The Big C

           It started a little over a year ago. My handsome husband wasn’t feeling well. Mike was short of breath and couldn’t make it from the recliner to the kitchen without stopping to rest, plus he was having pain in his left calf. It didn’t take long to find out he had blood clots in his lungs. Mike walked right from being diagnosed to being admitted to the ICU.

“People don’t come in here under their own power,” the gal at the desk was incredulous.

After a three-day hospital stay, Mike came home with a new medicine to add to his repertoire; a blood thinner. However, the cause of the blood clots remained a mystery.

Fast forward a year and Mike starts not feeling well again. He’s dizzy, short of breath, and his blood pressure is all over the board. A trip to the cardiologist ruled out more blood clots. It seems like we made another trip besides that one but I don’t remember the details. I do remember the third trip though. Mike was changing to a new doctor, she took one look at him and said, “You’re anemic. The cause of anemia in adults is likely from a bleeding polyp,” she explained and ordered blood tests as well as an upper and lower GI.

The blood tests came back with Mike’s hemoglobin at 7.3. Normal is 13.7-17.5.

“If it had been three points lower, I’d’ve sent you right in for a blood transfusion,” she told us. “I think you can get by with just an infusion of iron but I’ll have to send you to a hematologist to determine that.”

The results of the upper and lower GI came back. Colon cancer.

From here, there were many trips to doctors and the hospital for many tests and four rounds of iron infusions.

Up to this point, Mike was okay with me keeping family and friends informed about what was going on. But now, with a diagnosis of cancer, Mike, all of a sudden, didn’t want me to share information.

“Don’t tell anyone.” It was too late. I’d already been telling my peeps. But I wasn’t allowed to tell them anything more.

I tried to convince Mike that when something like this happens, it’s important to rally friends and family around you, but he wasn’t having any of that. He wasn’t even going to tell his brother and sister. (He did eventually.)

What could I do? I had to respect his wishes.

So, many of the stories that I might’ve told you are gone now. Sunk to the murky depths of this soggy old brain. Only one stands out enough to be remembered.

COVID-19 has changed many things. This we all know. It’s no surprise that it’s changed the way hospitals do things, too.

Whenever an appointment was set up for Mike, we were given an arrival time, usually 15 minutes before his appointment. My Mike doesn’t believe in being late. “I’d rather sit there for 30 minutes than be one minute late,” he says. Often times we were there as much as an hour before our arrival time.

One day, we get the receptionist from hell.

“We give you an arrival time and that’s the time we want you here, not…” she glanced at the clock, “…not an hour before your appointment. We don’t want to have too many people in the waiting room at once,” she said but proceeded to check Mike in anyway.

I bet we’ve made two dozen trips to the hospital, early for every single appointment, and she’s the only one who ever felt the need to dress us down.

“It’s not an hour,” I pointed out. “It’s only 30 minutes.” Like that was any better, right?

She wanted to argue about his appointment time but I had it on paper, all she had was a computer. “He can stay here but you can’t. There’s no room in this waiting room or any other place in the hospital for you to wait and be socially distanced. Will you be staying in your car or going home?”

“I’ll be in my car.”

“What is your phone number?” she wanted to know and I gave it to her. She dialed and my phone didn’t ring. I’d put it on silence when we entered the hospital. I got the volume turned up in time to catch the last ring before voicemail.

I want to point out that every other time we’d been here, I’d been allowed to wait for Mike in the waiting room. But I didn’t say anything. I might’ve huffed a little and got my dander up, but I walked away without being rude to her.

Mike followed me out into the hallway. “You could go find a place to wait, she won’t know.”

“No.” Now I was just being stubborn. “I told her I’d be in my car; I’m going to the car.”

When Mike was done and the call came, I drove to the door they’d be bringing him out and picked him up. “She was a lot nicer when I went back in,” he told me. “My appointment was at 2, not 2:30 like she thought.”

I felt vindicated.

The very next day we had to return to the same hospital and the same department for an infusion. The receptionist from hell was there again. This time, the guy ahead of us took the head off her steam, and I steamed up listening to the way she treated him. We’d been there enough to know the check-in process. But this gal kept asking questions no one else ever asks. Stupid, simple questions. What really got to me, what broke the camel’s back, was when she said, “Who’s your family doctor?”

The guy said, “Dr. Hzuilikzinkyisght.”

Okay! Okay! I might’ve just been hitting random keys on the keyboard and made that name up, but I think you get the idea.

