I'm allergic to almost any cologne, skin cream, deodorant, and such and such. If I apply an antiperspirant—say one of those roll-ons—to my armpits for three days running, a rash will break out. Remedy: stop putting something on my skin that I know my skin doesn’t like, and the rash disappears.
On
Thursday, July 23, I left work at 4:30 with plans to meet friends in
Provincetown at six p.m. It had been a humid sweaty day; there
is no air conditioning at work, but I didn't have time to take a
shower. One of the friends we were going to meet was our
beautiful god-daughter. She has just graduated from high school, and
we have a gift for her. The gift needs wrapping, and a card for
her needs a note written in it. I was living, just for a bit, in a
rush-rush world, so, in lieu of a shower, I rolled on some
Mennen's. It had been given to me by a sweet motel clerk in
Ohio, part of a little toiletries kit, after I had become separated
from my luggage on a day of flight distress on the way to my sister, Joan’s
funeral seventeen months earlier.
The
day after our lovely evening in Provincetown I noticed a soreness in
my left armpit. It was about the size of a quarter. Not a big
deal. I supposed it had something to do with the roll-on
deodorant. It would go away.
Except
that it didn't.
The
next day it had doubled in area, and had come to seem like a slight
sensation of burning. Still no visible rash. And the
sensation spread more on Sunday and then more on Monday.
I
phoned to make an appointment to see my doctor. She could see me
on Wednesday, July 29. I supposed my soreness would be simple
enough to diagnose and treat.
Not
quite.
It
was a puzzle to the Nurse Practitioner, Danielle, whom I see since my
regular doctor's patient load became too heavy for him to handle (and
he, anyhow, had long ago become tired of my whining). Danielle
called the doctor in to look at me; it was a puzzle to him as
well. They consulted, and then they ordered an EKG. It
seemed to me that this was throwing something at the wall to see if
it would stick, but what do I know? Does something awry in the
heart show up as a bit of a burn in one armpit? Maybe.
After
a while they came in to announce the results: the EKG was radically
different from the one they’d done just a few months ago when
I had been there for my annual physical.
"You
could be having a heart attack,” the doctor said. “You have
to go to the ER. We've called an ambulance."
"I
can drive my truck to the hospital." I slid off the end of
the examining table.
"No,
you’re not driving anywhere,” the doctor stated firmly. “In
fact, you need to sit down. Here's four baby aspirin. Chew
them well. The ambulance is on the way."
I've
been given to understand that if you don't do what the doctor says,
the insurance company doesn't have to pay your bill. That's a
good plenty of incentive to do what you're told.
A
clerk appeared and offered to lock my truck for me. There's
nothing in it worth stealing, I just didn't want it to be towed from
what is a private parking lot – not that it being locked or
unlocked would make any difference to the towing company.
"Your
truck will be just fine," the doctor said.
I
asked the clerk, "Would you grab the book that's on the seat for
me?"
I
don't normally bring a book to my doctor's office because I always ask for the
first available morning appointment, so there’s never more than a
couple minutes wait, and they always have a television on up in a
corner, tuned to CNN, and the news this morning was constant coverage
of Tom Brady’s four-game suspension. But, yes, for some reason
– certainly not because I'd thought I'd be needing a book to read
in a hospital – for whatever reason I’d put a book on the seat of
my truck. The kind clerk handed me the big fat The Bit
Between My Teeth – A Literary Chronicle of 1950-1965 by
Edmund Wilson, one of my favorite writers, one of my favorite
intellects.
I
asked to borrow a cellphone. I called Mark. He was in
Chatham at The Wayside Inn. It was his day off but he was about
to take a Jamaican woman, a colleague who has worked at the Inn for a
long time, and her 12-year-old son, to Provincetown, just because the
boy had never been there. I told Mark that he didn't need to
come but I just wanted him to know what was going on. He said
he'd see me at the Emergency Room. I said I wanted him to go on
with the fun day for him and Maureen and the boy, but, no, he'd see
me at ER.
***
When
I'm on the highway heading north, say from my home to my job, and I
meet an ambulance from Truro or Provincetown I always think: oh,
please don't let it be my Abby, don't let it be my Rodney, don't let
it be my Ruth. But now I think: Don't ask for whom the sirens will
scream; they are going to scream for me. I’m one of those people,
one of those in need of help … I just don't feel like one of those
people.
I'm
inserted into the ambulance. I've always had a sort of crush on
ambulances – they look so glistening and sleek and clean,
marvelously equipped and all, and, with their flashing lights and
their sirens and their rights-of-way, so authoritative and butch on
the roads – kings of the road – but in this, my first ambulance
ride, I’m being inserted backwards; my view is through the
rear windows; there’s not going to be much to look at except sky
and trees and pole-wires falling away in our wake; all the beautiful
high-tech equipment is behind me, out of view. I’m strapped to
a gurney; I can’t even turn onto my side for a different view.
