J-E-L-L-O

I woke up in my room and the first person I saw was my wife. What a warm relief that was. She was smiling the brightest, warmest smile and things were instantly better. Words truly fail me. It was such a comfort to see her as soon as I came to.

We spoke for a bit and I talked to my folks. Though my mom did her best to hide it, I knew she'd been worried sick. I'm sure it was a relief for her to see that I'd not only made it through but had all my faculties. Had I been thinking, I would've yelled something in Spanish or in a made-up language, but the anaesthesia had the upper hand. The nurses came in to make sure I was okay and to get me started on what would be a night full of IV drips, injections and pills.

My head was bandaged up but I could see with both eyes. One of the first things I wanted to see was a hospital menu. It was mid-afternoon and I hadn't eaten since the night before. I was ravenous. I probably would have even eaten a slice of Sandra Lee's Kwanzaa Cake and asked for seconds. The nurse brought me a menu and suggested I take it easy since anaesthesia can make some people nauseous. I got spaghetti and meatballs and some red Jell-O.

The Jell-O arrived first. A lot of people make fun of Jell-O, saying it's strictly for honkies, Jell-O shots and after-funeral lunches. And they're right. But it's also pretty goddamn delicious when you haven't eaten in sixteen hours.

After that I talked briefly with one of our former customers from our bakery for a bit and just rested. I was happy to learn that I'd be getting a morphine drip. I, like most Americans, had heard great things about morphine and was looking forward to it and all of its wondrous narcotic properties. Sadly, all it did was dull the pain.

Which was surprisingly minimal. You'd think that getting your head cut open would make the top three on the Holy Shit That Hurts list, but I was more sore from the screws in the halo than the divot in my skull.

After the spaghetti (which also tasted as if Jesus Himself had made it) I rested and tried not to move too much so I wouldn't disturb the IV. My bed was almost supernaturally comfortable. Though the matress was thin, it had these pumps that'd continually adjust to support your body in whatever position you were in. I could also control the TV (I think -- morphine's a hell of a drug. At one point I'm sure I thought I could control Prince Charles and/or the weather in Peru) from my bed. It was pretty sweet. If it wasn't for the whole sickness/surgery thing, I'd get one for home.

Watch What Happens When I Press...Here!

The operating room didn't look like I thought it would. The predominant colors were white and gray, but I was expecting something...brighter, I guess. There were about six other people in the room that I could see, and all of them had a particular job they were getting ready for. The anaethesiologist and his student assistant gave me a shot to get things moving.

One thing you don't hear about very often is that you're going to be awake during the surgery. This is to make sure they don't do something that'll turn you into a country music fan or vote for Sarah Palin. So while I was getting anaesthesia, I wouldn't be out the whole time. They could and would be giving me something to make me forget about it though. So I had that going for me.

I got all warm and calm and they put a little tent up to cover my eyes. Probably for the best. There was classical music playing somewhere and we were off to the races.

They kept asking me questions. First, to make sure I was cognizant and second to check the progress of the anaesthesia. The questions were pretty basic -- stuff like "what day is it?" and "what's your wife's name" as well as whether or not I felt anything. I felt calm through all of it.

Because of the drugs, my memory of the actual surgery is a little hazy. One thing I remember quite clearly is the sound of my skull being opened. It sounds pretty much like you'd expect -- kind of a wet crunch and a crack. It didn't scare me and I didn't freak out. They were talking to each other and doing their thing. I could've been at the beach as far as I was concerned. I just kept talking and answering questions. Hopefully the line of questioning was on the up and up. I probably would've sung like a canary on all sorts of topics and had no memory of them afterwards. You could learn a lot about someone.

It took some time to get to the tumor, but when he did I remember there being some comments. Stuff like, "Here's the first sample" and so on. They sent it to a pathologist. I remember thinking that the fucking pathologist better be in the goddamn room next door and not across town. I also remember wondering how it would be presented to him/her. Would it be in a jar? Raced across town in an Igloo cooler? In some guy's hand?

I don't know how long it took for him/her to check it out, but the doctor asked me if it'd be okay for them to get another sample of the tumor for future reference and so students could study it since it was so rare.
Well, since you have the hood up, why the hell not? I said sure. If it would prevent anyone else from having to go through this, I'm all for it.

At this point the doctor reiterated that I should tell him if I felt anything. I did. It felt as if there was a thick string connecting my ears and someone was plucking it. It didn't hurt and it didn't make me piss my pants or anything, but it's not something you'd really like to experience if you can help it.

I said "Hey!"

