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.

The missing days, part 2

Waking up from anesthesia isn’t really what one can correctly label as “waking up.” It’s a very slow process where you start to realize that maybe this strange dream about fuzzy people floating around you mumbling gibberish occasionally mixed in with your name just might not be a dream after all. I think that’s the time spent in the recovery room, technically, where they take you immediately after surgery but before settling you in to your comfy ICU room. I can’t tell you what it looked like, or really much else about it.

As I get into this part of the recap, let me throw out another disclaimer: I can take no responsibility for the accuracy of any of these initial post-operative facts. The entire hospital stay has a way of distorting your view of reality and time, but it is most apparent in that first 24 hours in ICU. So my apologies for any slight inaccuracies, but I will guarantee that at least this is how I remember it.

I now believe anesthesiologists to be among the most powerful people in the world. They can concoct a serum to address everything your body does individually, as if they were brewing from a witch’s recipe book. A drop of “make-you-pass-out” mixed with 2ml of “stop-all-poo”, 5ml of “convince-the-heart-to-not-freak-out”, 3.5ml of “scalpels-and-sharp-objects-don’t-really-hurt”, and a good teaspoonful of “allow-knives,-cameras,-tubes-and-gauze-up-the-nose.” If this guy could have added a bit of “happy-dreams-about-bunnies”, he must have forgotten. If you future plans contain marrying an anesthesiologist, make sure you get all your trust issues out of the way first.

I finally became aware of my surroundings in the ICU, which at St. Mary’s was a huge, freshly renovated private room. I can remember someone saying that they could go tell my wife that I was finally in the room, which seemed odd because the very next second she was there, as was my Mom. And I was now aware that at least the surgery was over and that I was still here. A pretty lucid thought, I thought. I knew that everything had gone fine, and that the story of the surgeon that said “oops” would be one that I might actually hear, as opposed to one in which I might star.

I now realized for the first time that they had packed my nose full of drainage tubes and gauze. No-one had told me to expect that, but then again, I hadn’t asked. And of course they the roll a piece of gauze up just under your nose about the size of a magic marker and tape it to your face. Not really a problem, of course, because my upper lip was so swollen you could have had room to tape a beach towel under my nose and still see my mouth. I was a Simpsons character. But the good thing was, I still had my mustache. Nobody had shaved it during the ordeal, so at least my massively protruding lip monster was conveniently camouflaged by facial hair. Yeah, that’ll keep people from staring at the beach towel.

For all of the amazing things about this new and spaciously private room, it was seriously lacking in the chair department. As in, there were none. So Mom and Terry were flanking the sides of the bed, standing and holding onto my hand or at least just being close enough to let me know that they were there. After a certain amount of time had passed (an hour? 2 minutes?) I started to notice that my Mom was leaning forward a bit oddly on her side of the bed, as if she wanted to whisper a secret to the bed rail. She was sliding down inch by inch, as if in slow motion, with a bit of a blank stare on her face. Either my anesthesia was a bit trippier than I had thought, or something wasn’t quite right.

Luckily Terry noticed it from her side of the bed, and asked her if she was okay. This sort of snapped her out of it a bit, but only slightly. Mom managed to make her way to the door to try to find a chair, but again the slow motion kicked in and, leaning on the door, down she went. It took about 5 minutes for her complete this forward drop, luckily, which was plenty of time for Terry and all of the ICU nurses to get to her before she decided to move regular speed again. They laid her down on the floor, checked all of her vitals, got her to do a bit of floor polishing while she was down there, and all was fine.

A note to all family members of future surgery patients: It’s gonna be a long day. Make sure you get plenty of rest the night before, exercise a bit through the waiting time by walking around some and keeping the blood flowing, and of course, EAT at least your 3 meals at the appropriate times. I’d even recommend healthy snacks in your purse or coat pocket. Or even unhealthy ones. Especially if you’re a 78 year old recent recipient of triple-bypass surgery who gets a bit stressed at the thought of someone cutting open her son’s head and then stuffing gauze up his nose.

At some point Terry realized that it was probably best for them to head home and get some rest. I hated to see them go, but I’d certainly rather not have an encore performance, and I knew that Terry needed to get back home to Jasper and make sure he heard first hand that Daddy was fine. Looking a bit silly, but fine. And anyway, I really needed sleep.