It’s
a long time before the wheels of this ambulance even start
rolling. The men issue, among themselves, commands and then
back-up commands; everything is repeated, confirmed; they are
simultaneously communicating with the ER. One of the guys (the
only one I can see; he’s sitting on a pull-down jump seat to my
left) says, “Open up! I’m going to squirt some
nitroglycerine under your tongue. Raise your tongue...
higher... can you raise it higher?”
A
second one confirms for the record and for the ER: “Nitro under
tongue.”
Someone
inserts an oxygen diffuser to my nose.
“On
a scale of one to ten, ten being the most pain, what is your level of
pain?”
“I
don’t have any pain. Zero, I guess.”
Finally
we are moving. If there is a siren I do not notice. If
there is excessive speed, I do not notice. We’re taking the
back roads; I know the route well; I used to live nearby and I took
this route to Hyannis three or four times a week, usually to sit in
Border’s Bookstore and read books and drink lattes. I know
just what each intersection for which we slow down looks like. But
I’m seeing only the sky and the trees and the power-lines. Seeing
them backwards. And I’m wondering just what the
hell is going on. Finally we stop, the rear doors are opening, I
am removed, and I am being gurneyed along two long rows of employees
sitting at computers until I’m stopped inside a small private area,
a little cubicle.
Mark
walks into my little cubicle momentarily. He's come 18.6 miles; I in
the ambulance have come 5-1/2 miles, but Mark has been waiting for
the ambulance to arrive. This is not criticism – the EMT people,
as I've pointed out, do a lot of preparation before those wheels
begin to roll.
 |
| Cape Cod Hospital Emergency Room |
The
Yarmouth Fire Department submitted charges totaling $1099.37 for that
ride of 5-1/2 miles. Blue Cross Blue Shield paid them $436.12,
and I had a co-pay of $100.00. Had I been allowed to drive my
truck the cost would have been, at most, half-a-buck’s worth of
gas.
I’m
not complaining. I was just worried that my truck was going to
be towed. Plus, I'm dealing with irony.
***
It
took a long time before I was seen by a doctor. Another EKG test
indicated that there was nothing wrong with my heart, but, to be
sure, I was trundled through what seemed like long halls and around
many corners until I came to a place where a CAT scan could be
performed.
I
am admitted.
That
is: I am captured. My wrist is banded. The
system has grabbed me. I am Kafka's Citizen K. The thin
white band might as well be a chain.
A
sweet attendant tells me she is taking me up to the fourth floor to
one of the best rooms in the hospital.
“It
has a view of the harbor,” she says.
All
this has taken up the entire day! My appointment with Danielle had
been at 8:30 in the morning; by the time I am admitted and in my room
I am told that I need to hurry and make a selection from the menu for
my dinner because there is a cut-off time of six-thirty p.m.
Mark’s
sister, Nina – there's no sweeter person in the world – works the
evening shift at the hospital as a Unit Secretary. She comes
into “one of the best rooms in the hospital” during her “lunch”
and she and Mark go to the cafeteria where, with Nina’s discount,
they have good pork dinners for something like three bucks. I am
glad to be alone; I don’t want anyone having to watch me eating a
sad hospital meal; and as soon as they return I urge Mark to go home;
he’s dedicated enough of his day off to me. But I'd at least
spared him having to watch me eat an appallingly bland stir-fry.
As
I was still worried about my truck, Mark promised that he and his
friend Sharon would fetch it the next afternoon.
***
 |
| Hyannis Harbor, reflected in my bathroom mirror. |
Morning
came. A decent breakfast also came; even the omelette was
good. And eventually a technician pushed into the room a
contraption with which she performed an Echocardiogram on me. At
the end she said, “Your heart is amazingly strong for a man of your
age.”
But
still ahead: a stress test, and a biopsy on the tumor to determine
whether or not it is malignant. I learned that the biopsy could
not, for scheduling reasons, be performed until the next day. It
was now about 1030AM; nothing would happen today except, if I was
lucky, the stress test. And then tomorrow, Friday, that
biopsy. It occurred to me that the biopsy might not happen until
late in the next day; I suddenly felt the horror that I might not be
getting out of the hospital until Monday. It is rare to be
dismissed on a weekend. “All the doctors are on the golf
course,” is, somewhat jokingly, given as the reason. At this
moment I turn my head away from the door and a few tears fall. I
could not imagine lying here, for no good reason, for all that time.
No
sooner had my couple of tears dropped and been dried away than I
heard someone say, “What the hell’s going on in here?”
Surprise! Big
surprise! I’m tickled. In has walked my boss, Janet, who is, I always like to point out, not just my boss but my friend, and,
with her, Leslie, the Chief Law Enforcement Ranger at the park. What
a morale boost it is to see their faces and hear their voices! And
while they sit and visit – they hadn’t come to Hyannis
particularly to visit me, but rather to attend the AmeriCorps
Graduation ceremony – a Dr. Kelly Swanson comes in. She has a warm
smile and a lovely face. “Do you mind if we talk about your
condition in front of your visitors?” she asks. I don’t
mind.
