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Chapter 11 Diagnosis and Recovery

"It was a word which bit the tongue like the crab for which it was named. Cancer. It was not a word which rolled off the tongue, and once in the air it remained there. . .cancer maimed. . .cancer killed."

"I had far too much confidence and hope to fly to the arms of despair, for in despair, one finds no warmth or comfort."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Diagnosis and Recovery

I opened my eyes to a throbbing pain, and saw that my parents were standing nearby. Blinking at them idly, my mom inched closer and ask, "Honey, do you know us?"

Suddenly I felt as if I was an actress in some ridiculous soap opera; the elements were all there, from the tragic figure of the patient to the damp-eyed parents. Do I know them, I thought. "Of course I know you!" I spat the words at them in obvious rage. They smiled at my fighting spirit; it was a good sign. Had I been too weak, I would have been incapable of such an emotional outburst. I suffered no delirium, only intense pain. I despised pain, but more than that, I was infuriated by phrases which at the time seemed to be idiotic cliches when words do not easily yield to the tongue. Not impeding my rapidly surfacing thoughts, another jolt of pain opened my mind. "I wish I was dead!" My ill-chosen words were daggers to my parents, whose faces were wrinkled with pains of their own. "Don't say that, honey," responded Mom, hurt by my instantaneous verbal combustion.

Speech is something which, once flung into the air, cannot be repealed; language is a component of memories, at times forgotten, but more often returning to the mind. So it was that the life of my last phrase during the visit has not yet reached its end, and lives still in our recollections, a youthful tongue which dared to speak of death, indeed, to welcome it, was that which emblazoned the imprint with such permanence.

I was tired, and after gratefully receiving medication to ease the pain, sank my head into the pillow. Mom and Dad had taken their leave; there was not a great desire for small talk, even if they could have produced it.

The following day found me in a much more civilized mood. All post-operative grogginess had long since disappeared; my exhaustion resulted only from my body's mad attempt to heal its scars. I was constantly under observation, and soon adjusted to the frequency of the temperature, pulse and blood pressure readings; those simple matters were not disruptions at all.

In the morning I was introduced to the bedpan, and although my ego did not merit any cruel blow, I found myself further humbled. With a deplorable lack of skill, I managed to dampen myself and the bed considerably; I was miserable. Fortunately, in that respect, it was time to be weighed, and the nurses lifted me onto a table-like scale; I remained there until my bed had been prepared anew, then was happily replaced despite the agonizing trip to and from the bed.

Any extensive movement seemed to evoke pain, and I readily understood the reason for my discomfort when I was bathed. In addition to the regular routine, the nurse also changed my bandages. Seeing the incision for the first time, I gawked in amazement, thoroughly repulsed. The seams of the long gash rose above the surrounding skin, and with the mult.i.tude of black st.i.tches, resembled a rail-road track.

It seemed to me that it would leave a scar of monstrous proportions looking, at the time, so hopelessly grotesque. Then I noticed the drain located to the side of the incision, and was shocked to discover that the soft rubber tube extended to my interior regions through an open slash in my side. I'd not have thought it possible that one could entertain such an opening without risking complete loss of one's blood. I was learning new biological facts with each pa.s.sing hour.

My parents visited each hour, sometimes speaking with the family members of other "unfortunates" when I was not awake. It is in the confines of a hospital that one learns he is not alone in his pain.

The boy who laid in the bed next to my own would literally "p.o.o.p himself out" during a bowel movement, losing his insides as well as the excrement, while a child across the room had a valve on his head which he could push when water acc.u.mulated, thereby releasing the pressure and accompanying pain. I wondered how those children could ever lead normal lives with their present situation appearing so dismal.

Although I existed in the present, I lived for the future and my return home; accepting each moment, I fostered no suspicions that I would die, having tumors removed; I knew nothing, as yet, of my tumors being cancerous, for the grave seriousness of the operation I gathered slowly, as I gained physical strength, since spirit I never lacked.

The business of getting better was simply a matter of time; "whether or not" I would improve did not enter my mind. Feeling sick, followed by recuperation and health were as inseparably linked as popcorn and salt.