“How do you spell that?” Ms. Hell asked.

“I don’t know,” he answered and took a shot at it anyway. “H-e-z-i…”

I turned to Mike and quietly said, ‘Seriously? She couldn’t sound it out for herself?” I know how stuff works. You start typing in a few letters and a list pops up.

“There are thousands of doctors in the network,” she explained as she typed.

“I can’t take this anymore,” I told Mike. “I’ll wait outside.”

And you know what? It wasn’t as much what she was asking as the condescending way she asked.

Mike’s surgery was set for two weeks after the diagnosis came in. We met with the surgeon, the anesthesiologist, and an RN who walked us through some education and learning materials to help us understand what was going to happen before, during, and after surgery.

“For your colon prep, nothing but clear liquids the day before surgery. You can have black coffee, tea. Gatorade, juice, Jell-O, but nothing that’s red or purple.”

“How about peach Jell-O?” Mike asked.

I started laughing —

“That’s okay,” she answered him.

— and laughing, and laughing. Maybe the stress was getting to me but I found it incredibly funny, and I teetered on the verge of hysteria. Mike and the RN looked at me. I knew I had to get it under control. I waved my hand. “I’m sorry. Mike, she said no red and purple, what color is peach Jello-O?”

“Well, I just wanted to make sure,” he demurred.

Mike found out, thanks to all the blood tests, that he’s pre-diabetic. “I don’t want diabetes,” he said and has been shunning flour and sugar products ever since. Between that and two colon cleanses in a month, he’s down twenty pounds.

“Not the way I want to lose weight,” I tell him when he brags about his weight loss. I like homemade bread and most desserts.

Mike’s surgery was Tuesday of this week.

We arrived at the hospital a good half-hour before our appointed time. We check in and Mike made his usual apologies for arriving early. “We live down at Wyalusing and we weren’t sure how long it would take us to get here.”

That was true at one time, but no so much anymore.

“That’s alright,” she said and checked us in. She turned to me. “Will you be waiting?”

“I think so, but I might go shopping.”

“Just let us know if you decide to leave. That way we can tell the doctor where you are.” She made some black marks on a card, wrote a number on it, and set it aside. Then she took a white sticker and wrote Mike’s initials and his doctor’s name on it. She handed that to me. “Just put this on so the doctor can find you,” she directed.

“Okay,” I said, removed the sticker from the backing and slapped it on my shirt.

“This is his number,” she said handing me the card. “You can keep track of his status on the screens,” she pointed to a wall-mounted monitor.

“Thank you,” and I accepted the card.

“Just have a seat and someone’ll come get you shortly.”

We found seats, I read the card, then pulled out my iPad to read while we waited. I’d read less than a paragraph when they came to get Mike. Surgery would be one to three hours after you check-in, our pre-admission papers told us. I thought I’d have enough time for a quick trip to Walmart.

“I think I will go shopping,” I told the girls at the front desk. “I’ll just put my name tag on my card,” I said and stuck it on the glossy card. I figured it’d peel right off.

“Oh. I don’t think it’s gonna come off there,” she said. “The glue’s pretty strong. “Just let us know when you come back.”

I stuffed the card in my bag and headed out to do a little retail therapy.

Shopping with my husband makes for fast trips through the stores, unless it’s the hardware or home improvement store, that is. He doesn’t like to shop much so I’ve gotten out of the habit of doing much browsing. Besides, at this point in my life, there’s very little that I really need. But one thing I do need is a new brassiere. That’s what my mother called them. She never called ‘em the shortened version of bra. The last time I bought one was two months ago and Mike was with me. I don’t like to keep him waiting too long so I hurriedly picked one out. I’m not all that happy with my selection either. Now, with Mike being prepped for surgery, I could browse to my heart’s content.

          NEW ITEM! the sign proclaimed. I got to looking and they had a brand called Secret Treasures which did not have an underwire — and they had my size!

          I have to tell you, and I know this is probably more than you wanna know, but when I’d hear other women complain about the underwire jabbing them, I didn’t understand it. Now that I’m carrying around 20 extra pounds, I understand it completely. When you sit, your fat rolls push the wire up into your arm pit. So uncomfortable!

          After picking a bra, I browsed through the craft section, picking up a few things to send to our grandson, then ran past the deli and got popcorn chicken for my lunch. Have you ever had these things? It was a first time for me, and quite possibly my last. They have the consistency of a sponge.

