I originally wrote this three or four days after surgery. Some of the story has been cleaned-up today, but the original words remain.
These past few days have been a blur and a lifetime in one. So much has transpired in and out of my body. So many people have been involved in this eloquent orchestration of my body. How I’m able to sit here and express my thoughts right now amazes me.
I had expected the worse case scenario. Yet, I had never accepted the worse case scenario as even being an option. With a surgery that could have lasted 16 hours if my tumor had been more vicio
us, I feel fortunate that the surgery only lasted around 6 hours.
As you’re reading this, I’d like for you to remove any thoughts and preconceived notions you may have about the severity of my tumor. Of me. Take a moment to clear your mind. I’m going to put you in my body in the hours leading up to the moment of the surgery.
To Kill a Gremlin
5:45 a.m. - I am waiting in line to check-in for surgery and spend the next 1+ hours being admitted and brought to a private room by a nurse to de-robe, take my baseline vitals and double check all the information the Mayo has gathered on me. I’m groggy from waking up at such a vile hour.
As the nurse comes and goes from the room, Sadi and I have a private banter of laughter at our stupid jokes. The jokes that only your partner can appreciate. We talk about what’s happening. We talk to each other. She gets to laugh at me as I sit in this silly chair wearing the latest in hospital gown fashion.
We’re both nervous. We’re both strong. Much of my strength comes from Sadi right now. The nurse verifies pre-surgery is ready for me and an orderly escorts me to the pre-surgery room. This is the last time I’ll remember seeing Sadi today. With a hug and kiss, I’m sent on my way.
7:00 a.m. - Walking into the pre-surgery prep room, the smell of hospital antiseptic covers the chilled air as bustling bodies move all around me. The prep room is massive. The size of a gymnasium with 12 foot ceilings and full of patients being prepared for surgery. I was expecting a more intimate experience.
I am given a surgical cap and escorted back to my area of the room. I’m nearing my personal area when the shock of an intense surgery stealthily enters my mind. For a moment, everyone is moving in slow motion. I am hyper-sensitive to my surroundings. The moment is gone faster than it began.
As I climb onto the surgical gurney, a privacy curtain is closed by the nurse. My personal space has become the size of a walk-in closet. Hospital sounds invade my space without regard to my privacy. Metallic medical devices are mounted on the pillar to the right of me. To the left of me, the curtain re-opens and my anesthesiologist comes in to greet me. Meet Dr. Olsen. Strangely, he reminds me of Richard Alpert from Lost.
Dr. Olsen introduces himself and calmly explains the role he’ll be playing in today’s rendition of To Kill a Gremlin. I like Dr. Olsen. He has a good presence about him that let’s me know he will be there for me. There is a calmness in his eyes that helps ease my apprehension that has been building ever since I entered the pre-surgery room.
Dr. Olsen exists stage left; a few other people come to my side to introduce themselves. Though this entire pre-surgery room is impersonal, the individuals involved help to make this an intimate experience.
Max, the body-waxer arrives and with a smile whisks me away in my gurney to the complete opposite side of the room to shave of my lower chest, abdomen and pubic area. My gurney rolls past person after person, gurney after gurney. We even play “chicken” a couple of times. We won both times. The sheer amount of people in this one room being prepared and preparing others for surgery is overwhelming.
Max and I arrive in his nook. As I remove my gown, he looks a bit disappointed that Sadi and I had already shaved most everything the other night. There are a few touch-up spots to clean up. And we are off back towards the opposite side of the room to be handed off to the surgery room.
The intensity of my impending surgery is no longer a flutter in the back of my mind. I can feel the enormity of the moment begin to grow. What the fuck have I got myself into!?!
As I roll near the exit of pre-surgery, a nurse stops my gurney. I look around to see why we’ve stopped and on my left I see my mom. Amongst all these people, all the choreography of movement and sound, all I can see is my mother. She comes over and gives me a reassuring motherly hug that everything will be alright.
The levity of the moment has been relaxed for a moment and I continue my journey to the surgery room. The hallway feels empty. An anesthetic hospital green tiles the walls. Ahead of me are the doors leading into surgery. Standing in the hall just outside the doorway is my team of surgeons waiting for me to arrive.