Or so I thought. Apparently, the anesthesiologist had also mixed in 7ml of “remove-ability-to-even-remotely-get-more-than-5-minutes-of-sleep-at-a-time.” This was a time-release element, as I had obviously slept pretty freakin’ hard during the day. But now, no matter how exhausted and out of it I felt, the Sandman was not going to visit the ICU.

It was the longest night of insomnia in my life. I watched the clock, which was placed all the way across the room and over the door, through my fuzzy vision for hours upon hours. And although I could already tell that my bad eye had gotten better, I’m still fairly blind with an astigmatism that kept me guessing the actual time, as well as whether or not they used special clocks with 5 hands in this hospital.

I tossed and turned, not really able to get comfortable, as if I had thought that was a real possibility in the first place. There was all this stuff on my face, including a huge plastic tub strapped to my head delivering a mix of hydrated oxygen. (I mean think about it – there was no way to shove the tiny standard oxygen tubes into my nose, so they had to think of something.) I raised the bed up and down, and rolled on to my sides, but nothing worked. I THINK you’re supposed to sleep on your back and elevated about 45 degrees that first night, but since I didn’t have the manual and had not been informed of my sleeping responsibilities, I was on a quest. The quest for sleep.

The night went on. And on. And on. I’d stare at the clock. Almost 1 a.m. by my best estimate. The nurse would come in and check things. Machines would go “ping.” My automatic blood pressure cuff would inflate to python-strength proportions. The hydrating oxygen tube would make gurgling noises that rivaled even the most annoying snorer. The horrifying realization that yes, indeed, I was connected to my own catheter, was topped only by the thrill of tossing and turning in my bed tethered to a huge receptacle in the one place no guy would ever want to be tethered. The nurses would come in to draw some blood, yet again, to monitor my phludemumum levels. I’d press the button on the morphine drip in my IV, mistakenly thinking that this might help me. I’d stare at the clock again and realize that it’s actually closer to 12:10 a.m. I’d focus on the black spots on the walls and make wagers with myself as to whether or not those were windows or cabinets. (I chose windows, and then used them as gauges to see if the sun was anywhere close to waking up.)

Somewhere in the middle of all of this, I had started to feel pretty bad. I mean, on top of the standard post-surgical bad. I got sweaty, clammy, nauseated. When I finally buzzed for the nurse to come check me out, my blood pressure was showing something outrageously low for me, like 80/50 or something. A quick injection into my IV of some magic nurse medicine, and I was calming down and chilling out in no time. You would think that someone would have been watching the BP on that nurses station monitor, but again, I have no real concept of what went on and in what order, and those ICU nurses are so on top of everything that I’ll happily give them the benefit of the doubt.

At some point I must have gotten at least some sleep, but I honestly doubt it. Once morning FINALLY arrived (I could tell because I had won my wager and there actually was sun starting to come in the windows), I told the new morning nurse how crappy my night had been. She asked why I hadn’t just asked for something to help me sleep. Having not been informed ahead of time that this was actually an option, my newly carved noggin had simply not reached this conclusion on its own. I wasn’t about to make that mistake again the next night.

Terry found that morning that even though she was my wife, they weren’t going to allow her to come into ICU until official visiting hours started at 11am. But somehow these morning hours were going a bit quicker than the night ones, maybe having something to do my quite elaborate nurse sponge bath. (Yes, he and I are good friends, now…) Regardless, Terry was soon in my room, as was also magically a chair, apparently only able to be seen by daylight. I realized over the course of the morning that morphine really does nothing but make you feel like very spacey crap, and we experimented the rest of the day with other possibilities. These helped me to drift in out of consciousness, even if they didn’t really take care of my nagging headache.

Given our connections to the clergy world, it was only a matter of time before their all-access passes brought them into the ICU. And by “them”, I mean that we know quite a bit of people who qualify as clergy. I think it was at least 3 different ones each day while in the ICU. The nurses were starting to wonder if maybe there was something about me they hadn’t been told. Like maybe I was the Golden Child. Or the Pope’s paperboy. Nonetheless,  the brief visits of friends from the clergy squad were, of course, greatly appreciated.