Essentially: It
has been decided that I really do not need to do a stress test; the
second EKG and the CAT scan and the Echocardiograph have convinced
them that I probably have nothing wrong with my heart; further, since
an array of other tests will be done in the near future, which will
confirm the same things that the biopsy might confirm, they are going
to let that go unscheduled until sometime in the near future.
Dr.
Swanson explains that I have what is called a Pancoast tumor above my
left lung. She speculates that, depending on many upcoming
tests, it could probably be removed, even laparoscopically, and I’d
be cancer-free – but that there is one little problem: the tumor
was resting on a nerve which, if in the process of slicing the tumor
away, gets damaged, could result in the loss of the use of my left
arm.
So,
yes, it was that nerve being irritated that was causing the slight
burning sensation in my left arm pit. And so, meaning to take no
unnecessary risk, they would probably, Dr. Swanson said, attempt to
shrink the tumor away from that nerve with radiation and
chemotherapy.
None
of this sounds all that bad to me. I love the laparoscopic idea.
I imagine a tiny incision. Simple. But what I hear mainly is that I
am going to be dismissed from the hospital! I am beside myself
with thrill! I tell Dr. Swanson that I’ve run into a dozen or
so doctors in the last 24 hours but she is by far the best.
My
visitors leave. Dr. Swanson leaves.
I
order lunch. Meatloaf. It is absolutely delicious – even the mashed
potatoes and gravy are delicious.
Although
it was about eleven a.m. when Dr. Swanson came in and told me the
news, the fact is that I am not dismissed until about 530PM. She had
a wad of paperwork to do, not just on my case, but on other cases. It
was only after she'd set up about ten appointments for me, and had
consulted with ten or fifteen other care-givers, that she finally
returns to my room for the official dismissal.
Mark
has been there waiting for much of the afternoon, coming as soon as
he’d gotten off work at 2 p.m. He drives me to Yarmouth. My
truck was where I’d left it. I drive home.
The
next morning I walk into work at 8AM.
“What
the hell are you doing here?” my boss asks.
***
The
first of the several appointments arranged by Dr. Swanson is for an
MRI scan late in the afternoon on Monday, August 3rd. For
convenience’s sake it is to be done at a Medical Center in
Brewster, much closer to my home than Hyannis.
The
venue to which I am led in the medical facility, once I've undressed
and donned an open-backed smock (but am allowed to keep my shorts on!),
looks like a set for a low-grade science-fiction movie: I face a
steel platform about five feet above the level at which the
technician and I are standing. She unlatches the gate to what is
an open elevator; it is, for safety, surrounded by steel rails and
the gate. We step onto the elevator; she latches shut the gate
behind us. We slowly ascend the five feet. I notice off to the right
a set of stairs by which we might have ascended. “Why didn’t we
just walk up the stairs?” I wonder. “We think this is
safer,” she says. Once arrived at the higher level, we enter
an area that looks more like the typical rooms of a medical
facility.
I
can only suppose that this raised area, and its being at a far end of
the large facility, has something to do with keeping the dangers of
radiation exposure as far away as possible from people in the
facility.
I'd
been asked if I am claustrophobic. I'm not. It is, for me, not an
uncomfortable procedure. At its end, I am dismissed. I drive to a joint in
Orleans and have a cheeseburger and a milk shake.
***
I
know things like this are not amazing anymore, but still it amazes me
that the pictures from my MRI are electronically
transmitted so that, along with my medical history, they are
presented the very next morning to a group of perhaps 20-25 people
who make up what may be called a 'cancer board'. The 'cancer board'
is made up of oncologists, social workers, other doctors, other
caregivers. New cancer cases are presented at its
weekly meetings. The patient attached to the records is anonymous.
Each particular case is considered and discussed by the members, and
a consensus reached as to what is thought to be the best method of
treatment.
***
Meanwhile,
before that MRI, I'd been called by my PCP's office and told that any
time one has been in the hospital, one's Blue Cross Blue Shield plan
requires that a visit be made to the PCP. So I was back in South
Yarmouth chatting with Danielle at 830AM, perhaps at about the time
my case was being discussed by the 'cancer board'.