The gurney stops for a moment. Dr. Reid Lombardo is there to greet me with a smile. She touches my hand and we exchange a few words. Before we depart, I smile and tell her I’ve been talking with her Mom, Sophia. Dr. Reid Lombardo blushes and says: Whaaaat? I know she knows what I’m talking about, but I tell her Sophia has been posting to my TumorVille blog. We both have a little laugh.
The double doors are wide open and with a single gulp swallow me whole. I’m in the belly of the surgery room. Several people are already in the room moving about in preparation for today’s rendition of To Kill a Gremlin. I had pictured a room filled with more electronics. The room feels spartan. Sterile. Purposeful.
While the surgical table has last minute preparations, Dr. Kavanaugh comes over. At first I don’t recognize her. The familiar professional attire I’m used to seeing her in has been replaced with the sterility of surgical threads. I see her name badge, look up and instantly recognize her eyes. She will be assisting Dr. Reid Lombardo as the guest conductor.
I’m transferred from my gurney to the surgical table. Enormous bright lights shine on me like I am the only person in the room. Center stage. I feel alone. It is at this moment, looking directly into the surgical lights for the first time that I feel the first real flow of overwhelming inevitability rush through my body. This is serious. I’ve visualized this moment for weeks now. Nothing has prepared me for the emotion I’m about to feel.
The pre-surgery check-list begins and a male nurse takes control of the room and focuses directly on me. No one else will speak for now except us. No one else will do anything else until my interrogation is over. The room is still except for the two of us. I’m asked a number of questions that I can not for the life of me remember. The room begins to move again.
My emotions are really starting to get the better of me. I’m about to be opened up and have my innards set aside. Pieces of my body removed. Veins replaced. An organ about to be lost if the worst case scenario is encountered.
I have absolutely no control of the situation! There is nothing I can do.
I gather up every bit of internal strength I can find to keep myself together. The emotion is welling up inside of me like a volcano about to erupt. There are emotions I've never felt before wanting to explode to the outside world like a rebellious teenager needing to be heard. The intensity is overwhelming. I close my eyes for a moment and my mind relaxes just enough. The mental blurriness begins to clear. I’m able to hold myself together.
Dr. Olsen re-takes the stage; I recognize the eyebrows and laugh to myself as I again re-associate him with Richard Alpert of Lost. He and his anesthesiology team are about to prepare me for surgery. One of his teammates forewarns me she is about to place the initial IV line into my left hand. I barely feel the needle being inserted as she slides it into my hand’s vein.
Dr. Olsen explains that this is the first of several lines they will place into me. The other lines will be inserted once I have been put under.
The same female voice tells me I may feel a slight sting in my left hand as she injects me with my first narco-cocktail of the day. What she meant to tell me was to be prepared for a swarm of bees to attack my hand. I can still feel the swarm as my hand becomes their personal pincushion.
Dr. Olsen talks to me as the bees do there job. Calmness is in his voice. Is in his presence. What he says is not important. How he says is. Bright lights are dimming. Emotions of the moment are present, but not as overwhelming as moments ago. Voices are murmurs. Murmurs are hushed tones. Dimness is blurred. Tones are white noise. Shadows begin to dance around me like a pagan ritual.
...
Have you ever had a dream so real you could feel the pleasure? I’m awake. I’m asleep. Blurriness is blurred with consciousness. Why does this dream have so much pain?
...
Shadows are slowing their ritualistic dance. Is that an electronic pulley lifting me into the air? Why can I not wake up from this pain!?! My mind picks up a murmuring of morphine. Why are they using morphine? I hear my voice scream that morphine does not work on me. Or is that in my mind. I hear Sadi’s voice scream that morphine does not work on me. Or is that in my mind.
...
I know that hand. The hand is soft. Small. There is a gentle touch. Sadi is here. I can feel the presence of other people. The blurred shadow figure of Sadi is by my side and I tell her I love her.
Another hand replaces Sadi’s. A new blurred shadow is by my side now. I recognize the voice. My mom is here. I tell her I love her.
...
7:00 p.m. - Someone is waking me.
Do you know what your name is? I manage to gurgle something along the lines of Kindler.
Do you know where are you are? St. Mary’s, I reply.
Do you know what year it is? 2011... or is it 2010? I ask. My nurse, Steve, laughs a bit and says I’m OK.
Thanks for listening.