First the stuff in the urostomy bag Sunday afternoon looks like Hawaiian punch. Then like cranberry juice. Then like dark cherry juice. I call health proxy Bill Finkelstein. Send a picture to my phone, he says.
Shortly after 6 p.m., just as Monica is about to put dinner on the table, Bill calls back. Get down to Roswell as soon as you can, he says. Dr. Syed is there right now. Last week there was one emergency weekend run to Ward Seven West. And now this weekend, two. I'm a little alarmed. Will I have to stay the night?
With Monica and Bill looking on, Dr. Syed sees dark red goopy things in the bag and proposes that this may be partially clotted old blood that's decided to move out. He sticks a tube into the stoma (no feeling there ... amazing), draws out a sample of what's inside and designates it for a lab test in the morning. I'll be going home. Keep an eye on it and keep hydrating, the doctor says. Pointing to the bottle of water at my side, he adds, "That's your buddy."
Today, Monday, the colors begin as pink grapefruit juice and evolve into lemonade. Only drama comes when I stand up abruptly from the computer this evening and catch the edge of the bag against the edge of the dining room table, separating the front of it from its adhesive backing. A quick replacement is in order. Though I can probably handle that by myself, I'm grateful I'm not home alone.
Meanwhile, I take my longest walk since the surgery this afternoon -- 4 1/2 blocks to the M&T Bank on Elmwood Avenue and back, unaccompanied and a little tentative, picking out the shadier sides of the streets. I come home hungry and ready for a nap.
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