PhilYouIn.com

We interrupt our regularly scheduled stream of witty, fascinating stories and observations to bring you something a tad more serious.

Please forgive the interruption, but I had quite a week in August…

I decided to go for a run one Saturday mid-month to relax. One block in, I tripped and went down on the sidewalk.

Hard.

So much for ‘relaxing.’

Momentum had me scrape along for a few inches. I had effectively dragged myself across concrete.

I lay still, face down, partially hidden in weeds. I felt very comfortable and had no desire to move. After three minutes I forced myself to get up.

A one inch by 1 1/4 inch deep scrape on my left knee, which would bleed for four days. Somehow, both sides of my hands were bleeding. There was 1/2 inch cut above my left eye which was the result of my glasses being pushed into my forehead. The eye eventually swelled and turned black.

Plus severely bruised ribs on my left side made breathing a chore.

I hobbled home to get patched up.

Sadly, things were about to get much worse.

Five days later I reported, as planned, to the hospital for a three hour surgery; two cancerous tumours in my prostate; the prostate was to be removed.

I awoke at 7PM in a hospital room surrounded by family, catheter (my second biggest fear) in place.

I was unceremoniously tossed from the hospital (okay, discharged) at 11AM the very next morning.

Didn’t concern me one bit; I was still loopy from the anesthesia, and as happy as a lark.

My wife and son folded me into the front passenger seat of our Camry and our one hour journey home began.

So too began my 30 hour experience with non-stop, double and triple hiccups.

But hold on! It’s gonna get much MUCH worse!

By 4PM the following day I was continually wracked with unbearable jolts of gas pain and bloating. My right shoulder throbbed.

Hiccuping non-stop, my stomach was so bloated that I could have been mistaken for a woman eight months pregnant.

I crawled into bed, miserable. My son asked if I wanted to go back to the hospital.

“Yes, please,” I croaked ( my voice would remain weak for weeks due to intubation during surgery).

Imaging revealed emergency surgery was required to keep me alive; my intestines were all twisted and ready to burst.

This was certainly a make or break moment. I was in so much pain. Hopeless. Maybe it would be better if I just followed that light; maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. I would get to see my Grandmother again.

Then I heard my Mom and Aunt bickering from the other side (not for the first time). My Mother imploring me: “Are you coming here or not?! Decide already, god damnit! Either shit or get off the pot!”

Then my Aunt belittling her home health care assistant for not knowing how to prepare an egg to her liking.

And so I decided to stay.

Surgery lasted 3 1/2 hours this time, ending at 4AM.

The following morning I was in big trouble; my stomach would bloat with every swallow of food or water, so it was decided by my surgeons that I was not to have food or water. For three full days.

“Ice chips?” I croaked, hopefully. I could exist on ice chips…

“Nothing!” was the response.

All I could put in my mouth for 72 hours was a stick with a small sponge on its end, dipped in water, to moisten my cracked lips.

For which I was grateful.

They provided me with a pump which would inject Dilaudid – a powerful opioid – into my veins, every six minutes as needed.

And I decided I needed.

I had nothing to do but lay in that bed and stare at the wall. No sleep. Happy to see my wife and kids, but feeling like a tremendous burden.

The anesthesia and Dilaudid pump provided me with two days of continual hallucinations. When anyone spoke to me, I would not be looking at them; rather, I would have my eye on the large bugs as they skittered across the hospital floor. Musical crescendos would crash every 37 seconds (I kept count). People whispered about me in the next room. In the middle of the night, I heard my wife reading a book to my two year old grandson (who had not been two for five years).

It was like living in a Stephen King novel; my four anaesthesia ’events’ in six weeks (two surgeries, one biopsy and a colonoscopy) apparently brought me too deep into another dimension; I must have brought creatures back with me…

For four days I had no use for a bathroom; I peed in one bag, and pooped in another (my first biggest fear).

My son observed that the surgeon had literally ripped me a new one.

Post surgery, my stomach looked like what I imagine Frankenstein’s stomach would look like; lots of staples and stitches and scars and scabs.

A real mess.

Crap. I was never going to recover. It was never going to be like it was. I felt old and frail and thin and had new aches and pains all the time.

Nights in the hospital were interminable. Even if I managed to fall asleep, I would be woken up every hour; Vitals! IV levels! Empty your urine bag! Change your colostomy bag!! Philip! WAKE UP!”

Each morning by 6AM the lights would come on and a ‘team’ of nine doctors would march in, single file, and surround my bed.

“How are you feeling today?” was always the question.

By the time my eyes would adjust to the light and I would manage to open my mouth, they would already have left…

As I lay on that mattress in the hospital on my third consecutive day of a no water no food diet behind me, 3AM, I slowly became aware of the inevitable: I must be dying.

No coming back from this.

I tried to think of what was most important to me. What I was going to miss.

I came to the realisation that the best days were not the days my kids were born; they were the days their kids were born.

I had to figure out a way to pass the time. So I began the time-killing chore of trying to compile my top ten movie list. Gratefully, it took hours:

To Sir With Love, The Godfather(s). Kramer vs Kramer. The Shaggy Dog (it’s my list. Not yours).

Then TV shows:

Dick Van Dyke. The Twilight Zone. The Wire.

Athletes:

Ali. Reggie. Tug McGraw.

Songs:

Downtown. Windy. Don’t Know Much.

As I tried to fall asleep that night I imagined my wife and kids getting into the car to drive home, with me gone. How horrible.

Then a peculiar thing happened:

I began to feel better.

The urologist visited, snd told me I was now cancer free (I had forgotten I had even had cancer).

Liquids on day four. Then food. I began to feel stronger. Took longer walks through the halls. One day, a nurse removed my IV.

On day six I set my iPhone to awaken me at 5:50AM. When my ‘team’ switched on the light upon entering my room ten minutes later, I popped up and blared, “Good MORNING!”

They practically jumped out of their skin.

On day eight I was sent home.

Sure, I lost 17 pounds, but…I don’t care. Now I get to gain them back!

I don’t have such great bladder control anymore, but…again, I don’t care. When you have your prostate removed, it just takes time.

I still wear a colostomy, but it could be worse (or so I have heard). And it is amazing what one can get used to.

Plus in three months it will be reversed, so I will have use for toilet paper once again.

That will by three more hours of surgery. Possibly another eight days in the hospital.

It definitely won’t be a picnic but…I don’t care. I’ll make it; after all, surgeon #1 told me that I’m a tough guy.

And surgeon #2 told me he talks about me in the classes he teaches. So…I’m kind of a big deal.

Maybe everything will be fine after all; maybe I’ll get through it.

After the final surgery I will be carted off to that same hospital room, or an identical one. To pass the time, the first thing I’ll do when I wake up will be to complete those top ten lists.

Hopefully, the large, skittering bugs will stay home…