Life comes at you fast

I’ve been telling people recently that this whole experience has been like a Nationwide Insurance commercial. Their slogan is “Life comes at you fast”, and the commercials, including the one with K-fed as a fry cook, make up an excellent and very funny campaign. And the analogy here is perfect, because there is no way the average guy who thinks the pituitary gland resides in your underarm is going to have plenty of advance notice that he’ll be getting intimate with a neurosurgeon and his staff any time soon. The news came out of nowhere. Even though I had the warning sign of the deteriorating vision, I still had absolutely no clue what that indicated. “You might have a tumor,” “You’re going to need surgery,” “How’s next Tuesday for you?”  Boom, boom, boom.

It also comes at you fast with less life threatening events. For example, this cold that I’ve managed to fully adopt since the weekend camping trip. Boom – you have a cold, your eye is watering non-stop, your mucous levels are increasing instead of what you’ve been working so hard for the past 5 weeks to have decreased, and you’re sneezing. And sneezing, by the way, although not as torturous as it would have been a few weeks ago, is not currently on my list of favorite activities. To put it eloquently, sneezing even weeks after sinus-invasive surgery sucks.

But things also sneak up on you way out of left field that really slam you. I could have predicted that camping in the spring when you’re allergic to pollen might bring something less than outstanding health. But what happened yesterday really came out of nowhere.

I had the opportunity to browse the ComedySportz (CSz) national forum online for the first time in a few years. For those who don’t know, this is the improv troupe with which I am currently involved and have been since 1996, with the exception of my recent several-year hiatus. It is a national improv troupe, with locations in over 20 cities nationwide and even one in the UK. (See the link on the left of my main page.) This national forum is a private internet bulletin board where players and managers from all the cities can chat about anything from shows to marketing to Grey’s Anatomy.

Before my surgery, a good friend of mine from the Philadelphia CSz asked me if what I had was a Craniopharyngioma, because that was what Mike Young had. Although I did not know Mike well, I have met him at national CSz tournaments several times over the years, and he was a very talented improviser, and was very loved by many in Philly and in the league. Note the use of past tense here. To make a long story short, Mike’s tumor caused significant difficulties that eventually led to his death last July at the way too early age of 38, leaving behind his wife and very young son. Indeed, my deepest fear lurking behind this entire ordeal.
When she asked me this, I put up one of the quickest walls ever erected in the name of psychological blocks, even though her intent was certainly in the name of making sure that if the physical circumstances were the same, then we could move forward with the benefits of the lessons learned through Mike’s ordeal. Regardless, it just wasn’t a path that my mind wanted to let me go down, even one tiny step. And anyway, a craniopharyngioma is NEAR the pituitary gland, not actually ON it. Way different, right? Right.

I thought I had successfully repressed this story. In fact, I hadn’t even given the comparison any thought in weeks. But yesterday, when browsing that CSz forum, I came upon the thread with the simple title: “Mike Young.” I knew exactly what it was, but felt the need to click on the thread any way. It was the announcement from last July of his passing, and the sad reactions from many players nationwide.

The hardest part, however, was what was in that announcement. Apparently, friends of Mike’s had set up a blog early in the process for him to post updates and for friends to post jokes and humorous rants of support. A blog to work through it. Suddenly, my delusion that I was the first genius to come up with THAT idea was shot. Not that I really thought that, as I know that if you do a google search for blogs by people working through illnesses you’ll probably find more than you could ever read. But this was shattering my safety a bit. One more parallel between me and Mike.

And of course, I couldn’t stop there. Included in that post was a link to the blog. Almost as if in a trance, I clicked on it. It’s like passing an accident – you know it didn’t end well, but you just can’t help rubbernecking to see more.

The blog is very current, and kept up to date by Mike’s widow Danna. I read some of the recent posts, about how she is trying to move on not quite a year later. I read a post recapping Mike’s deteriorating memory and mental state, and Danna’s feelings of helplessness as it unfolded. I went to the archives and read the posts by Mike early on that were quite similar to what I do with this blog – recaps of what the doctors have said and how he was feeling. And of course, I had to go to the posts from Danna and their friend during the final moments of Mike’s decline and finally his death. And I followed a link to an explanation of craniopharyngiomas, and found that ordinarily, there is an excellent prognosis for recovery. That was the kicker – it was supposed to be okay.

I can’t even describe how many things I felt at once. I teared up, as the faces of Danna and Baxter in my mind were being played by those of Terry and Jasper. I felt like a voyeur, having absolutely no business reading something this personal about someone that I really didn’t know. I felt like I had absolutely no reason to be working on my own blog, because compared to Mike’s ordeal, things have been going so well. And I felt like the safety net had just been ripped away from under me, because the complications that arose from Mike’s surgery could have just as easily happened with me, and still could, since Mike had even had a period of feeling great post-surgery and nonetheless it still went downhill. Mike had surgery that seemed successful, and yet he still went downhill.

I know everyone is different. I know we had different types of tumors. I know that his story doesn’t change a thing about my recovery. But all of the encouraging words of support in the world can’t change the facts that 1. that still could have been me, and 2. my heart is now completely broken for Danna and Baxter, two people whom I’ve never met. I’m still wrestling with this, and I imagine I will for quite some time. It really drives home that my fear of death is not in wondering what will happen to me, but in the grief it would bring my family. And Jasper is 8, well into the age where he would take it very, very hard.