I
sensed from Danielle's questions that the aim of this visit – what
with all the shockingly sensational news I'd lately received – the
aim was to assess my mental health. I told Danielle that I have
determined to keep at the forefront of my thoughts that mine has, on
the whole, been a most blessed life, that good fortune has been of a
much greater measure than that of ill-fortune, and that I have been
rich in many important ways, such as rich with friends, and rich with
good times, and rich with a family in which I have found great
amounts of love and laughter. I said that I intended to face whatever
in the way of ordeal that lay in my future with as much courage and
grace as I could muster. I mentioned that I had seen four or five
close friends die from cancer or from AIDS when only in their
forties, to say nothing of the many more who died
who were good friends if not exactly close
friends. How can I see myself as anything
but lucky to have been blessed with the fair number of
years I have been spared? Frankly, if this malady is
to kill me, I shall not feel cheated; while, if I had come down with
something in my forties that I could be sure was going to take my
life, I would have felt terribly cheated.
If,
in my forties, I felt cheated and still feel
cheated because I lost a dear friend, and then another and another,
and so forth, how must they have felt? I
shudder with memories of those who wasted away, and of the
many memorial services, and of hearing the drop of one shoe of bad
news and knowing that another shoe would be dropping in a week or a
month or three or six months.
I've
been going through a lot of papers lately; it seems like I never
threw any sort of document away. I just happen to pick up a letter I
received in 1994 that includes:
I'd
written Herbie, telling him I'd be down this week end to see him;
when
I called Friday evening to confirm, his mother said that they'd
had
to take him to the hospital on Thursday; he couldn't
eat or
swallow,
and the doctor didn't expect him to last much longer. I told
her
that I'd come to the hospital, so drove down yesterday, was there
with
him and his mother for 2-1/2 hours (his first NYC room-mate,
Billy,
and his lover Dick came in for a few minutes, and later two
wonderful
aunts, sisters of his father, were there). He was in pitiful
shape,
weighing 70 pounds, emaciated beyond belief; he opened his
eyes
and seemed to recognize me, but couldn't talk. They were
giving
him morphine orally every two hours, in addition to a
morphine
patch; his mother fed him apple juice with a syringe.
She
and his sister had made the funeral arrangements, and she
asked
me to be a pall bearer. I left at around 4:00 pm, mass at the
cathedral,
then a hurried supper in a French cafe before driving
back.
His mother called me at about noon today to tell me that he
had
died very easily at about 5:45 yesterday afternoon. Services will
be
Tuesday afternoon at 2:00, at a funeral home; I'm so glad that
she's
not having the funeral at her Baptist church, which he hated
….
It's impossible to be sad at his death, as he was in such a horrid
state,
but it is sad to think of all the suffering in the lives of his,
Harold's, Jay's, Kenny's, and the countless others.
Yes,
but for good fortune, I might have been among the countless.
Surely
some of what I said to Danielle would have sounded insincere to a
cynic, but I was being forthright and honest. Certainly no-one can
face his or her death with equanimity, but I, whether it comes soon
or later, am going to make an attempt to come as close to that as any
human can.
I
do feel blessed.
I
won't feel cheated.
How
could I?
At
the end of our conversation, when I rise to depart, Danielle rises
too. She approaches me with arms spread for a hug. A lovely gesture
such as this – she is quite new in my life – can bring a tear to
a man's eye.
 |
| Danielle Leighton |
***
I
take Wednesday off. A lovely friend from Ireland, who happens to be
spending some time near Boston, along with her four beautiful
children, comes to visit. Mark and I and they have lunch at a seafood
place! We feel like tourists! I have Lobster Bisque! Then we play
miniature golf! Then we go to the beach for three hours! It is one of
those perfect days such as Lou Reed wrote a song about.
I'm
serious: I am blessed.
***
August
10. Monday. 845AM. Mark has offered to accompany me for all
consultations. He will help me keep things straight. He will
remember things that I won't remember. I sometimes introduce him as
my iCloud; some people get it; some don't.
Today
is my first consultation with the doctor who has been designated as
my Radiation Oncologist. But first I have a lengthy consultation
about radiation with her nurse, Christine (whom I will come to love
for her extremely good nature and her wonderful sweetness and her
tender caregiving). She talks about possible side effects, some
remedies for such, and so forth. I am handed a schedule of radiation
treatments. It looks daunting.
“Most
people,” Christine says, “say that it goes by much quicker than
they expected it would.”
 |
| Dr. Molly Sullivan |
***
Three
days later, on the 13th, I consult with Dr. Jeffrey
Spillane. He will perform the surgery. Mark and I sit in chairs. He
sits on the side of the examining table, casual, his legs dangling,
his hands propped on the edge of the table, and matter-of-factly
talks about the upcoming surgery. I'm writing this almost two months
later; frankly, I can't remember much about this visit, except that
at the end I just had to ask if he is related to the writer Mickey
Spillane. He said no, but that one time his mother checked into a
swank hotel in Hawaii where Mickey would sometimes stay. Shortly
after entering her room, a delivery of lavish bouquets and fruits and
candies was made. She had no idea of the why of this largesse until
an employee told her they thought she was Mrs. Mickey Spillane.
