Chemotherapy makes him sick; nauseous all the time, he is losing precious weight.
They need to place a nasal gastrointestinal (NG) tube through Nick’s nose and into his stomach.
Nicholas on his back in bed, and a nurse on each side of him. One keeping his hands away from his face, the other pushing a long tube through one of his nostrils, and both are saying Nick! Don’t struggle! Swallow, like you’re drinking water!
And Nicholas, skinny little boy, gagging and flailing his arms like he is trapped and drowning. His gag reflex heightened after weeks of vomiting.
So many times they have to stop with the tube part way into the back of his throat, until he quits retching. Everyone sweating, and it doesn’t work. He is exhausted and traumatized. Me too.
On Friday, my wonderful, brave boy gives it another shot.
Determined, because all he hears is how this tube will make him better, he locks his wide frightened eyes on the nurse, and gulps in quick succession each time she asks, and the tube is fed through his nose, down his esophagus and into his stomach.
After an Xray to check for proper placement of the tube (no food inside a lung please), liquid food is slowly being dripped into his stomach.
All he wants to do is sleep. He weighs 20 pounds less. It rains here every day, and I hide behind the gray sheets of it. The rain is in my soul.
Feb 24, 1999