Churchtown Supply Co.

Last Friday, John Haggerty and I headed off to retrieve a painting from a friend in Greensburg, PA. On the way, we stopped by Churchtown Supply Co. on Route 23, 2049 Main St., Narvon, PA, 17555, to pick up some enamelware dishes that I had asked them to set aside. Bethann and I bought each other burgundy and cream speckle and moss green and cream speckle dishes for Christmas and had asked for that from everyone else in the family, as well. Lydia and April had not gotten their money to their Aunt Susan in time for her trip to Churchtown Supply, so they were going to get us a gift certificate to the Washington House instead. It turned out that Churchtown Supply didn’t have enough of our colors on hand to make their contribution useful at the time. But the Washington House was closed the day of Christmas Eve, so they could not get the gift certificate.

Enamelware

I called Churchtown Supply. After several attempts, I spoke to Nancy on Wednesday, Dec. 28. She had just received a new shipment of our colors of enamelware and would set aside the plates and bowls that I requested for me to pick up on Friday morning.

Churchtown Supply Co. looks like your typical, main street hardware store from the 1960s or 70s. It is a bit unusual in that it is just on a ribbon of road with houses and churches strung out alongside of it and a lush valley falling out immediately behind it. You park diagonal nose in, like they do out in Kansas. You walk in and Barry and Nancy invite you to help yourself to coffee and cookies from a folding table, where you can also pick up your free wildlife calendar. The place is comfortably lit, with most of the light provided naturally by the plate glass windows across the front, facing south toward Main St.

I had them tally up the pieces that I had them set aside for me, to see what the damages were; then I shopped for some more pieces to complete the collection. We got to talking. I asked them how they managed to only be open Tuesday through Saturday 8am to noon, and that I was envious. Barry said they had worked for 30 or 38 years for 90 hours a week so this was comp time. He had had some health issues and now Nancy is battling breast cancer, so it’s about what they can handle. They said, “It’s something to do. It pays the utilities and the taxes.”

John, Barry, Nancy and I spent some time swapping stories about the pros and cons of dealing with customers. We had a very nice time. I intend to go back and get more dishes. I encourage any of you to patronize their place, as well. They are hard working folks who could use a break. Their shop is about 4 .3 miles west of Morgantown on Rte. 23.

Tell them Cranford sent you.

On the 23rd, I went to the doctor. She told me that the water pill that I took in conjunction with my blood pressure medicine was sulfa based. I am allergic to sulfa, but had not reacted to this medicine any time in the last year since I became allergic to sulfa, as far as we know. We switched the blood pressure medicine and dropped the water pill. I also got a fresh prescription of Atarax for the itch. The change did not help, nor did the Atarax. I was taking it every six hours along with two Benadryl staggered between doses. My muscles were tired and weak and I was grumpy with unpredictable mood swings.

On Tuesday evening, Dec. 28, Bethann told me that I was tired, grumpy and unusually hard to live with, so I should call the doctor ( since I was obviously still sick). The next morning, I called Dr. Jonathan Cohen, the infectious disease specialist. He had told me to keep in touch. He took my call on the first try. I told him that Bethann had told me to call him, since I was tired and grumpy and hard to live with. I told him that the hives had reappeared. To that, he replied, “Interesting.” He said it in that Dr. House way that you never want to hear from a doctor, because it means that you have entered uncharted waters. He also told me, “Dude, you’ve been sick since I first saw you in the beginning of October. You have every reason to be tired and out of sorts – wearing the hair shirt.” I asked him if he could give me an answer that Bethann would like. He started with, “Well you should be feeling a little better since you talked to a doctor.” (Dr. Cohen can be a funny guy!) He then told me that I should marshal my more positive energies that he knew I had and try harder. He told me to go back to my PCP sooner than scheduled and to make an appointment with an allergist. He told me to move quickly on that, because allergists are notoriously slow and I would be lucky to get an appointment within 30 days. He also told me to go to the city to find an allergist. My case was more exotic than what any of the allergists he knew here had ever handled.

I saw Dr. Oswald on Monday, Jan. 3. Since the side effects of Atarax had gotten worse and it was no longer effective for the hives, she switched me to 5mg Xyzal per day and 20mg Famotidine (Pepcid AC) twice daily. This regimen took care of the side effects, but still isn’t altogether effective against the itch. Since I started writing this post, I looked up Famotidine on the NIH website. Interestingly, among the possible side effects are itchy skin and hives. Like I keep on saying, this whole episode is like playing Whack-A-Mole!