          “But how did they taste‽” I hear you ask.

          I suppose they were okay. I think I tasted more of the spices they breaded it with than I did the chicken. I ate them anyway because I was hungry and knew it wouldn’t kill me.

          I head back to the hospital and the surgical waiting room and check in at the front desk. I did try to peel the sticker off to re-apply to my shirt, but she was right. It wouldn’t come off. “I’m back,” I told her. “And I need a new card as well as a new sticker. I stuck it over his number.” I had the courtesy to blush with embarrassment when I turned the card around so she could see what I’d done.

She quickly made me both and I walked around the waiting room looking for a seat close to one of the monitors so I could see Mike’s number without having to get up.

          There was a place I wanted to sit. Two chairs on one side of a little table, two chairs on the other, all of it backed up against a six-foot high screen that separated it from another section of the waiting room. The only problem was there was a man sitting on one side, and a woman on the other. The woman was friendly and spoke to me as I waited for the screen to change. Finally, it did and I could see 643126 was still in pre-op. I went around and sat on the other side of the divider.

          I had my travel mug full of coffee stuffed down inside my oversized bag. With the top closed so I didn’t slop my coffee. You might think that goes without saying, but I might’ve left the top open once before. I looked around but didn’t see anyone else drinking. I really needed my coffee. The next time one of the desk gals walked through, I asked, “Are we allowed to drink in here?’

          “Of course,” she replied and hurried on her way.

          This led a couple of guys sitting in my section to a discussion on drinks.

          “I could use a drink but I bet they won’t let me have that kind in here,” he said. “They should have a cart and push it around and sell it like they do on airplanes.”

Anxious, and not being able to read the screen from where I was, I got up and went to the other side. She was friendly. Maybe she won’t mind if I sit with her, I think. I rounded the corner and she was gone. Those two seats were empty. I quickly made myself at home, putting my coffee on the table and getting the iPad back out. When I was settled, I checked the numbers. 643126 was still in pre-op.

A few minutes later the lady came back. “I’m sorry, I took your seat. I thought you’d left.”

“I went to the bathroom and walked around a little,” she explained.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?”

“Not at all.”

I try to engage her in conversation. “Are you here with your husband?” Before she could answer, I rushed on. “What’s he having done?”

“I’m here with a client and I don’t know. Even if I did know I couldn’t tell you because of HIPAA.”

“Of course.”

Working with a company you must not violate HIPPA. But as a private person, you can sit in the surgical waiting area and tell your neighbor how your son was in a car accident and broke his arm really bad. And your neighbor can tell you that her brother was beaten up and it took them two days to talk him into coming to the hospital. They were in a another screened off section of the waiting room but I could hear her change seats.

“See,” she said to her new neighbor.

I could imagine that she’d pulled out a phone and was showing pictures.

“Oh my.” The other lady made all the proper noises.

I wanna see! I know. I’m weird. I thought about getting up and checking it out. I guessed she would show me too since she was so free with the information. In the end I decided to stay put.

A doctor came into the waiting area, seeking out the family of whomever he operated on. He greeted them and reported that the guy’s jaw had been broken in three places and his eye socket was broken too. He wired the jaw up and placed a steel plate in… in? on? over? near? …the eye socket to repair that damage.

This gal and I sat there and heard the report. “With HIPPA, how can they do that?” I asked her.

“It doesn’t seem right to me.”

People came and went. I’d read a paragraph or two and check the board. It was almost three before 643126’s yellow, pre-opt background switched to green, intra-op. Mike was in surgery.

I kept an eye on the board and saw when it went to blue, post-op almost three hours later. I snagged my camera to capture the moment and Mike’s number disappeared. It was gone. I waited through two rounds of screen switching and it just wasn’t there.

Why did they take his number down? I wondered. And the obvious answer, to me anyway, was he had died. My heart fell into the pit of my stomach. I kept waiting for someone to come and give me the bad news. Maybe they’d take me into one of the consultation rooms like I saw them do a couple of other people. Surely, they wouldn’t tell me here in front of everyone. When no one came out, I couldn’t stand it anymore; this sickening feeling in my stomach. I had to know. I went to the desk.

“My husband’s number disappeared. Can you tell me what’s going on?” I braced myself. If she says, ‘Someone will be out to talk to you soon,’ then I know it’s true. But she didn’t.

“That means he’s out of surgery but they haven’t assigned him a bed in post-op yet,” she explained. “When they do, his number will come back up.”