***
The
next day, the 14th, a Friday now – things seem to be
moving right along – I have three appointments. At
130PM I have a Computerized Axial Tomography (CAT) scan. The
technician is smiling and friendly. The purpose of achieving this
three-dimensional image of my tumor is for her to tattoo tiny dots on
my left chest; these dots indicate where the beams of radiation are
to be directed.
 |
| Dr. David Lovett |
Dr.
Lovett informs me that I will have chemo (Cisplatin and Paclitaxel)
once weekly, on Thursdays, for the duration of my radiation
treatments. Again, this does not sound that bad to me. And the
Thursday chemos are scheduled to begin right after that day's
radiation treatment (each of which, as I will see, lasts maybe five
minutes, while the chemo lasts up to four hours). They're very nice
about accommodating the fact that I live 26 miles east, scheduling
things close together.
***
I
have a break – four days without appointments. Then on Tuesday, the
18th, there is a biopsy at 130PM. I am on my stomach;
there is local anesthetic. No pain, just a few sharp pinches when the
needles go into my back twice or thrice to remove bits of tissue from
the tumor. This is accomplished by a Dr. Dombroski, whom I don't
think I meet until he's standing next to me at the procedure. A
lovely nurse, who has been with me throughout, takes me for two walks
during a half hour of recovery, and then walks me to the front exit
of the hospital; she has sent Mark ahead to be waiting in the car for
me there. The whole procedure takes about an hour.
All
goes well according to the pleasant doctor, though I learn this only
on the phone as he couldn't, I guess, wait around for me to wake up.
***
The
next day I
am at the hospital for
a
Mediastinoscopy; that is, the removal of three lymph nodes that are
closest to my tumor, which three are, if my cancer were to
metastasize, its most likely targets. This is preventative; it is
believed that my tumor is growing, but not spreading to
other tissue
(such, at least, is my understanding).
Mediastinoscopy
is quite
a procedure. There is the pre-op stage; a technician shaves my
upper-chest;
he tells me there is nothing to worry about; that the procedure is
common; a successful outcome is expected. Then a young Korean-born
man who, as
a youth,
emigrated to Los Angeles with his parents, approaches
me.
He is a
student at Ross University School of Medicine on the island of
Dominica, and is on an 8-week study program at Cape Cod Hospital. He
asks my permission to observe my operation. Of course. I enjoy
chatting with him – I am always fascinated to learn new things
about the world from a person rather than from something I'm reading – and I can hardly wait to get home and read about
Dominica on
Wikipedia.
Even the way it is pronounced charms me … it is Dome-in-EEK-a,
the accent on the third syllable.
Then
a
Dr. Fortunato, an
anesthesiologist, appears at the foot of my bed. He looks over my
medical history. At some point he looks up from the papers and says,
alarmingly, “No one told me you had had a heart attack!” I say
that I don't think I have ever had a heart attack, that it was an EKG
machine that had had a heart attack. “But you might not have known
you had a heart attack! There's such a thing as a silent
heart attack.” I have no response to this, though
I want to say that I might also have had a silent this-or-that.
He
turns and walks away. I think: oh
shit,
a screwed up EKG is going to follow me around for the rest of my
life. I see the anesthesiologist across the room consulting. He returns.
Momentarily I am wheeled away. I
think I saw Dr. Spillane. The
next thing I am aware of is
my
coming awake, not groggily, but fully. Mark is fetched. I am taken
home. I look in the mirror;
there is an ugly bandage at the base of my throat. It'll feel
like a too-tight tie,”' Dr. Spillane had said. The instructions are that it is a “steristrip” bandage. I cannot shower for 48 hours. I should leave the bandage alone; it will come off on its own in due time. I am to be gentle on my esophagus: no spicy food, no alcoholic beverages, no acidic foods such as citrus fruits and juices, no carbonated beverages, no dry or hard foods such as crackers, nuts, potato chips, pretzels, and raw fruits and vegetables.
like a too-tight tie,”' Dr. Spillane had said. The instructions are that it is a “steristrip” bandage. I cannot shower for 48 hours. I should leave the bandage alone; it will come off on its own in due time. I am to be gentle on my esophagus: no spicy food, no alcoholic beverages, no acidic foods such as citrus fruits and juices, no carbonated beverages, no dry or hard foods such as crackers, nuts, potato chips, pretzels, and raw fruits and vegetables.
***
On
August 20 I have an MRI (Magnetic Resonance Imaging) of my brain. Dr.
Spillane had explained why this is necessary, but I've forgotten …
I think
they have to be positive that there is no sign of cancer in the
brain. The
technician asked me what music I liked. “Adele,” I said, that
being the first name that popped into my mind.
“I don't have her.” “Seventies rock would be okay.” She said
something about having just bought the soundtrack to some movie;
without my hearing-aid I did not catch the name. But the music was
bloody
awful;
I was glad when the clang of the machine drowned it out; sometimes,
too, the way-off-kilter rhythm of the machine was more attractive
than the beat of the music.