One of the things they monitor in ICU right after pituitary surgery is your fluid output, and mine kicked into high gear this day. They made the official call to extend my ICU stay one more day, until the fluids were a bit more under control. Which meant several more blood tests over the course of the day and night. Oddly enough, one of my least favorite pre-surgical events was now one of my more regular post-surgical activities – casually donating vials of blood to whomever came in with a needle and a large rubber band.

That second night in ICU was wonderful. Why? No morphine and the miracle of Ambien, that little sleeping pill you see on TV. It works. I had a calm, peaceful sleep that night. Or at least I did in between the nurses, beeps, pythons, and gurgles (which they actually sent someone in to fix for me). And I slept on my back, elevated. Although I am typically a side sleeper, this was really the best position for the time being.

The next day brought a killer sinus headache. I mean monster. It’s probably because I had to try to give myself a sponge bath all on my own. Not an easy task when you’re hooked up to a million tubes and wires. We experimented a bit more with meds, but it took most of the day to knock that headcahe out. I think Terry got a lot of work done on her laptop that day.

My fluids had slowed down and the lab work was looking much better, so I got the go ahead from the doctor to move downstairs to a private room. Unfortunately, there were no rooms available. And so, by the time Terry left that evening, I was officially in for a 3rd night in ICU. I was kind of getting used to it, though. It was nice having such great care, with all of those people watching out for you. I had no need to be anxious about anything, with all of that constant attention. ICU was now more of a luxury room than a necessity. It gave us all a nice feeling of safety and comfort.

So of course, when a room opened up around 10pm, they sent me packing.

9 Days Later

Here’s the quick update on the current state of events, just for those who might be curious. 9 days after surgery and the energy level is still fairly, well, level. Not noticeably better or worse than when I first got home. I think this whole “healing” business is a longer process than the two days my brain had convinced me it would be. Yes, I know, Dr. Wilson told me two weeks at home before I’d feel like going back to work. But that inner voice continues to believe that I will be that one case that stuns them all.

I did manage to get out yesterday afternoon with my family and walk up and down the block. It felt good and I took it at just the right pace – not geriatric, but far from track and field.

Lip is still numb, but possibly 5% more movable. Upper teeth and palette are also still a bit on the insensitive side.

I am surprisingly not too medicated. Right now taking Hydrocortisone regularly (which is supposed to be for only 30 days), as well as some Toprol, which I was already taking for a bit of blood pressure/tachycardia, so that’s not a direct result of the surgery. I’m also spending maybe half of the day needing something for headaches – Fioricet – but otherwise nothing for any pain. The worst “pain” is that nagging feeling that I SWEAR someone left some gauze dipped in bread pudding in the deep recesses of my sinuses. If that doesn’t make sense, don’t think about it too hard, or suddenly it will and you’ll probably decide that my blog is no longer required reading.

I will spare you the detail on this one, but I feel it is my duty to report that your intestines, after lying dormant for 5 days in a hospital, like to point out exactly how and where things work (or currently don’t work) in your gut. Surgery was in the head, but it takes the whole body to work on the healing part.

Otherwise Terry is back at work today and I’m hanging out solo. I had plans to watch several movies today on top of my normal web-surfing and iTunes trolling. It’s 2:00 already and The Departed is still sitting on the coffee table unopened. As are the several other titles queued up for my recovery film fest. I imagine, though, that I’ve still got plennnnnnnty of time for those in the days to come.

Finally, something that made me laugh way harder than I’m probably supposed to at this point. If you’re not a fan of Family Guy or may not have a knowledge of cheesy ’80’s music, it won’t be quite as funny to you:

The missing days, part 1

Time to step back to 8 days ago and bring you along with me into the wonderful world of transsphenoidal bliss.

Surgery was scheduled for 12:30p.m. last Tuesday, which means, of course, no food or drink after midnight. (Surgery patients are Mogwai…) Knowing this limitation, including the restraining order from coffee the next morning, I had a good hefty snack at 11:00 Monday night and downed a few tanks of water at 11:59. Okay, it was probably 12:13am Tuesday morning. Technically after midnight, but I figured it was a risk I’d just have to take.

