour without seeing another person. A typical outing out this way. This in contrast to the drives in the Miata through the madness of DC surface-street traffic and congested freeways, and walks on “trails” which we shared with scores of other walkers, wild-hare bicyclists, and rushing traffic just a few feet away. Enjoyable enough, but still. . . .

Bright lights big city have their charms, but I guess I’m mostly a country boy at heart, though it’s taken me about twenty years to realize and accept it.

Male readers take note: if you haven’t had this surgery yet, you have a even chance of needing it sometime in the next ninety days, so get your PSA checked and a caregiver lined up.

Buy a sports car. Get tickets to a ball game.