When
my little ordeal of sound was done, I saw, as I left the room, that
the next victim was a tiny shrunken bent-backed woman who looked to
be ninety or more. I took pity. I thought of Emily Dickinson:
I
wonder if it hurts to live,
and
if they have to try,
and
whether – could they choose between --
they
would not rather die.
***
There's
a woman named Liz whom I love very much. I met her in
the late eighties when
she was a waitress in our restaurant
in Vermont; she was a student working her way to a double major:
literature and economics. Her father had died when she was young. She
was
estranged from her mother. I asked if I could adopt her. She politely
declined. Now, with her lawyer husband, she's the parent of three
handsome boys, 12, 14, and 16, who
sometimes
call me Grandpa George. Liz
and her family
are a major part of my extended family.
They
come to Cape Cod for a few days, staying with friends in Wellfleet.
This is another big morale boost. We meet them for breakfast on
Sunday morning.
On
Monday night we all – there
are ten of us – go
to a drag show in Provincetown and
have a fabulous time. The
sixteen-year-old, however
mortified,
lives through a
very
unsolicited
lap
dance! On
Tuesday we have breakfast on a picnic table outside Sam's Deli; and
then I'm off to Hyannis because ….
***
Finally!
Treatment begins! August 25th! I drive to Hyannis, 56
miles round-trip, every week day to have a few moments of radiation.
I have a special ID card which I scan upon arrival, not needing to
report to anyone; my name pops up on a computer somewhere to let them
know I've arrived. Then I go directly to a changing room, take off my
shirt and don a smock, leaving my trousers and wallet etc. on my
person; then I sit in a waiting room until I hear my name called by a
technician, who fetches me to the radiation room. Everyone, again,
is lovely and caring.
On
Thursdays I go right from radiation, up an elevator, to the chemo
ward. Everyone there is also kind. I have to wonder if they don't
pick especially caring staff for the cancer patients. In the chemo
room – besides the busy nurses – are two volunteers. After you
are seated in a comfortable reclining chair, one of the volunteers
comes and tantalizes you by holding up a Hershey's kiss for your
taking. You have to smile.
I
usually have a good nap during chemo, and then am served a good
sandwich and Lorna Doone cookies and milk and an apple for lunch. A
comfortably elegant elderly lady named Sandy, who has a heart-warming
smile, always delivers the lunch.
Once
a week, on Tuesdays, I meet with Radiation Nurse Christine and then
with Dr. Sullivan; also with the Chemo doctor and his nurse, Amy. (I
haven't mentioned meeting her; she is a great wit, wry, long blonde
hair, tall, perfect posture, another nice person.)
Dr.
Lovett, however, after just one visit, dismisses me “for six
weeks.” I am to have blood lab work done the day before chemo, and
apparently some certain color of cells are counted; this count is
noted by a chemo nurse. My count is apparently – week in, week out
– good enough that further consultation with Dr. Lovett isn't
thought to be necessary.
The
chemo and radiation go fine. I had been told that these treatments would “wipe
me out.” This, as it would turn out, was not the case; there were a
couple Saturdays when I took long, deep, naps. But generally there
were no bad effects; I prided myself on going straight to work from
my treatments. The surgeon, Dr. Spillane, on my initial visit with
him, commended me for this: “It's good to keep your mind busy.”
It
did happen that on the 26th roundtrip to Hyannis I
suddenly felt I couldn't do it again. I was sick of the trip. But I
did it once more; I had to do
it once more. And
then I did it once more again. And then I was done.
While
waiting for those last rays of radiation, the radiation nurse, the
heart-meltingly sweet Christine, tells me that I have done
“phenomenally” – I don't know exactly what that means;
presumably that my tolerance has been good.
The
radiation has burned my chest slightly but also, later, – and this
would puzzle me – burn my back much more – to the point of
blisters. I want to remember to ask how this happens.
Christine
also points out that it is protocol that when one has finished one's
last treatment, he/she rings a bell that hangs in the waiting room,
and everyone applauds. In fact when I walked out of the last
treatment there was no-one in the waiting room, and even the little
hallway of nurse stations was empty of nurses, and I had to get to my
last chemo treatment, so I just walked on out without a goodbye to
anyone, feeling kind of sad that I was missing saying goodbye to
Christine especially. She was definitely one of my crushes.
No
sooner was I ensconced in my recliner in the chemo ward than
Christine shows up! She's stalked me! I get a kiss! I give a kiss! I
am happy now. I don't have to feel cheated.
***
The
worst experience throughout took place on Sept. 22nd,
during my second meeting with Dr. Spillane. I don't remember which
doctor had first put the word 'laparoscopic' in my mind, but I had
all along been thinking the tumor's removal would be a simple matter.