I’m an avid breakfast fan, and I expected the morning to be completely focused on my gurgling stomach and lack of caffeine. But somehow, it wasn’t that big of a deal. Sure, I was thirsty and I wouldn’t turn down that cinnanbon, but it seems that the human mind can pretty easily trump those acquired tastes or simple needs with the ever-present thoughts of “Some dude’s gonna cut your head open in 4 hours and 37 minutes. Some dude’s gonna cut your head open in 4 hours and 36 minutes.” and so on.

Having successfully checked off the 527 items on my to-do list at work the day before, it was now down to just making sure that I did everything the hospital said to do on the day of surgery. Bring comfortable clothes, leave your wallet and any jewelry at home, be sure to bring your tumor – simple stuff like that. As you might have guessed, my mind doesn’t react well to this slow-moving limbo. It was a very, very long morning waiting to leave.

I gave Jasper an extra big hug before he went to school that morning, but not in a way to let on that I had any doubt that I’d be back. Kids pick up on these things, and I could tell that even though it hadn’t been the focus of our conversations, it was prominently on his mind. He knew it was a big day. So let’s talk about Transformers. Or his Razor scooter. Or anything other than what Daddy was about to do. And deep down, I had the voices inside me battling with competing thoughts of “You’ll regret it if you don’t say your wisest parting words now” and “Be cool. Don’t say anything about anything” and “You should have made a video for when he’s 16″ and “Jeez, Dave, quit letting your fears make these voices deep inside you have these battles of competing thoughts.”

We got to the hospital and of course my Mom and her pastor were already hanging out and waiting for me in the admitting area. We got to sit there and make idle chat for maybe 5 minutes before they called me to come on back. Oh sure – you feel like crap in a normal doctor’s office and you’re going to wait 2 hours before they call you. But surgery is, understandably, on a tighter schedule. I felt fine, at the moment, and only had 5 minutes. There is no need for the April 2003 issue of Golf Digest in that waiting room.

Terry got to walk with me down the hall and into the pre-surgery corridor where they then gleefully gave her some rice-a-roni and a nice parting gift with orders to go find her comfy seat in the surgery waiting area. I could see the tears welling up in Terry’s eyes, as this was “it.” I wanted to just suddenly drop everything, grab her hand and make a break for it. I’m supposed to watch out for and worry about her, not the other way around.

We said our awkward “seeya later’s” and “loveyou’s”, hoping to avoid that unmistakable eye-glimmer that showed what we both really wanted to say was “holy crap, this better not be the last time we say that.” It’s at this point where your reassuring optimism that you’ve both tried to carry on the surface can’t trump the fear that you might be on the cusp of becoming that guy in that soon-to-be-famous story of the fluke anesthesia reaction or the one where the surgeon said “oops.”

Then you get to step into a closet no larger than a phone booth (remember those?) so you can get naked. Everything off. Except, of course, for your gown.

At no other place in our society does someone tell a grown man to step into a gown and not think twice about it. Volumes have been written on the hospital gown, I’m sure. So in the name of space, let me just restrict my commentary to this: if the goal of the invention of the hospital gown was to make sure that it wasn’t to be confused with lingerie, congratulations. For a skimpy item of clothing, it goes way, way past “unsexy.” If humans had tails, hospital gowns would automatically cause those tails to tuck between our legs. It is the official relinquishing of control. You have just given permission to anyone walking around that place with an official name tag to do all sorts of things to your body that you’d really rather pass on, thank you very much. Hooray for the gown.

I was then escorted through a room full of everyone else hoping no-one would see them in their fashion statement to my own private-ish little curtained off area, and got off of my feet for what I knew would be the last time for days to come. And for possibly the 17th time, I answered questions about my medical history, allergies, living wills and emergency contacts.It was at this point that in walked the pastor of the church that Terry and I have recently started visiting. (ooh, sorry – Rector, not Pastor. I’m not used to that whole Episcopal thing yet.)

I have learned that in a hospital, members of the clergy have a top-secret clearance that allows them access to areas even wives and parents could never dream of being. Carte-blanche visiting. No place is off-limits. I think one even checked with me halfway through surgery to see if I needed a Yoo-Hoo or something.