Things got real quiet.

The doctor calmly asked if I was alright. I replied that it was fine, but it felt as if someone was tugging on the aforementioned string. He took a deep breath and said "okay." Things progressed without incident.

I don't remember much after that, but I do remember being wheeled out of the operating room, thanking everyone for doing such a great job. I have no idea if it was polite and classy or more like Motley Crue leaving the stage after a concert. Probably the latter. "Thank you! Goodnight Tulsa!"

I Feel Pretty

If you're going to have brain surgery, you might as well do it first thing in the morning so you can get on with your day, right? More importantly, you want the doctors and nurses to be fresh and ready to go. Yes, they're professionals, but I don't want to be the third skull they're cracking open after a long day.

We got to the hospital early and they started to prep me. First I had to strip down to my boxers and put on the flattering gown. Next were compression hose. For those new to compression hose, they're white thigh-high tights that help prevent blood clots from forming in your legs when you aren't moving around and traveling through your system. As you can imagine, they're quite flattering.

Next was a quick shave of a section of my head (why not do the whole thing??) and, best of all, the halo. A halo is the poetic term for the medieval steel cage that goes around your head that is designed to keep you from moving during surgery. I get it -- one twitch from you and you wind up marching in place whenever someone turns on a microwave for the rest of your life. What doesn't make it into the TV shows is that they screw the damn thing into your skull. Read that last sentence again. There's not much they can do to anesthetize the area, either. So there's that.

Once I was all handsome and looking like an extra from a Marilyn Manson video, I met the doctor, the anasthesiologist (sp?) and Jackie, the absolutely awesome nurse who'd be wheeling me around for most of the morning. The anaethetist had a student with him. Did I mind if he observed the surgery? Why the hell not! Given the fact that I was in a baby blue dress wearing white tights and a metal cage on my head, I'd already lost any and all dignity. Bring the whole class!

They gave me the first of many shots, I said my goodbyes to my wife and family and I was wheeled down the hall.

Gimme Toro, Gimme Some More

Once the date was set, things went pretty fast. My wife's mom and sister, who are a hell of a lot of fun and completely wonderful, said they'd come up while I went into the hospital. My folks, who were equally excellent, offered to take me out for a meal at a restaurant of my choosing before I went in.

Since I had surgery and chemo ahead of me, I opted for sushi. I wouldn't be able to eat raw fish for a while, so off we went. I knew that neither of my folks were all that thrilled with sushi (they ended up going with some baked fish and rice), but it was a heartfelt show of support.

A few days later my mother and sister-in-law arrived. The night before the surgery, neither I nor my wife could sleep. We got up around three and went downstairs to talk.

At this point I thought there was a ten percent chance that I'd die on the table. My wife later told me it was closer to thirty. Regardless, we went over a few things. I wrote down all the usernames and passwords for our assorted online accounts and we talked about my final wishes.

That didn't take long. Mainly because I didn't have any elaborate or dramatic wishes other than "let people take whatever they want to remember me by." To me, it seemed a little pompous to put all this weight on possessions that ultimately didn't mean anything. I thought it'd mean more to my friends and family if they could pick something that reminded them of me. When my grandma died, the one thing I took that reminded me most of her was a funky TV tray with bongos on it. I'd eaten many a Thanksgiving meal off that tray and it was something I always associated with going to Grandma's. I didn't want to deprive someone else of that opportunity to take something.

What's more it still seemed abstract and surreal. I felt like I was watching a movie. I was a little nervous about the operation, but there really wasn't anything to do. There was nothing I could do other than go forward, and crying or worrying wasn't going to make things any better.

Point and Click

After all the tests and back and forth, my neurologist and oncologist agreed that they'd need to do a biopsy on the tumor so the oncologist would know exactly what he was dealing with. They'd been reading up on my special snowflake of a tumor, which was remarkably rare. Par. In order to get that biopsy, they'd have to do brain surgery. The date was set for a morning in June. I had two weeks to get ready.

Since the tumor was in such a delicate spot, they'd go in and get a small chunk of it for the pathologist to study. Then, they'd use that info to determine the best way to get rid of the thing. They'd literally be going through my brain in order to get to it. I would be awake the whole time.

Naturally, I had questions. Would this hurt? Would I be able to feel anything? Would I shit my pants whenever I heard a doorbell for the rest of my life?