Danna’s blog is now chronicling her grief and the process of moving forward. I had considered posting a link here, but the more I think about it, the more I feel I would be violating the privacy of her family and close friends. It felt odd enough for me to read it, even though I had permission as a CSz player. It just doesn’t make sense for me to send other people even more removed from their family to see all of the intimate details of their most difficult ordeal. And I can’t even tell if I’ll go back and read more, or if I’ll do my best to put up another wall and pretend like that blog really doesn’t exist. Right now, I’d put money on the latter.

Life comes at you fast. I can only hope the next head-spinner is a multi-million dollar lottery win. Because honestly, the tumors and the reality checks suck.

Especially if you have a cold.

Pretending to be normal

I think a good sign that things are going well is that it’s been almost a week since I’ve written anything in this blog. I’m not a fan of blogging in general, and my goal the entire time has been to keep this focussed on the whole tumor issue. So, now that things are coasting along in the recovery lane, and there aren’t too many new developments or any deep psychological soul searchings, it just hasn’t crossed my mind to write about anything.

I’ve been pretending to be normal, essentially. I’ve been working and interacting with people on a pretty normal level, it seems. I’m going to improv practices and an occasional special event. I’ve been to church. On the surface, I think I’m passing off this normal thing pretty well.

And the fallout hasn’t been too bad. I’m still pretty tired from a normal day, but really not all that much worse than I was pre-surgery. Of course, the improv practices have exhausted me about twice as quickly as I expected. And I went camping this weekend with Jasper and the Cub Scouts (which sounds like an old ’60’s band) and then came home and did a little bit of yard work, so all of that activity has taken a huge toll on the energy supplies. But it didn’t really set me back much, if at all, today. Maybe a little in the morning, but otherwise not too bad.
But my theory is that if I don’t push myself, I’ll never really know exactly how far along I am in this whole recovery thing. As long as I pay attention when my body tells me I’m worn out, then I’m not doing any harm, right? Although some may wish to debate me, my opinion is if you’re not pretending to be normal by 5 weeks after your surgery, then you’re either suffering from pituitary side effects that I have been blessed enough to avoid, or you’ve grown very accustomed to your soap operas and La-Z-Boy.

The only thing I haven’t yet done is gone back to the gym. I hope to start that this week, and there’s really no reason why I couldn’t, as I was given permission to do a reduced regimen at least a couple of weeks ago. All of the wonderful food that was sent our way throughout this ordeal is settling quite naturally right in my middle, and that’s the only way to get it to not take root. I think I’m just fighting the standard human gym-avoidance on this one.

Speaking of guts, I think my bruised gut issue is on the way out. I can still feel it a bit, so I won’t say it’s gone. But it’s not so all encompassing as it was before, which means I’m not bitching about it to Terry every five minutes any more. Maybe another week to go?

There is improvement in the numb lip/teeth/palette area. In fact, my palette almost feels back to normal. My upper teeth still have a ways to go, and laughing and smiling a lot still makes my upper lip scream obscenities. But comparatively, it’s all come a long way. And I still can’t rub my nose without it feeling like there is a prosthetic version of my nose implanted just under the surface. Again, it’s better, but I think that’s going to take at least another month or more to return to the world of normal noses.

Sleep has proven uneven. I’ve had nights on Ambien where I STILL woke up at 4 am, and I’ve had nights without any sleep aid that I made it all the way through the night. Or not. But my intent is to disprove Woody’s theory  that it has nothing to do with surgery and everything to do with simply getting old. I’m holding on to the “thirty-” part of my 39 years as long as it’s there, and that is wayyyyy to young to be “getting old.” Although my 20-something friends laugh at that concept and pat me on the back, my 40- and 50-something friends are sending up some serious “a-men!”s.

So expect these entries to be less frequent in the weeks to come. I’ll post more as I learn or discover new things in the process, like after my follow up with the endocrinologist on April 17, or after the next MRI on April 11. In the meantime, thanks again to all of you who have been reading this blog! It has helped a lot to write it, but it’s been very reassuring to know that some people have actually wanted to READ it!

28 Days Later

It was four weeks ago today that I willingly let a group of people whom I don’t even know (plus one that I’d met only weeks before and hadn’t seen since) stick all sorts of things into my body and scrape an egg-sized growth out from just under my brain. It’s finally starting to seem like a long time ago, but of course my body still likes to remind me every now and then that 28 days is really not that long. For the benefit of those who may be reading this in an effort to find out more about the healing process, here’s a quick snapshot of what those four weeks have accomplished.

On the positive side, and it is indeed mostly positive, I have been back to work almost full-time since last week (and even a couple half days before that); I have caught myself running up the steps a couple of times without even thinking about it; I havn’t had a headache at all in at least the past week, and not really any significant ones since my first week home; and as I’ve mentioned in the previous posts, my eyesight is significantly improved, the lab work confirmed the tumor was benign (as these types of tumors usually are), and I have not experienced any significant trouble with the many pituitary functions that they tell you to watch out for following the surgery.