Don’t get me wrong – it was actually a very well timed visit with a slight calming effect. As I mentioned in my faith diatribe a few posts back, I have a lifetime of family involvement with ministry but have personally always stayed on the sidelines. This has made me picky over the years. Very picky. And if I cannot find a church where the pastor is that perfect mix of kindness, wisdom, sharp humor and an actual human being, supported by a whole slew of other prerequisites revolving around the practices and politics of the inner workings of that church, I won’t go. And it hasn’t been that important to me to embark upon the sacred quest to find that perfect mix. As long as I practice my faith in my everyday life, I think God’s gonna understand. So I have more often than not found myself quite leisurely enjoying the Sunday paper as my wife and child head out to further their own spiritual growth. Our recent visits to St. Thomas’ have, however, changed my routine a bit. That’s my spiritual journey, however, and one which I doubt will get too much detailed coverage in this or any other public blog.

Regardless, Rev. Eaves was a welcome visitor at this point. Although it was a bit strange feeling quite under dressed, that thought didn’t get too far. As I might have mentioned, I was about to have brain surgery. And I have a tendency to be slightly anxious or at least minimally preoccupied with such looming concepts. So we had a nice brief conversation while various nurses and almost-doctors were running around looking very important and doing important hospital-type things in the background. A quick prayer, and she was off to work her comforting magic on my waiting room entourage.

The anesthesiologist introduced himself and once again asked the list of medical history and allergy questions (doesn’t anyone ever write my answers down?) He explained one or two things that were being injected into my permanent arm bling (the IV), and then finally said that this next one was the anesthesia that would put me out.

I’ve heard stories of the wild things people say and do on anesthesia, like riding down the halls on their stretcher goosing the nurses, or singing showtunes and laughing at the fact that they have a thumb. And you also hear that anesthesia works fast, and when they ask you to count backwards from 10, you never make it far. So as he injected the final cocktail of la-la syrum, I can remember managing a very well-spoken comment about my aversion to needles or perhaps his choice in pens, and then someone in the distance was saying, “DAVID? It’s all over. You did great!”

It was that quick. No counting backwards from 10, no room getting fuzzy, no sudden urge to channel Ethel Merman.

You know when you’ve been sleeping. There is a time that passes of which you are aware, even when you are not conscious. That internal chronometer is completely unplugged under the influence of anesthesia. There is no battery backup. Snap, it’s 6 hours later. The undoubtedly tiring, worrisome and extra slow 6 hours that followed in the surgical waiting area simply did not ever exist in my world.

But the fun had just begun.

Non-linear recovering

One thing I’ve learned over the last few days is that if you charted out your recovery on a graph, it certainly would not go in a straight line. I felt better Sunday morning than I did Monday morning. But Monday afternoon and evening were great. And then this morning, Tuesday, I woke up feeling like Superman and then must have eaten a bowl of Kryptonite Flakie-o’s for breakfast that knocked me flat for half the day. And the rest of the afternoon, eh, not bad.

No matter what, my brain doesn’t want to shut off. I guess it’s the workaholic inside me. And as long as I have my laptop, I probably won’t be resting the brain and the body at equal intervals. I’m not very good at this sitting around and doing nothing business.

One week after the surgery, and my lip is still incredibly numb. The smile still doesn’t uncover any upper teeth.  To put it in 3D animator’s terms, it feels like the rigging on my face is incorrect and that the points (control vertices, in Maya) on my lip are not being properly controlled by their cluster handle. (Yeah, that’s animator geek talk for “my lip don’t work right, y’all.”) That’s going to be one of my big questions – how long until I can smile without looking like I’m trying to hide my Bubbalicious? My follow up visit with Dr. Wilson is next Monday.

Starting to head downhill on that recovery chart again, so I’m going to stop writing for now. Not a very informative or entertaining entry, but an entry nonetheless.

To think, just one week ago I had just arrived in ICU with a freshly carved noggin. Put in that perspective, maybe I’m not just sitting around doing nothing…

Witty title and a quick progress report

My first full day home from the hospital, and the most frustrating thing is that I came up with a genius title and intro to today’s blog entry earlier and I totally forgot it. I guess things could be much worse, huh?

Still, I spent the majority of the day in a big haze. I managed to get by most of the day without taking any pain killers, but I finally gave in this afternoon. No biggie. My brain wanted to go full speed, and so I sat in our La-Z-Boy most of the day with my laptop, going over the 172 emails that had accumulated. (Don’t worry – no sense of false self-importance here – I’d say 160 of them were junk.) But I did at least check all the emails, go through the ComedySportz forum, and talk to Shannon a couple of times about the most unbelievable client we’ve ever had. Actually a lot more than I though I could accomplish.