Thanfully, the answer was 'no' to all these questions. The brain has no nerve endings, so there'd be no pain and I likely wouldn't feel anything. Your brain is more permeable than you'd think -- the fibers of the tissue have some give and would allow the needle/instrument to go right into my brain without cutting or puncturing any of the surrounding tissue. It'd be like when you insert your hand into a tree or bush -- you can touch the center of it, but when you remove your hand the tree's fine. It's in the exact same shape it was before you put your hand into it. It'd be the same thing with my brain.

However. There was a 30% chance I could die. On top of that, since the tumor was right up against my optic nerve, there was a chance I could go blind. Not the greatest odds, but I didn't have much of a choice. The tumor was growing by the day, and had shown no signs of slowing.

I had a lot of faith in the doctor who'd be performing the surgery, so we set a date. I had a couple weeks to get ready.

Tortilla Flats

As soon as they found the tumor I got started on a regular dose of steroids. It was a small orange pill I took times a day, and the dosage gradually increased. The theory was that it’d help to delay or slow the growth of the tumor.

What they didn’t tell me was that the steroids would screw with my sleep, make me ravenously hungry, gain weight and turn into a raging asshole at the slightest provocation.

I was effectively turned into Dick Cheney but with more hair.

All these things increased in severity as my dosage increased, but it was the sleep deprivation that was the hardest initially. No matter what I’d done during the day – exercised, read before bed, had wine at dinner, abstained from alcohol – and no matter what time I’d go to bed I’d wake up between 2 and 4 and be up for the day.
And as I was losing sleep I became more and more irritable. I wasn’t driving as much since my vision was getting worse. That was probably a good thing, since I’m sure I would’ve wound up in a fight or accident.

But as time wore on, the anger became harder to control. Sometimes I’d be angry for absolutely no reason at all – just a black mood. Other times I’d fly off the handle at the smallest thing. Scariest of all was the loss of control I felt when it would happen sometimes. At its zenith it was like an out-of-body experience; I felt as if I was watching myself behave like a two year old.

Even on a good day, I’ve never been a fan of the public. Factor in the steroids and it made for a bad combination.

One afternoon my wife and I were at the grocery store, looking for tortilla chips. She’d mentioned that we should swing by the health food section of the store. I was tired, feeling lousy and cranky as usual. A young woman was busy stocking chips, and smiled and asked if she could help us. Most of the chips in the bags I picked up had been smashed to bits. My wife said “Oh, we’re just looking for some tortilla chips” and I interjected “Yeah, do you have any bags that haven’t been sat on yet?”

Now, in my defense, the vast majority of the bags had been beat to shit, with small shards of chips clogging the windows of most of them. But still, this woman hadn’t done it. That gave me no right to act like a complete asshole, especially when she was trying to be helpful. As soon as the words left my mouth I felt bad about it, but let my wife do the apologizing. Needless to say, we wrapped our shopping shortly thereafter.

The Wind at Your Back

It's a cliche, but you really can't fight cancer by yourself. It truly does take a team. Not only of doctors, nurses and support staff, but friends and family. Their love and support can truly make a difference in ways you can't expect or even imagine.

But the most important person on your team, and one not everyone's lucky enough to have, is someone that's your advocate. Someone who will fight for you when the doctors are going down the wrong path. Someone to tell well-wishers that you've had enough for the day and need to rest. Someone who insists you need to rest. Someone to complain to. Someone to cry with. Someone who will make that midnight run for popsicles.  Someone that will sit with you as you writhe in bed with a roaring fever from the fucking chemo.

In my case, that person was my wife.

More cliches: marriage is a journey. Marriage is a union. Blah blah blah. Yeah, it's those things, but it's easy to be happy and content and in love when things are going good. That's the easy part. That's coasting. The real test is when the shit not only hits the proverbial fan but keeps hitting it. That's when you find out what both you and your partner are made of.

I was extremely lucky. I married someone who's smart, strong, caring, empathetic and has a strong bullshit detector. Over the course of my treatment, all those attributes came into play. There were peaks and valleys. People I didn't expect anything from came through in ways that were unbelievable. Others I thought I could count on failed spectacularly. My wife was there for every small victory as well as every little defeat.

Not everyone has that. Keep that in mind the next time you hear about someone who's sick. A serious illness in not only a downer, it's a fucking grind for all involved. It gets old. It loses its novelty. The phone calls and cards slow to a trickle after a few weeks, but the illness is still there. Often worse than before. Having an advocate; a partner who stands by you is worth their weight in gold. They deserve just as much recognition for all the bravery you're saluted for as you do. Maybe more. 

And so do your team of supporters. Their goodwill, positivity and smiles -- often the simplest things -- make a bad day bearable and a good day outstanding.

But that's a topic for another post.