Of course I can still be grumpy about a few things, because honestly I’m ready to feel 100% and that’s not going to happen for another month or two, apparently. For example, my latest annoyance is that my sleep pattern is a bit disrupted and seems to be stuck there. I am able to easily stay awake until 11 or midnight, and then I have been waking up at about 4am or so and restlessly getting 20 or 30 minute sleep intervals after that. I just asked for a prescription for Ambien, the wonder drug that helped me sleep like a baby in the hospital. Unfortunately, last night’s first attempt with it showed no difference. Hopefully that will change. Apparently this is a relatively common issue post-surgery, but that doesn’t keep me from creatively yet silently cursing the alarm clock when I see it say 4:37am instead of 7:37am.

I went to an improv practice last night, my first evening outing since the main event. It was tons of fun with a lot of laughing and smiling, and therefore a true test of the current flexibility of my upper lip. The lip is indeed still a bit numb, and it feels like it’s going to take a lot more smiling to stretch it back out to it’s previous limits, but I’ll make sure it does.  The accompanying numbness of my palette and upper teeth is getting slowly better, but it’s still bothersome. On track to clear up in the 2-3 months that I was told, I guess.

The mysteriously bruised gut is still the same. It doesn’t feel like it’s getting any better or worse, which is frustrating. I’ll probably bug my family doctor about it again if it hasn’t changed by the end of this week. I haven’t yet seen the endocrinologist for the follow up post-surgical visit. That’s not even scheduled until sometime in early April. I can’t help but wonder if he’ll have the magical answer for the gut stuff, and then ask why I didn’t call him in the first place. At which point I imagine a pie suddenly appearing in my hand, which I then proceed to comically splat right on his face. Wat, wait, wait… piiiiicture it…. goooood.
As far as the big question that everybody asks, “How are you feeling???”, I’d say the honest answer has to be “like a lump.” I haven’t yet started exercising again, and I really think that’s what I need to do. I mean basic stuff, but at least something. Because I am logically a bit drained of energy throughout the day, and although my brain wants to work full speed, my body isn’t really translating that much further than “half speed.” So I end up feeling like a lazy lump, because I know there’s so much I want to do but I’m just not energized enough to do it. It’s not a depressed lump, I don’t think. I think it’s just an honest, body isn’t up to full speed yet lump. So I think I’m ready to get some exercise in and start working those endorphins. Usually, however, my answer to the big question of “How are you feeling???” is “Pretty good, thanks.” That’s a lot easier to explain.

And I think it’s notable that I can’t tell if I’ve covered everything or not in this update. That must mean that I’m not paying as much attention to it any more, which either points to progress or apathy. And I’m fairly sure it’s not apathy. Whatever.

So now, I’m off to bed. For those still offering up prayers and energy and thoughts, focus them all on a solid night’s sleep. Then you’ll really see me testing the limits of my smile.

Not really a Kodak Moment

It just struck me today that we have absolutely no pictures of this entire process. The last picture we took was, of course, of Jasper playing on his Razor scooter some time in early February. The camera has been collecting dust since then.

Part of this makes sense. We usually take pictures of happy events, and moments that we want to remember. The pictures seem to serve not only as physical records, but as stakes for our memories to grasp on to. I am much more likely to remember sitting around the kitchen table playing poker with my sisters, brother-in-law and Terry on our beach vacation last year because I’ll see the pictures we took in my iPhoto library several times over the course of the next few years. The photo serves as a positive reinforcement for that memory.

It works the other way around as well. I have one picture of my father only about a month or two before he passed that stands out. Sure, it was on a good day, but he certainly doesn’t look like the Dad in my memory. That picture was taken optimistically, but every time I glance by it, it brings a rush of memories that I wouldn’t mind letting fade a bit more. I always think to myself that I should delete it, but I never do.

It struck me today, as I am just days away from the four week mark after surgery, that we don’t have pictures of any of the things that have been the most prominent part of my life so far in 2007. There is no picture of me lying in a hospital bed with a huge wad of gauze taped across my comically enormous nose. There is no shot of me with my arm around my surgeon. No record of Jasper’s art taped proudly up on my hospital room wall. No picture of my camp out in the La-Z-Boy with my laptop and my stack of unwatched movies. The flowers all died and the food was all eaten without any image record of the wonderful gifts from our friends. And we never got a photo of me trying to juggle those bottles of barium.

Why not? I can only come to the conclusion that it wasn’t a conscious decision. We just simply don’t take the camera out when we’re in the middle of something scary. And both in my eyes and Terry’s eyes, this has certainly qualified as “something scary.” With the possible exception of the hours just before surgery for me, and the painfully long wait for the surgeon to tell Terry that all was over and well, we’ve been very optimistic that it has been a huge success. Nontheless, I guess that doesn’t qualify enough to push us into saying “Oooh, where’s the camera? This is GREAT!” The outcome has been wonderful, but the memory of the journey is one we’d rather let fade, at least a little.

It seems, then, that this blog is as close to a photo album that I’ll get of the past month. Somehow, I don’t mind the written re-telling of this very different chapter in my life. And maybe it’s because I’ve been chronicling it with humor that I think the pictures would be anywhere near funny. There really is no telling whether that photo of me eating hospital gruel  would bring back memories of the friends who visited and made me smile, or of that half hour when I thought my blood pressure was about to screw me over again and no nurse in the entire complex thought it worth coming into my room personally.

