Dead man walking?
An aquaintance showed up on Sunday. Hadn't seen him in awhile, though I'd heard that he wasn't well. He looked awful -- he'd lost weight. Had an altered, stiff-legged gait. Speech nearly normal. And his skin was was jaundiced a deep reptilian green: not a subtle yellow cast, nor orange, but the green of a bruise, of sea before the storm, of spruce forest in the Northern winter. Everywhere: his face, his ears, the whites of his eyes and the palms of his hands, welling up from within.
He lit a candle. A candle of celebration, he said, happy to be here this morning, happy to be alive. He had a disease, alcoholism, which damaged his liver, "That's why I look like this." "But I'm getting better." Good to hear.
He tottered back to his seat, reminding me of nothing but a ghoul from a monster movie, a reanimated corpse, like the living but not of the living. Undead. My mind, unbidden, rehearsed what little I know of liver pathology, of how severe the damage would have to be to cause that level of jaundice. I was reminded of stories that alcoholics can have difficulties getting allocated livers for transplants: the nature of their illness can result in ruin of the new liver too. Livers are scarce, the committees who choose try to maximize the benefit. How bad was his prognosis really? I have to admit that I felt, and fought, a kind of revulsion. We're not supposed to abandon members of the tribe. But what could I do?
I pretty much forced myself to talk to him afterward. He was sitting, and I leaning over, craning to catch his words. He talked of his dietary restrictions: very low protein, to avoid stress on the liver. No dairy. Low salt. Limited fluids, to ease the kidneys. He's pretty much a vegan now. The difficulties he had getting all the shifts at his care facility to understand the diet requirements. Ripped open a labelled envelope to take a pill. He was wearing an wristband. He was being taken care of. He was going to do okay.
And gradually, as we talked, the jaundice faded. Or my reaction to it did. No longer defined by his skin, he turned back into my friend. Sick, yes, but getting better. Being taken care of. He is going to do okay.
He lit a candle. A candle of celebration, he said, happy to be here this morning, happy to be alive. He had a disease, alcoholism, which damaged his liver, "That's why I look like this." "But I'm getting better." Good to hear.
He tottered back to his seat, reminding me of nothing but a ghoul from a monster movie, a reanimated corpse, like the living but not of the living. Undead. My mind, unbidden, rehearsed what little I know of liver pathology, of how severe the damage would have to be to cause that level of jaundice. I was reminded of stories that alcoholics can have difficulties getting allocated livers for transplants: the nature of their illness can result in ruin of the new liver too. Livers are scarce, the committees who choose try to maximize the benefit. How bad was his prognosis really? I have to admit that I felt, and fought, a kind of revulsion. We're not supposed to abandon members of the tribe. But what could I do?
I pretty much forced myself to talk to him afterward. He was sitting, and I leaning over, craning to catch his words. He talked of his dietary restrictions: very low protein, to avoid stress on the liver. No dairy. Low salt. Limited fluids, to ease the kidneys. He's pretty much a vegan now. The difficulties he had getting all the shifts at his care facility to understand the diet requirements. Ripped open a labelled envelope to take a pill. He was wearing an wristband. He was being taken care of. He was going to do okay.
And gradually, as we talked, the jaundice faded. Or my reaction to it did. No longer defined by his skin, he turned back into my friend. Sick, yes, but getting better. Being taken care of. He is going to do okay.
posted by TFox at
3:47 PM