I always "got better."

Later that evening, I announced that I had to use the bathroom. After two subsequent failures earlier in the day, I rejected the bedpan with obstinance; the contraption was immodest and impossible to operate without the patient feeling horribly unclean. Moreover, I preferred a dry bed to a wet one, and having twice ill.u.s.trated my inadequacy for the nurses, who then had the extra ch.o.r.e of changing my bed, I found them more than agreeable toward the idea of escorting me to the bathroom.

As I was helped to a sitting position, my mom looked on in unconcealed surprise, thinking that I would certainly cry out in pain. With an inquiring glance at one of the doctors, who happened to be making his rounds, he smiled proudly and explained that, although it was more difficult, they had worked around the stomach muscles during the surgery, rather than severing them. Thus I was spared the excruciating pain which further cutting would have wrought.

The adventure across the room was a success, and from that triumphant hour, I no longer necessitated a bed pan; I had secured a far better means of relief.

Although most of my hours spent in ICU consisted solely of rest, there were those aspects of each day which I learned to abhor. The most objectionable was the routine of pounding my back, enacted by one of the hospital staff, to insure that I would not acc.u.mulate fluid in my lungs. It was an obligatory function, I realized, yet it hurt dreadfully. As I was instructed to lay on my side, the ruthless process would begin, thereby releasing my protests as well. I remember that I would beg them to stop; angry that I had to endure such hostile treatment; I feared that the incision would burst open midway through the ordeal, spilling my organs onto the bed sheets; that frightful thought never materialized.

After a week of this stomach-wrenching routine, I was given a contraption which was composed of two bottles, connected by four plastic tubes, two of which were mouthpieces. One bottle contained a blue solution, while the other was completely empty. This, I was told, would be a subst.i.tute for the back-pounding if I would promise to use it often throughout the day. The object of the device was to blow through one mouthpiece with sufficient pressure as to transfer the contents of the full bottle into the empty one. Then, once completed, one would take up the alternate mouthpiece and repeat the process to return the fluid to its original canister. Even though this procedure was rather slow from the outset, I welcomed it if it would spare my incision the pain which resulted from the blows to my back.

Among my other daily routines were shots, administered twice to my thigh, and the blood profile, in which blood was drawn in the morning.

Those who drew blood were quite practiced in that area and rarely created any unpleasant moments; when the veins in my arms became uncooperative through constant use, their faces did not waver in protest at the thought of probing my feet or ankles, which were in better condition and actually quite accessible.

On Friday, the IV which had been in position since Tuesday began to infiltrate, wherein the IV solution no longer ran only into the vein, but into the surrounding tissue as well. My hand started to puff, swelling into a spectacle which was twice the size of my other; with all of the misdirected solution seeping into the tissues, I also began to feel an annoying tightness which pained me when touched. I hoped that something would be done to alleviate my discomfort, without the expense of additional anguish, for at times, a remedy invited unforeseen unpleasantries greater than the one with which a patient was currently battling.

Dr. W. was called in the room to start a new IV in my other hand. I hoped it would not be an ordeal, and remained silent as the probing began. Aiming for a vein, the doctor edged the needle through my skin and missing his target, attempted to strike it again and again by manipulating the direction of the needle. I looked on, wincing, trying desperately not to think at all. His method was not succeeding, and he withdrew the needle to make ready to try another vein. Shifting his position, he pierced through the flesh, striving for another site. The vein rolled about, eluding the valid efforts of the doctor, and once again, he pulled the point from my hand to ready himself for his third attempt. I was holding my breath, uncertain how long I could withstand the slow, methodical jabbing. The needle was again thrust beneath my flesh, poking back and forth as each try was foiled; in exasperation, Dr. W. pulled the needle from my hand, stating resolutely, "I'm not going to hurt you again!" and fled the ward in search of another doctor to fill his duty.