A photo can sneak up on you, and at a glance provide that rush of an emotion. This blog, however, needs to be read deliberately in order to paint the same picture and bring back that same emotional wave. It’s like a photo album with the safety on.

I’d like to think that now that I know the outcome of the surgery, and that even though I’m still recovering I know that I will be fine, that I would enjoy looking back at some actual pictures and using them to pat myself on the back for coming so far. But apparently both my and Terry’s subconscious have approached this with a bit more wisdom, stifling any thought of even the existence of a camera until now. And I’m sure, God forbid we had to do it all over, that the camera would again sit, collecting dust.

Still, though, you really should have seen my nose….

So then I’m crazy. No I’m not.

I finally got the results of the abdominal CT scan back yesterday, and everything is perfectly normal. No tumors or lesions or exploding organs. Absolutely nothing to worry about. The doctor’s office agreed that as long as it doesn’t get worse or I don’t run a fever, there’s no need to be concerned about the mysterious bruise-like pain in my abdomen. No biggie.

So then I must be crazy. No doctor can come up with a solid theory to explain it, and there is physical proof that there really isn’t anything there. Oooh, the Mystery of the Phantom Bruise. Scooby Doo, where are you?

I finally went to the Pituitary Network site and posted my situation on their user forums. In no time at all, I had gotten this response from Christina:

Yes! I had my surgery almost 3 weeks ago and I had a sore spot in my abdomen as well. I felt like I had done way too many sit ups with just one ab muscle. It lasted for a couple of weeks then just went away. I too suffered from gastro problems partially I think from the blood and stuff draining down from my nose into my stomach. That too has gone away. I know my docs put me on a stool softener to help things move a little easier. I drank lots of water and ate dry absorbant foods like rice, bread and crackers. I hope this helps. Feel better soon!
Christina Posts: 38   Extended User Info:	Re: Gut issues afterwards? 3/13/2007 4:43:17 PM
	Oh, one more thing. I failed to mention that my doctors said something to me about being in a somewhat strange sitting position during the surgery where I was sitting up and leaning to one side a bit. I am sure that it would account for the soreness. Think about how bad a neck can cramp if you sleep wrong for just a little while. Take care.

So, AHA! I’m NOT crazy! It seems that issue does arise from the procedure itself, whether it’s a surgeon leaning on me or possibly just how they sit and twist the patient a bit. It makes sense that some poor abdominal muscle might bear the brunt of the experience and then complain about it for a while. I find it odd that this appeared so unusual to my doctors, as you’d think they would have heard complaints from at least several other patients by now. I can only assume that this is a rare side effect from the surgery, or that maybe other people just don’t complain about it. Regardless, it’s comforting to know that I wasn’t alone in this part of the experience.

At this point, Velma pulls the mask off of Dr. Wilson, who turns out to be Old Man Witherspoon, who was intent on keeping me guessing about the origins of this Phantom Bruise. He proceeds to explain that he would have gotten away with it, too, if it hadn’t been for these meddling kids. We all laugh as Scooby licks the barium milkshake off his face.

I’ve been at work essentially full-time this week. I have the luxury of setting my own hours, so it’s been more like 6 or 7 hour days, but it still feels like a whole day. And so far, the effect has been less exhaustion and more of a tired-because-I-worked-out feeling, even though I’ve just been sitting at a desk. But I definitely see this as significant progress – no complaints.

The final stitch in my lip disappeared sometime this past weekend. Most of the stitches were gone by a couple weeks after the surgery, but that one stubborn one held on for about 3 weeks or so. Just a bit of fascinating recovery trivia, there.

And finally I have this HUGE list of thank you’s to get sent out. As I mentioned before, so many people have supported us in so many ways, I just can’t let them go un-thanked. I’ll figure out a good time to do that soon. Maybe right after I write the ones still unsent from my January birthday…

Dog years got nuthin’ on kid days

It is becoming apparent that I am not the only one who feels that I should be all completely recovered and life should be back to normal. My 8-year-old son, Jasper, is getting a bit tired of Daddy being tired. I mean, sure, I’m still playing with him some, and I’ve done a few bedtimes in the last week. But he gets caught off guard when for some reason I need to take a nap during the day, or if I suddenly decide I can’t go to the big outdoor school festival first thing Saturday morning. These things catch me off guard, too, of course. But I am slowly coming to grips with the whole non-linear recovering concept. A concept, I believe, that can really only be grasped by those at least several years removed from Elementary school.

He drew me the greatest card the other day, as I chose to sleep in all the way up to when he had to leave for school. Across the top is the standard “GET WELL SOON!” The illustration, though, is far from standard. He drew a very unique structure floating in some water, and for clarity’s sake he labeled it the “get well battle ship.” Above it is what at first glance appears to be the sun, but is actually a radiating and smiling heart (also labeled). To the right of the page are some angry little buggers, with mean eyes and sharp teeth, waving their swords at the oncoming ship. And again, in case you couldn’t figure it out, they are labeled the “surgery germs.” Obviously, the battleship is using the power of the heart to battle the surgery germs.

My favorite part is the one surgery germ closest to the ship. He has X’s for eyes and his tongue is sticking out, as obviously the Get Well Battleship has already knocked him out cold. One down, three to go.

In that light, maybe he does have a better idea of how long this whole get well thing is going to take.