That being said, 6 days after surgery, I’m moving at about 2 miles per hour, even if my brain WANTS to go faster. My upper lip is still numb, though most of the swelling is gone, and when I smile it refuses to uncover any of my upper teeth. My teeth still feel like they’ve been shoved a couple inches up into my skull. Overall, I feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck. And talking with anyone, visitors or even on the phone, wears me out in only a matter of minutes. Maybe 15, maybe 2. Don’t get me wrong, I love it – just don’t be surprised when I say “Ding! Time’s up!” in the middle of our conversation.

My goal, here, is to continue to chronicle the recovery, for friends, family, and those facing a similar path somewhere out there. DISCLAIMER: Don’t feel obligated to read this at any point – I can’t help but shake the feeling that some might feel that if I’m writing, they should be reading. Nope – I will continue  to appreciate all support and interest, but will expect nothing. That’s the only way I’ll ever feel comfortable even blogging in the first place.

Although I don’t yet feel like going back over the last few days in these pages quite yet, I will update everyone on a couple of things:

The vision in my right eye was noticeably better after the surgery. It’s not all fixed yet, by any stretch, and is still worse than the left eye. But it seems the smudgy fog cleared a bit, allowing for me to more easily see some finer things that I hadn’t before. And where I failed 90% of the colorblind tests in my right eye pre-surgery, I went online to find some tests and maybe got through about half of them this time. That’s significant, especially when the neurosurgeon had said that there was no guarantee of any improvement, even if it was somewhat likely. (Yes, Jerry, your “I Can See Clearly, Now” musical Hallmark card is very stuck in my head at the moment…)

It’s way to soon to tell if there is improvement in the area of headaches or sinus issues. As you can imagine, having some guy attack your head with sharp objects and cut things out doesn’t sit well with your body. Thus the recovery. I think it’ll be a few months to properly assess that progress.

As of today I have not heard anything about the lab pathology of the tumor. My surgeon’s nurse reassured me that if there is anything that we need to know about it, they’ll call, and everyone continues to assure me that these things are almost always benign. But ya know, until they actually say, “Mr. Gau, your tumor was definitely benign,” that reassurance is not going to carry me very far. There’s that need to know that the lack of information isn’t due to the fact that it’s been sent to the Institute for Highly Unusual and Seemingly Benign but Outrageously Rare and Ridiculously Deadly Growths (IHUABORRDG). I think it’s located just outside of Portland.

And a final note, at the risk of sounding repetitive: Thank you, everyone, for the emails, notes, flowers, cards, visits, prayers, calls, drives from Tennessee, perfectly chosen reading materials and foods of all types. I have no doubt that my progress to this point is due in great part to your massive outpouring of support.  I’m sorry if I have not yet responded to everyone. That’s gonna take some time.

More on those endless hospital hours in the posts to come. Plus, a visit with the late Bob Keeshan (known and loved the world over as Captain Kangaroo) and ways to eat all the chocolate you want AND lose weight!

(Okay, not really. But it sounded better than “wait’ll your hear about when they removed the 5 miles of gauze packing tubes from my nose!” )

Raoul has left the building…

…and I’m finally home again. Released this morning, Sunday 2/25, 5 days later, because I was feeling so good I was kickin’ back, drinking some coffee, listening to a mellow Jack Johnson playlist and reading the Sunday paper reclined in my hospital recliner chair.

Let’s call that the exception, not the rule, at the moment. Great to be home, so happy to be with my family. But yeah, I still feel like the personification of crap.

I’ll blog more this week about the experience. Plenty more to come, and I’m sure I’ll have quite a bit of time. But when they say I’ll need rest, they’re not kidding. I feel like I’ve been slammed in the middle of the face with 200 pound nerf dart of botox. Yeah, it’s that weird.

Okay. Happy time at my computer is up. Bleaugh.  But although it’s scary as sin to have the safety net of the hospital taken away from me, especially as the overnight approaches, it’s so, so good to be here.

Take that on ALL levels.