Several minutes pa.s.sed, and then a bearded doctor strode toward my bed, introducing himself as Dr. A. I greeted him politely, though quite wary, now, at the prospect of having to possibly relive the previous experience. My fears were groundless, however, for he quickly guided the needle into a vein and wrapped my hand to secure its position. I thanked him gratefully, branding his face and name into my memory. The following day I was transferred to the pediatrics ward, no longer requiring constant observation. It was a pleasing change; the rooms were light and cheerful in comparison to the ICU, and the hallways were brightly painted, having here and there, small lounges for the benefit of both the young patients and their families. The room boasted a TV, which, after four days of silence, was welcome entertainment. As an added bonus, I was now able to receive mail, as well as several lovely flower arrangements, which had not been allowed in the unit, and as a result, spent their first days at the nurse's station. The flowers and plants brought life and color to the room's overall whiteness, and reminded me of the genuine concern which, initially, I had been too alienated by pain to realize. The most important part of my day was the mail delivery; the majority of my cards and letters came from members of the church and my family. The church response was utterly amazing, and my days would have proven quite dreary had it not been for their continuous demonstration of awareness regarding my condition.

I learned the full story behind my operation after my transferral to pediatrics. "A base-ball sized tumor. . . ," I marveled. "Did they keep it?" Mine was a question spurred by outright surprise and wonder.

I had no real desire to see the ugly ma.s.s. I remembered how the various organs looked floating in a pool of formaldehyde on the shelves of the biology room, and shuddered, not caring to see something which was, most likely, far more grotesque to the eye. "It was a low-grade form of cancer," Mom continued, "but they feel quite sure they got it all . . ."

"Quite sure. . ." my mind echoed. Somehow that did not seem proof enough. Cancer. I had heard of it before, everyone had. It was a word which bit the tongue like the crab for which it was named.

Cancer. It was not a word which rolled off the tongue, and once in the air, it remained there, like the seeds of a ghastly plague which was feared with revulsion. Cancer maimed. Cancer killed.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, I drank in the magnitude of my hospitalization and the many implications of having reared such a growth in my stomach. Although my progress appeared good and the doctors believed in their operative finesse with pride and confidence, I could not embrace the idea of my health as a steadfast quality; I possessed an elusive disquietude in the recesses of my mind which would sound an alarm and shield my heart from the brutal disappointment of having placed my dreams in an unattainable void. My voiceless apprehension would create no problem, housed as it was, in the back of my mind; remaining mute, except unto myself, it would hinder no one's happiness should the doctor's certainty and everyone's hopes materialize, least of all my own. A positive result contrary to one's innermost beliefs is a most precious one, indeed.

The days pa.s.sed within the exacting boundaries of the hospital routine.

Each morning I was weighed, given a shot in the thigh, and then held a thermometer firmly between my lips while the nurse took my pulse and blood pressure readings. The drain was checked and sometimes emptied, as was the canister into which my stomach contents were suctioned.

Several hours later my parents would arrive after eating their breakfast. We talked a little, and then Dad would stroll casually out of the room while Mom helped me to bathe. One of the doctors made a morning visit between 8:00 and 10:00; usually Dr. W. or M. were a.s.signed to the daily rounds, although Dr. T. did occasionally stop to examine the scar and inquire about my general health. It mattered little who stopped in; I liked them all for their various qualities.

Dr. T. was strong, yet compa.s.sionate; he understood and empathized with the concerned patients and family members, utilizing tact and well-chosen words throughout all conversation. He made the patient feel comfortable, in good hands; if he did not feel for his patients, he made a fine performance.

Dr. M. reminded me of one of my cousins, with dark hair and kind, dark eyes which were a compliment to his character. Younger than Dr. T. , he was efficient but gentle in his work, and had an easy personality which won my trust and admiration.

Dr. W. had a character quite separate from the other two, which demanded time to appreciate. W. possessed an incredible air of confidence almost akin to haughtiness, which made any failure a black eye. There was an inexplicable humor to his manner, however, which redeemed brusque behavior, for he was not too proud to, in some way, admit defeat.

A few days after my transferral to the semi-private room, I decided that it was time to remedy my poor vision and insert my contact lenses.