The boy ain’t right

About two and a half weeks after the surgery (17 days, to be precise), I’m at the point where I have delusions of normalcy. I’m driving places, I’m walking around everywhere without the need for an escort, I’m even contributing a small amount to the regular workings of the house, like feeding the animals and cleaning up the kitchen. And I went to work yesterday for almost 5 hours, and a couple hours today. So of course, you can see where I might think that I’m almost done with this whole recovering phase.

Think again. Yesterday’s stint at work thoroughly exhausted me. And when I decided to stay up until 10:30pm instead of calling it an early night, my body once again took it upon itself to communicate in no uncertain terms that this was unacceptable. My blood pressure shot up, I got shaky and panicky and let’s just say it’s absolutely no fun. You push your body too far in this recovery period, it pushes back. And hard.

I got to spend most of the morning drinking barium milkshakes. Since part of my abdomen has felt bruised for going on 2 weeks now, the nurse practicioner ordered an abdominal CT scan, just to make sure everything was okay inside. And although it was originally scheduled for this past Tuesday, no-one had bothered to tell me to show up a couple hours early for the super fun barium drinking. So they gave me some “to-go” and changed it to today. It’s an odd drink – kind of like a vanilla milkshake at first, but then with the after taste of chalk, Milk of Magnesia and special extract of nasty. And you have to drink 3 bottles of it. Bleugh.

The CT scan itself took no more than 5 minutes, after which they said “Oh, by the way, the barium does have a sort of laxative effect, so don’t be surprised if that’s how your afternoon goes.” The icing on the cake. The nasty, runny, and rather inconvenient icing. Oh, happy day.

I have no idea if other pituitary patients go through this after surgery. The surgeon’s only theory was the one about being leaned on during surgery. I left a message with the endocrinologist to ask about it, but either he doesn’t check his messages, or it’s just not a big enough concern to call me back. Or he’s sitting around somewhere taking bets about how long it’s gonna take before my gall bladder explodes.

So that’s been the real downer of the week. My head has been healing nicely, but I’m now seriously distracted by this whole gut thing. And as Lynn mentioned in one of her comments, it’s tumoritis – I’m now convinced that I have a tumor growing anywhere in my body that doesn’t feel right. Maybe THAT’S why I’ve got such an extruding gut. It’s not all those years of beer and doughnuts, it’s a tumor! I may joke, but that’s exactly what goes through my head right now, especially when nobody has given me a decent explanation for the bruised gut.

Otherwise, the lip, teeth and palette seem to be in slow motion as far as the recovery goes. I’m getting used to it a bit, but I would really prefer to be able to bite into an apple or anything crunchy and actually feel it. But apparently this is normal, and in a few months I’ll be laughing without worrying that my upper lip will explode from the stretch.

On the positive side, I have gotten thoroughly hooked on the computer version of Scrabble.  I fear this may greatly affect my productivity as I launch back into work next week on a more regular basis.

My name is Dave, and I’m a Scrabble junkie. Maybe I’ll host a recovery party where we all play Scrabble, have nose-blowing competitions and do Barium shots.

Start thinking of your excuses now, because you’re all invited.

The missing days, part 3

Okay, this has to be the last in this hospital recap series, mainly because the further away I get from the experience, the fuzzier it gets. And it’s getting quite long. Before I move on, though, I need to backtrack to cover a couple small things that I forgot about ICU.

First, take notice, St. Mary’s. Your newly remodeled ICU is gorgeous, no doubt. Looks like you thought of everything. EXCEPT the fact that the huge windows let in enough sunlight to solar power a small city for a month. Now, sunlight can be a wonderful way to heal your psyche, but when you’re lying there with a pounding, throbbing headcahe thanks to your fresh bout with brain surgery, the translucent paper-thin white shades that they have to cover the windows really don’t do much to help. Luckily, the ICU nurses are aware of this shortcoming and have figured out a way to put some blankets on some poles to block most of the sun on the patient. I don’t know know how many bazillion dollars were spent on this new wing, but the ability to seriously block out direct sunlight seems like a no-brainer. (Ha! – no pun intended…)

When they tell you that the doctor has authorized a liquid diet, the news is delivered with the enthusiasm that you give a child when telling them that they get to try strained spinach for the first time. There’s that unnaturally cheery tone suggesting that although it’s probably a move in the right direction, no-one in their right mind would actually argue that it’s something to be enjoyed. The beef broth and Jell-o weren’t too bad, but when they brought breakfast, I’d swear it was heated up and watered down paste. Same eerie, almost pure white color, same lumpy yet still runny consistency. Maybe it was supposed to be Cream of Wheat? I think it was a blessing that my sniffer was not properly delivering smells at this time, as I surely would have needed another anti-nausea injection in my IV, stat.

I believe I mentioned that only family members and clergy were allowed in the ICU. That’s why I was quite surprised to find my old friend John walking in only hours before they booted me out to the next floor down. As far as I know, he didn’t try to pass himself off as family, and no-one in their right mind would have thought he was clergy (come on, John. You know it’s true…)  But luckily I was feeling pretty good at that moment, and we were able to spend a bit of time catching up, since he was returning to his home in Oak Ridge, Tennessee the next morning and was only in town to drop in on me. A very thoughtful gesture, and much appreciated.

