When I had Hodgkin's Lymphoma, it helped to talk to other people to know I was not alone. When I went into remission, other people starting their journey were helped simply by talking to me. I was amazed by that. The internet is full of information. I hope in that cybersea, I can somehow be of help.
I don’t remember too much of the actual getting up in the morning and going to the hospital. I was packed for a few days’ stay if I remember correctly. I remember going into the waiting room. I went to get prepped for surgery. I remember there was somebody who shaved my chest. All the time I was just nervous about going under, losing control and complications from surgery. I was scared, and I don’t really think I could absorb anything else. Two nurses took my vitals, which of course included my pulse. One looked shocked, wrote something down, and handed it to the other nurse who got wide eyes upon reading this note. Now, I wasn’t stupid. I know they were concerned about my heart rate, but I was really not able to absorb anything else. I remember getting a muscular injection. I remember it hurting more than the IV they had given me. That was supposed to be some sedative. At some point, there was a call to the pre-op room. They gave me the message: it was from my mother to remind me to “think positive thoughts”. I grinned. The tech, nurse, whoever it was immediately understood that it was “Mom being Mom."
A doctor came to visit me. He told me he was the one that gave me the sedative and they were worried about my heart rate. Again, I didn’t care. I really didn’t care this time because the sedative was kicking in. I remember feeling really great and groovy when I rolled into the operating room. All my fears were suppressed thanks to the medication. I really didn’t care about whether I lived or died. That was just the medication talking. It was time for my date with the anesthesia. I remember Dad, a veteran of many surgeries, telling me maybe a couple of days before that when he went into surgery, the anesthesiologist told him to count backwards from ten and that he didn’t quite make the countdown. Although I wasn’t instructed to do so, I took the initiative. I remember a numbness going through my body and then...
…I woke up to the words, “David, wake up. You get to go home now.” Huh? Home? What I heard was puzzling because even in my stupor, I thought I was supposed to go through some traumatic thing. They still worried about getting my heart rate down. I overheard some of the nurses talking. I had been reading medical books for the past couple of days (it was 1990, before the internet), and I was rapidly absorbing the medical terminology. It was kind of like learning a foreign language and much to your surprise, being able to pick up on a conversation. I understood that the surgery was not the crack-open-the-chest type. There was a part of me that was disappointed. I was still quite sedated and there was still a lot to absorb what was going on here.
One of the partners from my pulmonologist’s office came to check on me. He continued to belabor the old we’re-worried-about-your-heart-rate. He asked me if there was family here. I told him there was and in some stupor he had enough information to know where to find them.
Dad came in. To bring someone back who was not a part of the medical staff is an exception, but Dad was a means to help bring my heart rate down. I don’t remember whether or not this was after I saw him enter the large recovery room, but I do remember that one of the nurses were fiddling with the equipment and saying that she couldn’t get a reading. My dad sort of freaked out. For some reason I wanted to be a funny guy, so I said, “that’s because I’m dead.”
The pulmonologist gave me the respiratory equipment – that famous three-ball exerciser. But primarily, the concern was with my heart rate. Dad felt better to leave me in the hospital overnight. I didn’t care – I was certainly in no hurry. Where did I have to go?
So I get wheeled out of the recovery room and I notice my family swarm around me. My brother and his girlfriend were standing over me and I remember at that time how wonderful it would be to have a partner that could help me through this and how lucky my brother was to have such a person if something like what had happened to me had happened to him.
I remember going into the elevator to take me to my room and I remember the motion of the elevator made me nauseous. Then I was wheeled into my room and into my bed. Great – it was a private room. I then got sick and tried to throw up but couldn’t. Nothing but dry heaves. The nurse said, “There was nothing to bring up, honey.” I went in and out of a pipe dream laden sleep.
At one point, the surgeon conferred with my parents – OUTSIDE MY ROOM!!! EXCUSE ME, patient in here!!!! I tried to listen as much as I could, wanting to know what was really going on but dreading what he would say. I remember him saying that the tumor was growing outside the rib cage, and they only got enough for a biopsy. He said, “that’s what we were told to do.” My parents somehow thought they were going to try to remove the whole tumor.
That night was terrible. I could only sleep on my back. My chest was hurting from the surgery. I also remember that part of my muscle had been relocated around my neck and collarbone. It still is to this day. I started to get assertive and called for the nurse. I told him I was having trouble sleeping because of the pain. He offered a simple remedy: Tylenol. We joked that when he came by in a half hour he wouldn’t wake me up to see if I was sleeping. Nevertheless, it did the trick. I swear I have not been paid to say that!
The next day, the doctor saw fit that I was ready to go home. I thought, and then what? What happens to me now? Anyway, I returned home and gradually, the left-hand side of my torso started to hurt and I really started coughing, more so than I had been. My parents said, “no heroics” – in other words, if I felt we needed to go back to the hospital I needed to say so. I really didn’t want to go back, but the coughing and pain got so bad I just had to give the signal for us to go. We went into the emergency room of the same hospital. After the usual long wait at night, the doctor came in and went over my x-rays. He said that I had pneumonia. The cause was that usually after surgery I’m able to cough all this stuff up but the tumor was blocking all that. And that I needed to be admitted. I was dreading that. But it would turn out to be all for the best. It was about 11:00. I had a long day, and it was time for bed.
In the morning, my parents came. Not soon afterward was that “cold fish” pulmonologist. He was giving the results of the pathology report. I had Hodgkin’s’ Disease (now known as Hodgkin’s’ Lymphoma). He said it was curable but added the great disclaimer, “we can’t guarantee that.”
So now we knew the enemy. But we needed to know how to attack and what weapons to use.
I don't mind using combat terms. I have heard that people don't like "battle' or "survivor" because it implies that anybody that dies from the disease didn't fight hard enough. But I've heard enough World War II veterans say that staying alive was a matter of luck and not skill. So I think the combat lingo is still appropriate.
And thus the battle begins....
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