An occasional lens wearer himself, Dr. W. proclaimed that I would never be able to wear them for the entire day after not having inserted them for over a week's time. I shrugged, saying that I was still going to try, as W. dismissed himself from the room. With an IV in one hand, and my other free, I manipulated the bottles of solution and the contacts until I succeeded in their insertion. Pleased that I had accomplished the feat, one-handed, for all practical purposes, I sat back in my bed and delighted in my ability to "see" once again. The nurses' faces were recognizable at a distance, the TV shows gained the added impact of facial expressions and the flower arrangements stood against the wall with a new clarity. I could even peer from my window and watch the pedestrians milling about in front of the hospital steps and the fluid movement of the traffic through the streets.

At night, Dr. W. stopped again. "I'm wearing my contacts," I told him with a smile. "You wore them all day?." he asked, rather awestruck.

"Yeh, I did!" He was speechless, shaking his head in disbelief as he walked out of the door. When I was alone I marveled at the beauty of the city lights, which had only yesterday seemed a hazy melding of fluorescent tubing, stretching toward an unknown obscurity; the lights became sharp points of white before my eyes, mingled now and again with the red flash of a car's tail lights or the green glow of a traffic signal. I stared out the window, picturing the night in my mind, wishing I was bound northward in one of the streaming points of light.

As the traffic raced by, lost, finally in the darkness, I wondered if they knew how lucky they were, OUT THERE; I really wondered if they knew. . .

With my stomach on a slow route to recovery, I had not eaten for many days, nor would I hope to eat for many more. The pancreas needed to heal as well, and the doctors would not allow food to pa.s.s through my lips until it had shown signs of improvement. I did not have a breakfast tray to look forward to each morning, so after one of the doctors stopped by, I would roll off the bed, and, escorted by my parents, walk down the halls, leaning slightly from the tightness of the incision and grasping the pole on which my IV hung suspended, still dripping a tasteless breakfast into my vein. During these strolls, my "nose hose" was detached from the suction mechanism and clipped to my gown like a hideous corsage. At first I was embarra.s.sed by the decidedly gruesome appearance of the hose, filled as it was, with mucous and blood, but eventually I grew accustomed to the people on the floor and discovered, also, that others wore my unusual apparatus as well. Perhaps misery does not love company as much as it loves compa.s.sion and understanding. Thus I would skirt the corridors in both directions, heading "right" toward the craft room, or "left" which lead to the canteens. Usually taking a left turn out of my room, I would amble down the hall to contemplate the vast selection of cold sandwiches, snacks and candy which could be had simply through feeding one's pocket change into the coin slots. I stood wistfully before the machines, pointing out to my parents what I would choose when I could eat food again.

Although the stomach suction prevented me from feeling hunger pangs, it was the taste of food that I so horribly missed. Moreover, mealtime broke the monotony of a bland routine; it was something pleasant to do, exercising the mouth. It disturbed me to see someone jawing his food disinterestedly or poking at a meal which, in his opinion, lacked aesthetic appeal. Meal trays would often be returned sporting a delectable piece of dessert or fruit; I would peer at the specimens, sighing that I could not save the morsel from the trash heap.

Food became my favorite mind-game as my stomach gradually healed. We pursued the canteen route quite frequently throughout the day, and each time I would gaze at the treats, yearning for a taste of something. . .

anything. . .besides the mint of my toothpaste.

I was not allowed to swallow food or liquid of any kind; even water was forbidden. My throat became dry, despite its occasional rinsing, and the tube which ran from my nose to my stomach only hindered the situation. I decided to test my luck and ask for ice, reasoning that the excessive coldness might aid my throat to a degree, even though I could not actually swallow any of it. Since my saliva would become frigid through the presence of the ice, perhaps the throat would benefit from the slight trickling of cold moisture. To my amazement, they agreed to give me a gla.s.s of ice chips at various intervals through the day providing I would only chew the ice, and then spit it into a metal bowl for that specific purpose; I shook my head "yes" in vigorous excitement at the proposal. In time, I was even allowed to swallow one or two teaspoonsful of ice each time. It was a small, but significant favor, for which I was exceedingly grateful.