But now, on to the transfer. I had been sitting in my comfy chair in the ICU room for about 5 hours by the time they came to get me. Hospital beds may seem super comfortable, with their Craftmatic-like ability to raise and lower on both ends, but somehow they just fail to deliver. They weren’t developed by NASA. You can’t dance on one side and never spill your wine glass. They shove the bed full of lumpy pads, and the mattress is constantly (and loudly) inflating or deflating based upon your current desperate position. Spending that much time in the comfy chair made quite a bit of sense.

When they were ready, my nurse rolled in a wheelchair and single-handedly hung all of my stuff from the chair’s hooks and handles, or somehow managed to balance the rest in her arms and off of the IV stand while pushing the wheelchair. It was quite impressive. But I was certainly ready to go, as this meant that I could leave behind the gentlemean down the hall who had been very vocal over the last day and night about the discomfort in which he found himself. The simple fact that I was sitting in a chair becoming slightly annoyed that he should really keep it down was a sure sign that I did not belong in ICU any longer.

She rolled me out into the main area, and I realized that I was indeed at the Waldorf Astoria of ICU’s. This newly rennovated wing has only been open a few months, and it was deeeee-lux. Very much the luxury suite or the penthouse of the complex, with what looked like marble floors and fancy wall sconces and nice cherry wood. I think the noises I had been hearing were not so much life support systems as they were slot machines.

If you ever wonder why the cost of healthcare is skyrocketing, look no further. Apparently people have come to expect the finest of accomodations during their inpatient spa visit. The competition between hospitals is astounding, with each one needing to outclass the next. Unless, of course, you’re in the military, apparently. Walter Reed Hospital would be on the complete opposite end of the luxury spectrum. They have roaches, I had caviar. And my tumor wasn’t even sacrificed in the name of my country.

The next floor down was also a part of this pristine hostopia. The floors were all a faux dark wood here. A little too dark, maybe, I thought, as the longer I was wheeled through the halls the more I felt the snobbish need to criticize the place for its interior design choices as opposed to it’s quality of health care. As I finally got to my room, my nurse showed me the crowning touch – the bathroom in this private room was bigger, nicer and shinier than any bathroom I’ve ever lived with or even near. I expected it to come with a gentleman in a tux offering me a moist towelette.

I got settled in for the night, and with my new best friend Ambien, I made it through the night. And since this was not ICU, the frequency of nurses poking and prodding you at odd hours in the night was much less.

The next day was the first time that I realized this now familiar pattern of good day today, wiped out day the next. I felt okay, but not anywhere near the level of energy I had expected while sitting in my comfy chair the day before. But I still managed to get in a game of Scrabble (and even win, oh yeah, that’s right, uh-huh. Ahem. Terry was very considerate to not take advantage of me, I’d say…) and see a bunch of visitors before getting totally wiped out.

They unhooked a few miscellaneous devices that day as well, like my IV and the automatic BP cuff. Although I was still wired through several electrodes on my chest to an annoyingly bulky battery pack, it still felt quite free, comparatively. But alas, the nose remained stuffed, crammed and taped up. Breathing through my mouth had gotten very, very old and was officially off the fun-things-to-do list. Even the first night in ICU, the dry yet oddly goopy dry lips had been the bane of my existence. My need to scrape at them constantly reminded me of when my Dad was doing the same thing near the end of his battle with cancer. Certainly not where you want your mind to wander at this or any point, but when you’ve got nothing but time, it’s kind of hard to censor those things from popping up.

Just as the nurse shift was changing, I started to feel like garbage again. Fearing  a return of the blood pressure dropping issue from a couple days ago, Terry buzzed the nurses station and asked for someone to come in and check on me. After about 10 minutes, we buzzed again. Assured someone was on the way, we waited. After yet another nurse call, and a few walk outs to the nurse’s station by Terry, the new night nurse finally showed up after about a total of 30 minutes and then proceeded to nonchalantly check a few things and determine that I was fine. An understandable mix-up in communication over the changing shifts, I’m sure, but a very unsettling way to start my next night. Toto, we’re not in ICU any more.

The next day was the long awaited “Removing of the Stuffing.” I knew it would happen sometime Saturday, as the surgeon had told me in no uncertain terms that it would be 4 days, no less. And my latest night nurse had further won my affections by telling me that she had received a similar operation in her past and that the packing coming out of the nose was a horribly unpleasant and painfully dreadful procedure,  but at least I’d be happy that it was over. I think she used to be a cheerleader.

Luckily, immediately after breakfast (which was now French Toast and bacon, as I now was in charge of my own menu. Mmmmm. Bacon….) in walked Dr. Wilson with a simple pair of shiny tongs, saying, “So are you about ready to get that stuff out of your nose?” I had expected to spend most of the day dwelling on the forecast of doom, and then have an entourage of surgeons and nurses surrounding Dr. Wilson with some kind of giant beeping vacuum machine swoop in for an elaborate 2 hour procedure.

But in the amount of time I had to chuckle at the ridiculousness of my assumption, Dr. Wilson was already pulling the packing and tubes out of one side. And by one side, I do mean of my entire head, for although it was quick, I swear it was a mile long. Just as swiftly, he got the other side, and with the sound effect from some old Hanna-Barbera cartoon, a huge glob of nastiness went splat right down on my luckily closed mouth. Dr. Wilson chuckled a bit (shoot, I would have fallen on the floor laughing uncontrollably if I had seen that), and quickly wiped it up.