I thanked her and turned around to go back to my seat. I was startled when I saw a man towering over the divider screen, checking the patient board.  

“Tell me you’re standing on something.”

He shook his head.

Although face masks were required, I’m sure he could read the shock in my eyes. “How tall are you?” I couldn’t see his grin, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. He didn’t answer right away so I threw my guess at him. “Seven-foot?”

“Six-eleven,” he stated, then went on. “Normally when people ask me that, I ask them, ‘How tall are you?’”

“I’m not as tall as I used to be,” I answered.

“I’m not either.”

“I bet you get asked that all the time. Are you tired of it?”

“Not really. I know people are just curious.”

He must have a good heart. It can be tedious to be asked the same question over and over again, every place you go. Some people, in that situation, get hard-hearted and snarky. Even though he may have answered that question a million times in his life (he wasn’t a young man), he was still kind to me. And I appreciate that.

I resumed my seat and my reading. 643126 came back on the screen. Mike had a bed on post-op. Dr. Barrett came out and talked to me. “He did well and we didn’t find anything unexpected. When he wakes up a little more, they’ll come and get you and let you see him.”

“Even if it’s past visiting hours?” I asked.

“Yeah. They’ll let you go in for a few minutes.”

I thanked him.

After a bit, I heard someone ask the gal at the desk the very same question I’d asked. What happened to the number? And she was as polite and kind to him as she was to me.

I bet she gets asked that all the time, too. Maybe they should put up a sign. I looked around. There were signs on the wall here and there, but I didn’t read them. Maybe it was posted.

When Mike was awake enough, they let me see him. He was hurting and groggy and I didn’t stay long.

I head out to the parking lot and my car was nowhere in sight. I know where I parked it. I’m not that old. I couldn't see it because a truck had pulled up onto the sidewalk.

Really? I say to myself.

I walked around the other side. What is that all about? Did I take his parking space?

It was 7:30 when I got home and getting late. Shows my age, doesn’t it? On any other evening, I’d be in the recliner, tucked into a huge bowl of air-popped popcorn, watching a movie with my best guy. It’s my favorite time of day. And that was my end goal. But first I had to take care of the cats. Litter boxes. Give them an evening treat. Let them out for a little while.

I made popcorn, picked up the remote on my way past Mike’s recliner, and sat in mine. I’m not usually in charge of the remote and these new slim-line remotes don’t have much in the way of buttons on them, but I figured out how to work it. I was proud of myself when I found Disney+. I scrolled through and picked out an animated movie. Mike isn’t big on animated movies so we seldom watch them. Settling back into my chair, tucking my foot up under me, pulling a blanket over my lap, I reached to set the remote on the table — and knocked my popcorn to the floor. Doggonit! All that yummy cheese and seasonings I’d sprinkled on top were gone! Just gone! All over the floor! I sighed and swept up the mess. Taking it outside, I tossed it into the yard. I know the critters will eat it and it’d be gone by morning. I debated about making fresh but settled on eating the dregs left in the bowl.

I do most of my TV watching with my ears while playing my favorite games on my iPad. I can usually tell what’s going on by what I hear. But I found out pretty quick, with these newfangled animations, that there’s a lot more going on than my ears can see. I set the iPad aside and watched Moana. The animation is fabulous! Nothing like the Flintstones — and yes, I know. My age is showing again.

The next morning, I dressed with my new bra. The fit was good and it was much more comfortable without the wires. I’m getting another one! Some stores have a way of suckering you into a product, then discontinuing it. I’d get another one when I went to visit Mike.

At the hospital I take the elevator to the fifth floor where Mike’s room is. Signs help me decide if I need to go left or right. Half way down the hall I see this. Double doors, steps up and no steps down — well, just one giant step. It’s more like a dam than a stairway. My mind can’t understand what engineering genius came up with this — or why.

At the end of the hall, a sign on the double doors leading into the unit stated that they were allowing only one visitor per patient.

I stopped at the desk and asked for Mike.

“Second door on the right,” she said. “The bed closest to the window.”

As I get close to the door I hear talking, loud talking. Coming in the door I see five people sitting and standing around Mike’s roommate’s bed. Five people! They had to move so I could get to Mike.

“How’re you doing today?” I stroked his hair, bent down and kissed his cheek.

“Not good.”

His voice was barely above a whisper, his eyes only half open.

“What’s going on? Are you in a lot of pain?”

