Incision

December 21, 2020

I shaved my mustache and goatee on Wednesday, the day before going to the hospital. It was mostly gray, and I didn’t want to look like an old coot bewildered by the techno-world of modern medicine. I sat down next to Sandy and Marie, we watched TV for an hour or so. They never noticed the fuzz was gone.

To keep my head straight for the procedure I brought along Doris Kearns Goodwin’s No Ordinary Time, her prize-winning biography of Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt during the war years. Their lives, together and separately, define both deep personal suffering and private nobility, so profound as to be difficult for us, today, to understand or appreciate. When I feel sorry for myself I recall the depth of the courage and character of these two singular people, who together endured the lifelong scourge of debilitating disease and personal grief, while leading  the nation through vast, cataclysmic tragedies.

I saw the OR for a few minutes, then went to sleep. I woke up in recovery, the way it’s supposed to work. I added another five hours of sleep. They trucked me upstairs and it was dinnertime, but not for me—clear liquids only. From my fourth-floor window the sun had faded, traffic crawled through Greenville’s downtown, crowds were building, even in this covid season, Christmas lights glowed. We did our shopping early, picked out games and toys for the grandsons. They’re counting the days.

The docs and nurses have been kind, taking care to explain to me what’s going on. The lead surgeon crafted a Christmas card with photo he took himself, a pretty sunset. “Thank you for letting me care for you,” he wrote.

He brought his team by the room, they’ll babysit me for the rest of my time here. He explained that the diaphragm was a challenge but they dealt with it. Something about air and fluid in the chest cavity. They resolved it, so far, with a rubber tube that wraps around the lung to drain the fluid into a box next to the bed. All the doctors, at least a half-dozen, inspected my incision. “Looks great,” they all said. I’ll see the lead surgeon after New Year’s. “We’ll decide on next steps then,” he said with a wave.

Sandy and Marie have been up to the room separately, complying with covid restrictions. The other kids, friends, and siblings all have called. I’ve gotten used to the IV—one of the nurses explained I’m low on potassium and magnesium. The chest tube under the left arm and the IV in the right wrist make moving complicated. I have a battery-powered box in my pocket wired to sensors that monitor heart functions. I’m not going anywhere.

We got in to see the pastor of the downtown parish a week ago to get his pre-surgery blessing, Walking back to the car afterward, we noticed young parents standing around waiting for the parish school to release their kids. None—meaning none—wore masks. Fast forward, the pandemic is in the thoracic/cancer ward. “We don’t have any techs tonight,” the nurse assigned to my room said calmly. “Covid.” That meant that she and a couple of other nurses are handling all the tech chores, taking vitals, administering meds, helping with bathroom trips, among other things, on top of their nursing duties. “It’s been a tough year,” the nurse said.

The X-ray tech comes in about 4:00 AM to get chest shots because the doctors want to see them when they arrive about 6:00 AM. Specialists on the treatment team stop by, inspecting the chest-tube connection and firing questions. Things slow down. I’m getting through Kearns-Goodwin, but slowly. The shortened visiting hours and the limited staffing mean longer quiet stretches. I like quiet. Hospital quiet is different. The staff is trying to cover all the room calls, the patients are sleeping or calling. I wonder what they’re thinking.

They’re thinking the same thing as me: when am I getting out of here? Yesterday morning a doctor told me they put my chest tube back on “suction”; it wasn’t pulling enough fluid. “That’s normal,” she said. But it’s a step back. They work hard at bucking us up. With all of us wired, they know what’s going on. But only to a point. Since I’ve been here no one has gone home.

I like the way the doctors come in early to ask how I’m feeling and tell me what’s going to happen next. But not always everything. They know that beyond the surgery, the chemo, the radiation, cancer is a mystery. A young oncologist visited me the morning after the procedure. This tumor, or carcinoma, was caused by the previous one, she said. Could it come back, I asked. It’s always possible, she said. Cancer does that.

The latest: I’m getting real food, chicken, mashed potatoes, the works. I’m not ready, but the thought is nice. The doctors explain my problems with plenty of detail, even if I have to ask for more. But we’re getting there. Yesterday my grandson turned seven, a gala affair, another one I missed. And Friday is Christmas. I plan on being home, as the song goes. Good thoughts.