And just like that, it was gone. Although far from a flowing wind tunnel of fresh Alpine air, it was incredibly refreshing. And the very annoyed skin on my cheeks, from where they had continually taped and untaped the gauze under my nose, could now finally start to heal.

With the promise of going home sometime in the next day or so, Terry showed up for visiting hours and it looked to be an easy, kick your feet up in the hospital day.  My lab work was showing that my fluids were finally balanced and that I wouldn’t even need medication for them. My blood pressure was still a bit squirrelly, and that sent me for a few  necessary naps here and there. But I was at least able to get up and walk the halls with my wife and son by my side that evening, doing a whole lap of the Hilton lobby, or more commonly referred to as the nurses station.

The same night nurse returned that evening, but we had gotten into a good groove. And one thing I knew, these nurses are your saving grace in the hospital. They work their tails off, not just for you, but for the guy moaning every 30 seconds down the hall, and for the older woman next door who didn’t look like she’d be quite as lucky (or blessed) as I was to be leaving out the front door any time soon. And for all the people who get herded through those floors, needing medicine, water, calming reassurance (to whatever degree they are capable), blood drawn and bedsheets changed. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. It crossed my mind that many people don’t stop to thank their nurses for all that they do, and I tried to make it a point to do so, both in the ICU and on my step down floor. I can do a lot of things, but I could never be a nurse.

I made it through the final night sleeping as well as can be expected. The novelty, if any, of sleeping in a hospital bed had worn off quite some time ago. It wasn’t anywhere near as long as that first night in ICU, but it still seemed to stretch out to an unusual length.

The next morning, just after my bacon, some doctor whom I had never seen before introduced himself and asked me if I thought I was ready to be discharged. I avoided all of the smart-ass retorts that popped into my head about shouldn’t he be telling me instead of asking, and simply said “Sure, if everything looks good to you.” Since it did, I was officially put on the exit list but was told not to rush, I could take my time.

So I did. I read the Sunday paper, drank some coffee, and finally, FINALLY showered. You see, by this point the oil on my hair was a solid quart of 10W30. And I just couldn’t pass up the chance to have my hot moist towelette in the lavatory of luxury. That may have been one of the best showers I’ve had in my entire life.

When it was finally time to leave, we gathered my collection of flowers, balloons, miscellaneous reading materials , and Jasper’s display of get well drawings. The escorts showed up – a young teen girl and an older retired gentleman – with the departing wheelchair and baggage cart. As Terry went to pull the car around, they loaded up my stuff and wheeled me through the country club halls for the last time.

We rode the elevator down to the basement, which apparently is the way that all of the patients are discharged. I don’t think this has changed since the place was built 40 years ago. It felt as if my welcome was officially worn out. They pushed me through the quiet halls with pipes overhead and past the dark rooms, toward the very small, unassuming automatic door. It looked like there may have been a small waiting area of some sort by the exit, but it was dark. Closed on Sunday. The Ukrops discharge area.

St. Mary’s, if you’re reading this, I’d suggest that if you’re going to pimp your floors, you need to go all the way and include the patient discharge area. I want to see a brightly lit marble hallway that leads to a huge lobby, with a sign that says, “Thank You for Healing With Us!” just over the doors beyond the 20 foot water fountain with dancing spurts of water under a big chandelier that hums a mash-up of “Pachabel’s Canon” and “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” in a hypnotic, New Age sort of way. And have some nurses standing by the door at all times saying, “Thank you. Buh-bye! Bye bye now. Buh-bye!”

And they’re handing out free bacon.

Doctor Wilson Said, it was “Reet-Petite”

It really is fascinating to watch this whole recovering thing, from my perspective. That’s not to say I’m enjoying every bit of it. Obviously from my rather grumpy last post, there are moments or even days I could do without. But since I’ve been in fairly good health all of my life, I expect a certain response from my body when I challenge it with different scenarios.

For example, if I say “Body, you’re going to spend a good amount of time helping your son with his homework today,” I would expect my body to reply with, “No prob, Dave. Piece of cake. Maybe later we can do about 20 other things before calling it a night. Glass of wine sounds good, too.” To which I would reply, “Body, you rock. Excellent idea.”

But, no. When I challenged my body with that exact scenario yesterday, as I was feeling MUCH better than the previous day and it seemed that working on a 2nd grade research project should be a breeze, my body silently took on the challenge. We took a few breaks, but over the course of the day, we finished the project, obviously intended to be done over the course of many evenings, in just one day. And when all was said and done, my body said, “BITE ME, TUMOR BOY! THANK YOU, AND GOOD NIGHT!” I passed out so hard in my La-Z-Boy I’m surprised I even found it a good idea to climb into bed hours later. It was as if I had spent the day chopping wood, wrestling rabid badgers, running in 4 different 5k’s and teaching a Sweatin’ to the Oldies class.

Today was the long anticipated follow-up with Dr. Wilson, the be-bowtied (it’s a new word – I made it up – roll with it) neurosurgeon. I had carefully typed up my list of questions again, and brought Terry in with me to make sure I didn’t miss anything. He was obviously not worried about a thing, as the visit was quick and light. But thanks to my written list of questions, I was able to find out quite a few things.