Not at all. It will be a five hour operation, Dr. Spillane says. A
sizable piece of one rib will need to be removed. Muscles in my back
will be cut; I am going to be horribly sore; I am going to need rehab
to become able to use those muscles effectively; meanwhile, since
they control my left arm, it may be useless until my muscles are
healed enough that they can make the arm do the things it's supposed
to do.
This
depressed me. For a day and a half I was suicidal, forlorn. Perhaps I
was just tired, for eventually I came to my usual self; I realized
that there is nothing I can do and that I should not worry. All I
have to do is take life one day at a time. So I am going to be really
really sore. So I am going to have to go to rehab. I will deal with soreness and rehab when they happen.
And
then I wondered if I could bring home the rib that Dr. Spillane might
remove, and create from it a woman. I mentioned this possibility to Todd, my good buddy at work.
Todd laughed and said, “I think you're confusing yourself with
another guy.”
***
The
mother of one of Mark's colleagues sends me lots of good food. It's
another blessing. She tests recipes for that non-glossy “Cooking”
magazine out of Vermont. She loves to cook, and she is good! And
I love to eat.
***
We're
moving closer to surgery. I have to pass a pulmonary function test
at the hospital. The technician, patting me on the shoulder, says,
“I'm not allowed to tell you the results, but I can tell you that
you have nothing to worry about.” Having smoked from the age of
thirteen to the age of sixty-three I don't understand how I pass all
these various pulmonary tests I've had over the years with flying
colors.
***
 |
| Dr. Jeffrey Spillane |
On the big day Dr. Spillane shows up in pre-op looking cool, wearing faded jeans and a casual shirt. I am stripped of everything: my shorts, my modesty, and my dignity. My chest, side, and back are shaved. Mark sits at my side; I tell him that fifteen years ago this very month my brother John, also fighting a lung cancer, died on an operating table; I say that if I should meet a similar fate today, I want Mark to know how to arrange the best deal on having me cremated. “Be frugal with my money,” I implore.
***
I
can't believe how cold it is in the operating room. I am shivering.
A burly sweet surgical tech – a “bear” in gay parlance –
covers me with a heated blanket. I wasn't worried, but pats my hand and tells me not to
worry. “I will be with you and I will take good care of you,” he
says. I want to say that I am old enough that if I should not wake from the anesthesia it will be okay; I will be the last to know, and what a perfect way to go --- go to sleep and not wake up.
The anesthesiologist, Dr. Fortunato again, shows up. “Okay, here we go,” he says.
The anesthesiologist, Dr. Fortunato again, shows up. “Okay, here we go,” he says.
***
I
wake. I'm woozy. Dr. Spillane is telling me that everything went
better than expected. The tumor had been so expertly shrunken by the
Radiation Oncology people that he had not had to remove one
rib, let alone two.
I'm
gurneyed to a private room overlooking Hyannis Harbor. Mark, who'd
gone home for the five hour surgery, returns to the hospital. His
sister comes in. They stay until suppertime. I'm coddled by nurses. I
am so spiritually high and alert that I stay awake all night, enjoying my
thoughts, being amazed at the phrase cancer-free, thrilled to have all my ribs, living what
seems like the life, the life of someone hooked up to five-or-so
tubes, someone catheterized, someone who's having pain medication
inserted drip-by-drip directly into a vein, someone who has a
half-inch clear plastic tube draining fluids from his chest. I am
simply amazed at this latest version of myself. I hallucinate: I am
lying flat on my back and it is three o'clock in the morning; when I
open my eyes I should see the ceiling but instead I see the wall that
would be in front of me if I were sitting up straight! I
double-check. Yes, I'm on my back. Yes, the clock and the signs on
the wall are above me. Cool! Wow! Groovy! I try to figure out
if it is an optical illusion; I can't figure things out. I fall asleep for what seems at most ten seconds and in a quick dream I write a twelve-line poem; it is all layed out on a sheet of paper. When I wake I can remember only the last line: Your future is in arrears.
I
access the Internet on my Kindle. I make a couple comments on
Facebook. In the morning, a FB friend from work comments: “George,
were you really on FB at 0230 after surgery? Hope all is well.”
Yes,
Sue, I was.
In
the morning I am helped to the bathroom. I've washed my face. Now I'm
shaving. Dr Spillane appears behind me in the mirror. “How ya'
doin', Tiger?” And then, “Keep on shavin'. I'm just gonna take a quick look at your incisions.”
That
“Tiger” will nourish my spirit for days and days and days.
After
the next morning's check-up, Dr. Spillane gives me a “low five.”
He's like a buddy.
There is on my table a jar of coins. Someone has labeled it: "Richard English's Coins." It's a long story. Richard was my buddy in the Army in Germany in 1961. He died last December. The cops took his cash, including these coins. In April when I was walking during my lunch break a Provincetown detective called and said that I, as the person who had handled much of Richard's affairs, both in life and death, could come and pick up the cash. The detective's hours were 7AM to 3PM Monday through Friday. I said that was inconvenient for me; could I have a friend who lives in Provincetown pick them up for me? Yes, that will be okay. So Jim Rann picked them up. I never got up to Provincetown when it was a good time to look Jim up, so when Jim and Rodney came to visit me in the hospital, Jim brought the bills and the jar of coins.