“That, and that too,” he jerked his head toward the privacy curtain. “I can’t sleep.”

The noise from the talking and laughing was so loud that I had to put my ear close to his mouth to hear him. “I’ll see what’s going on.”

I ran the gauntlet of chairs, feet, people, and gained the door. “What’s going on in the bed next to my husband?” I asked at the nurse’s station. “I thought there was only one visitor allowed at a time and there’s five people in there. My husband can’t rest.” Something you should know about me, I’m not very good at hiding my feelings. If I’m upset, you’re gonna know I’m upset. People who know me, know this, and forgive me my social flaws.

“I’ll take care of it.”

I went back to Mike’s room, wove my way, once again, through the labyrinth of people and chairs, and got to his bedside.

“He kept me up all night,” Mike said in a low voice. “He kept getting out of bed and the alarms would go off and wake me up, then they had to get him back in bed.” He swallowed. “It’s hard for me to talk.”

Mike closed his eyes. I stroked his hair, massaged his forehead, and listened to the story of a man’s grandkid asking if he could finish the communion blood cup. “He gets it!” he proudly declared with a guffaw.

Mike’s eyes opened. “That’s been going on for hours.”

I glanced at the clock. Visiting hours had only started a half-hour before. Did it only seem like hours to him or did they let him have extra-long hours?

“If he’s dying, they might let more people in for longer,” I guessed.

“What’d you do yesterday?” he mumbled.

I put on a cheery, but quiet voice. “I went shopping! I got a new bra. Wanna see?” He turned his head to look and I took that to mean he did. I glanced to make sure the privacy curtain was keeping us fully private and gave Mike a peek. After 26 years, my new bra was the only thing he hasn’t seen.

“Yeah?” he mumbled.

Hoping to cheer him and with a devilish grin, I said, “Wanna touch it?” and wagged my eyebrows.

He started to lift his hand, then dropped it back to the bed. “I can’t,” he whispered and closed his eyes. That told me more than anything about how he was feeling.

A nurse came to check on Mike. More loud talk and laughter from the other side. “He can’t rest with that,” I said quietly, “and he needs to.”

She glanced then went over and asked them to limit the visitors to two at a time. So much for a sign saying one.

It’s about an hour and fifteen minutes to the hospital. I’m so thankful and so blessed to have the Kipps as our friends and neighbors. We hit a deer with our brand-new Ford Explorer six weeks ago, our car still wasn’t fixed (they’re waiting on parts), and our car rental insurance expired. If it wasn’t for their kindness and generosity, I’d have to drive Big Red, Mike’s big red Ford F-550 if I wanted to go visit him.

I’m on my way to see Mike on the second day after his surgery, I’m on kind of a straight stretch of road when a deer comes bounding out from the other side. I slammed on the brakes, the tires squealed in protest, and the deer got across safely. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I was shaking. I glanced in the mirror and saw the guy behind me hadn’t rear-ended me. But I expect if he had, I’d’ve known it before then anyway. Miss Rosie’s car is little. It’s easy for me to drive and I kinda like it. But the front sits so low, I can’t see it even if I sit up tall and look for it. If I’d’ve hit that deer, I thought, it would’ve broken his ankles and he’d be in the seat next to me! And I thanked God and the Kipps for good brakes.

Mike was much stronger this day. He could talk better and his eyes were open more.

“How are you?” I asked and leaned in to kiss him.

“Oh, I had a terrible night,” he complained. “Just terrible.”

“Why?”

Mike hitched his thumb to indicate his roommate. “He shit his bed. Three times!” Mike’s face scrunched up with disgust. “And the smell! It was awful!”

A nurse came in and was sympathetic to Mike’s need for rest. “I have a bed in a private room opening up this afternoon. I’ll try to get you in it.”

Mike sat up and even stood a little. When he was settled back in bed, he turns to me and says, “You wanna see my stitches?”

I grinned. “You know I do.”

His surgery was laparoscopic, much less invasive with a quicker recovery time. He pulled his gown up revealing two small incisions and one larger one they removed the cancerous colon through.

“Can I take a picture for my letter blog?” He didn’t say no. He just waited while I fumbled in my bag for my camera.

This doesn’t bring you the whole way up to date, but it does bring you a long way. Whether or not I share more hospital stories remains to be seen, so you’ll have to stay tuned. But I do want to end this on a high note.

The pathology came back on the lymph nodes removed during surgery. They’re cancer free. They got it all.

God is good!

Until next time…