Official report: tumor was benign. Woo-hoo! Seriously, I don’t know if I would have found out if I hadn’t asked. I think he was so convinced in the first place that this was the case that it was almost a non-issue in his mind. In about another month I have to go back for another MRI to check and make sure that it’s all gone. I asked about the possibility of it ever coming back, and he said maybe about 15%. I’ll take those odds.

He said that by now my vision is probably as improved as it’s going to get. There is still some obvious damage to the optic nerve as demonstrated by the old shine-a-penlight-at-each-eye trick. The left pupil does a better job contracting than the right one does. But, when I covered my left eye and he held up a magazine a couple feet from my face, I was able to easily read the words. That, my friends, is a definite improvement from before the surgery. So where it may be a little disappointing that my right eye is never going to be back to normal, I am very satisfied with the level of improvement.

I asked him about this odd issue with my gut, where it feels bruised on the inside in one spot, and he theorized that on top of the old system-out-of-whack-from-the-anesthesia theory, he said it was even possibly that someone was leaning on me there during surgery. Picture that – probably an intern. Everyone’s up at my head doing all the cutting, and some nerdy guy has kicked his feet up, planted his elbows on my gut (after all, it is quite cushy) and with face in hands he’s going “oh, wowwwwww. Coooooooooooooool…” And maybe eating popcorn.

As far as some other issues, it looks like I have to wait another 1 – 2 months before everything stops smelling like bread pudding, or for my sinuses to really clear out back to normal, or even for all of the sensation to return to my lip, palette and upper teeth. And although I can start doing some cardio or light toning workouts as soon as this week, no serious weight workouts for another month. As if I needed an excuse.

And of course, he said that I could probably get back to work later this week if I so desired, but consider a half day for the first few times. Knowing my body’s newfound ability to shut down into rest mode in quite the confrontational way, that sounds like a good plan to me.

I had also asked for the size of the tumor, and he didn’t have that exact information in front of him. You know, I was looking for something in millimeters, something concrete. But he repeated what he told me in the hospital: it was about the size of a small hen’s egg, putting his finger and thumb together to visually represent that concept.

Let’s put this into perspective, shall we? A big, globulous blob was growing on this gland that dangles under my brain and was the size of a small egg. I imagine that the human head doesn’t really come with convenient storage compartments, or stow-n-go brain seating. So all the pieces and parts inside, like my optic nerve, for instance, had to be pushed and shoved out of the way to make room for Raoul the non-functioning pituitary adenoma. It’s a wonder my eyes weren’t popping out of my skull or something. Like that strange squeeze alien thing that you could always find at Spencer Gifts.

Spent the rest of the afternoon getting Mom to the doctor’s office, just to make sure we double checked that whole passing out in the ICU thing. All is well, basically. Maybe a slight medication adjustment, but otherwise it just makes sense to have a bit of trouble when you see your son lying in an ICU looking like he lost a face smashing battle with a large blunt object.

So, overall, it was a good day filled with good news. But I got to read the bedtime story with Jasper tonight for the first time in two weeks. That in itself made it a great day.

And finally, bonus points to anyone who can decipher the title of this post without using Google or any other web search engine.

Day 11 and the crazies

Okay, I’m done with this whole recovering thing. I’m not steadily improving every day, or at least it doesn’t feel like it, and it’s driving me nuts. The most frustrating part is a very unhappy gut. I went and saw my regular doctor’s nurse practitioner yesterday (since he was off), and her suggestion and free samples just don’t seem right to me. So, I’m taking the stubborn way and trying out my own theory and approach. With Terry’s support, by the way. I may be grumpy, but I’m not stupid.

I don’t know if it’s the gut stuff or the wonders of a rebalancing endocrine system, but today has really sucked as far as feeling stable, calm and sane. Since I really don’t want to spend a whole blog entry complaining, I’ll just leave it at that and trust that the days ahead will be a bit easier. To tell the truth, I think I’ve had it pretty easy so far, so a day like this was bound to get in there.

On the quick update report, I continue to see very slight gains in lip flexibility and palatte and teeth sensitivity. It still feels like my retainer is too tight. And no, I don’t currently have a retainer. I do hope that when I go to see Dr. Wilson on Monday, he’s going to hammer a tap into my head and drain out all the gunk in my sinuses. Bleaugh.

Got a wonderful email from a friend who has a bit of insight into the whole doctors and bow ties tangent from a week or so ago. She wrote: “there is actually a reason many doctors wear bow ties…regular ties get in the way of examinations when you have to bend over and, probably more importantly, several friends I know have had ‘out of it’ or ‘agitated’ patients try to choke them with their dangling apparel. Thought you’d like to know.” Thanks, Lisa! Not only did that make a ton of sense, but it filled me with plenty of humorous visuals with which to base either future sketches or comic strips upon!

Thanks everyone for putting up with those incredibly long entries, by the way. I have no idea if anyone is actually reading all the way through them, but it’s fascinating how time flies when I’m writing them. I’ve even realized I’ve left out a few things here and there that will have to go in future commentaries.

And thanks again to all of our friends for your continued support and various spiritual boosts. And the food. Seriously, I can’t say it enough. It means the world.

And of course, thank you Terry. You’re amazing.