There is on my table a jar of coins. Someone has labeled it: "Richard English's Coins." It's a long story. Richard was my buddy in the Army in Germany in 1961. He died last December. The cops took his cash, including these coins. In April when I was walking during my lunch break a Provincetown detective called and said that I, as the person who had handled much of Richard's affairs, both in life and death, could come and pick up the cash. The detective's hours were 7AM to 3PM Monday through Friday. I said that was inconvenient for me; could I have a friend who lives in Provincetown pick them up for me? Yes, that will be okay. So Jim Rann picked them up. I never got up to Provincetown when it was a good time to look Jim up, so when Jim and Rodney came to visit me in the hospital, Jim brought the bills and the jar of coins.
On
Friday morning Dr. Spillane notices the jar. “What's that?” he
asks.
“It's
a long story,” I say. “Kind of too complicated to go into.”
We
chat for another five minutes and then the doctor says, “I'm really
curious. I want to know the story behind “Richard English's Coins”.
I
tell the long story of a long friendship. It reminds Dr. Spillane of
a friend he has, a fellow
surfer; someone whom
he sort of looks after the way I tried to look after Richard, someone
who, “if he goes off his meds” can get into a lot of trouble (not
that my Richard had
a “meds” problem, unless alcohol were considered a "med").
We talk about friendship, and about loyalty. Dr. Spillane, seeming
very contemplative, helps
himself to a coin from the
jar; it's going to go towards
helping his surfing buddy who
has to appear in court tomorrow in Rhode Island. Dr. Spillane is
going to use a credit card to
book this
buddy a hotel room convenient
to the courthouse,
hoping that the buddy doesn't
run up a huge bar tab, and that he actually
shows up for court.
I
have lots of company. Rodney and Jim and Abby make me laugh even
though it hurts to laugh. Tom, the IT guy at work, brings me a gift
bag containing two good books, and tells me that nowadays his first
date with any certain woman is for appetizers and a cocktail … that
way, if you decide quickly that you don't like her, “you're not
stuck with her all through dinner.”
Dear friend Madeline comes in one afternoon but I am napping and when I awake I go into a panic attack because my breathing has been shallow and now I'm gasping for oxygen; she's gone before I get settled down enough to chat
And I love so many of the nurses – they are so sweet – that I consider them my personal friends too.
The
Radiation Oncology Nurse Christine stops in to see me every day. On
the day that the pathology report of my tumor is available, both
Christine and Dr. Sullivan come in together, beaming, it seems, at
how perfectly their schemes had reduced the size of my tumor. They are on what strikes me as a victory lap! I'm
glad that Jim and Rod are visiting so I can introduce them to these
stellar care-givers.
On
the Sunday after the Monday operation I am dismissed. So
much for doctors being on the golf course so that no-one gets
dismissed on a weekend. Dr.
Spillane says I've been ahead of my predicted recovery every step of
the way.
When
he's ready to leave I say, “Thank
you very much, Doctor. I'm so glad I ended up in your hands. You're
my hero.”
“You're
my hero,” he replies
as he walks
out of the room.
I
could cry. But I
don't.
The
operation was just over a
month ago. No, no, no, I
didn't want
to go to rehab, and I didn't
have to go to rehab. I've
been home, and, unaccustomed
to having so much free time, hardly
know how to fill it. I
read a lot, and I actually watched a couple hours of really stupid daytime TV. Slowly
I am
recovering, asking only that
I am at least a little better than I was the day before. My
instructions
from the doctor are
simple: I am to walk twice a day, and I'm to walk a little further
each day. This will help
build up my diminished oxygen capacity. I'm
not supposed to lift anything that is more than five pounds.
I've had no pain, just discomfort, a numbness in my chest and left arm; and that seems to be getting a bit better. I can even sleep on my left side again. Last week I returned to work very part-time: 3 hours on Monday, 3 hours on Wednesday, and 3 hours on Friday. This week I bumped that three up to four. Next week maybe I'll bump it up to five.
I've had no pain, just discomfort, a numbness in my chest and left arm; and that seems to be getting a bit better. I can even sleep on my left side again. Last week I returned to work very part-time: 3 hours on Monday, 3 hours on Wednesday, and 3 hours on Friday. This week I bumped that three up to four. Next week maybe I'll bump it up to five.
I
miss all the attention. I can
hardly wait for my next follow-up with Dr. Spillane; he's been
surfing in Hawaii, so I won't see him until December 8th. I can
hardly wait to see Dr. Molly and Nurse Christine again; that will
happen in January.
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