The story has many angels and a few demons. There are many blessings and a few lessons to be learned along the way. A central character in the story is Grand View Hospital, Sellersville, PA; a place I found to be staffed with people of integrity, compassion and skill. A good friend asked me on Sunday, during coffee hour, “Did it do you any good?” I answered him that I was doing a good bit better to be out of the hospital. He said, “No. Are you better? It would be a shame to go through hell and back and not to have anything to show for it; to not be improved by it.” I began to weep and said, “Yes. There were many blessings.”

You may choose to keep checking back to see what new articles I have written or wait a few weeks and read them at once, in order. Feedback, comments and questions are always welcome. Thank you.

Twice in the prior four weeks I had left my home for the hospital emergency room thinking that I may not be coming back. I looked around my house and yard and lamented all of the unfinished projects I was leaving for Bethann. I also admired the diversity and color of the front yard that I had turned into flower beds last summer and wondered if I would get to see them come up again. The third time, which was the most serious, my mind didn’t go there. I was too distracted by the burning all over my body.

One day in late Spring, I was doing a little weeding in front of our house. An old lady was walking slowly along the sidewalk. She stopped to admire the flowers. She said, “You know that God loves you, don’t you? When you see flowers like that you have to know that there is a God and that He loves us!”

I should have had a guest book for visitors to sign. That way I would know who visited when. Thanks to all! You know who you are. I was blessed by your presence.

Dr. Jerry Burke became my health advocate. It happened in an ad hoc way. He heard that I had been to the ER and took a look at my x-rays and such. When he heard that they had read this as cancer, he intervened. He asked the radiologists if they had read my health history. Cancerous tumors on the spine virtually never are primary cancers. They are spin-offs from a cancer someplace else that is not responding well to treatment. He pointed out to them that I had no history of cancer, but did have a history of staph infection. He told them to get me into the hospital and start treating me for infection. They could still take their oncology biopsy if they really wanted to. It just would be a good thing if they didn’t let me die of an infection while they were waiting to do it. He kept pushing, going so far as to call my primary care physician to persuade her. She called me on Saturday, Oct. 23, to tell me to go to the hospital.

I was not aware this was happening behind the scenes. This was just the first time Jerry saved my life.

My doctor called sometime between 10 and 11 and told me to go to Grand View Hospital’s Emergency Room. They were to admit me and start treating me for infection. As I’m leaving the house, I looked around and try to take it all in. I thought this may be the last time that I see this place. I thought of my unfinished projects, the messes in the barn and my office. I looked at the garden that I had planted earlier this year, with some flowers still blooming and wondered if I would see them come up again next spring. I grieved for my family having to clean up after me.

We didn’t have to wait long to get into the ER. They tried to get blood and had a terrible time, because I was so dehydrated. After several attempts to get a line in me for drawing blood and for IV fluids, a man from the IV team at the hospital took his time and brought out his full arsenal of tricks and got a line into me. I think by this time Bethann had arrived after the half day of work and Fr. Noah may have been there, too. Serge was still there. We thanked him and finally persuaded him to go home. It was mid afternoon.

An orderly came to take me for some x-rays. I make it a practice to ask people their names. Ages ago I worked in a hospital and I observed how people who push gurneys around all day or deal with one specialty or another can treat the bodies they are dealing with as just so many widgits. By the same token, I have seen patients treat orderlies and nurses aides as if they were just worker drones. So if I engage them by asking their name, it serves as a gentle reminder that I am a person, not just a gurney that may have uncooperative wheels at times. It also reminds me that these are people at work. If I show them human respect, both of our days will go better. At any rate, I asked the orderly his name. He told me it was Kevin; then asked why did I ask. I told him it was so I could yell at him if he messed up. Without missing a beat, he said, “O, my name is Steve.” Later I thanked Steve for not banging me into any walls.

Sometime that evening, they moved me up to a private room on the third floor, with a window facing North over the main entrance, with a view of the fields across the street and Sellersville, Perkasie and the Delaware valley off to the right. They gave me better pain meds. I still had pain, but I was sensing progress. Movement had started and recovery became thinkable.

I was literally screaming in pain, had to stop the Valium, and face the high likelihood that I had cancer on my spine. I was facing the immediate reality of trying to cope at home for ten more days with exquisite pain in my back that seemed to be growing every day. I found someone else to go down to the city for The King’s Jubilee that night. I don’t remember who. You know who you are: Thank you and may God bless you!