Preparation and Surgery
"If only one did not have to think during the long periods of
uncertainty and ignorance, and could somehow benumb the senses until
the hours of darkness had passed!"
CHAPTER TEN
Preparation and Surgery
At the admissions office, forms were completed; it was much more
complicated than registering for a motel room. I sat nearby, watching
the wearisome process.
There were no rooms in the pediatrics ward. I was led to a room which
was quite old and depressing, and found to my disgust that my roommate
smoked. "I hope this doesn't bother you," she said motioning to the
hand that held her cigarette. What did it matter, I thought; she would
continue smoking regardless of the way I felt about it. From
experience I had learned that, although many people who fostered bad
habits did not want to be overly offensive, most never possessed enough
genuine concern for another individual to refrain from their habit. I
waved off her question, and hoped for adequate ventilation. Is this
the bittersweet price for societal living?
My few belongings were stowed in a closet, then I went back to my bed
and sat on the edge of it, uncertain of what I was supposed to do;
during these periods of anticipation, had I been a smoker, I might have
lit up. I did not wish to spend the night there; anxiety clawed at the
walls of my stomach.
Through the window across the room, city lights twinkled like hundreds
of stars which had been hurled to the earth, spreading toward the
horizon in a grid-work of interesting lines. Soon my parents would
return to their hotel; I almost wished that they would leave, so I
could adjust to my new surroundings, for I would face tomorrow's test,
and the following operation; I had to find comfort within myself.
Mom and Dad kissed me goodnight, amid their internal struggle toward
leaving their little girl in the hands of strangers. Once they had
gone, my nervousness began to subside; anxiety breeds anxiety, and
lacking two generators, I now bore only my own.
Seeing that I was quite alone, a nurse entered the room bearing the
essentials of hospital life, issuing to me a gown, and placing kleenex
tissues and a thermometer and styrofoam water pitcher on my nightstand.
She routinely popped the thermometer into my mouth and took my blood
pressure and pulse rate; removing the thermometer from my mouth, she
glanced at the reading and made notations for her file. Before bidding
me goodnight, the nurse reminded me that I should eat nothing, nor
should I drink water after 6 a.m. the next morning; I nodded in
comprehensive agreement, and climbed beneath the sheets to stare at the
ceiling.
At first it was difficult to dispel my restless thoughts, and I fought
to find a comfortable position amongst the stiff sheets and unfamiliar
pillow. Yet at some unknown point in time, disquietude was overruled
by fatigue, and I was claimed by the obscure world where conscious and
unconscious thought are united as one. I drifted into a pleasant,
untormented sleep.
In the morning, quite soon after I had been awakened a nurse
administered a relaxant which quickly chased away negative emotions
that would have otherwise clogged my mind. I felt blissfully content
and agreeable as my senses numbed and were encircled by an unearthly
calm. I smiled dreamily as my parents descended upon my heavenly state
of awareness, speaking and receiving words which sounded distant and
muted, as those heard by one while swimming underwater, or standing
behind a heavy door.
Two interns arrived, wheeling a cart intended for my transport to
places unknown. They skillfully guided it past my parents with minimal
conversation, and easily hoisted me from the bed onto the
unquestionably hard surface. I waved goodby to Mom and Dad, who stood
dubiously watching as the men wordlessly rolled the stretcher down the
hall, and finally, after a fair amount of travel, found myself in an
expansive room, surrounded by gauges and meters by which a staff of
doctors and nurses stood awaiting my arrival.
The room itself was rather dark, which blended fittingly with my
semi-consciousness. While the staff worked about me, I remained awake
although my body was as limp and motionless as one in a coma. The
doctor injected a liquid dye into my vein, watching a monitor as it
slowly spread from the point of entry at the union of my leg and trunk,
and I began to feel weaker still. With markers, the doctor charted a
map on my stomach under the beam of a spotlight; I looked on
maintaining awareness through a power that no longer seemed to be my
own. It was crazy that people concerned themselves about death; I felt
more than half-way there; whether I drifted closer to life or to death
made no difference to me, then, for in all things existed only
tranquility...and that blissful unearthly calm.
Gravity tied me to the bed, and I laid like a dead thing, bound by an
invisible, unyielding weight. All afternoon I slept, and into the
deepest night; morning came, Tuesday morning, but I knew it not.
Though numbered words to my parents I spoke, I can recall nothing. In
my mind's hoard of memories, that morning never dawned before these
eyes.
For my parents, Monday, the day of the arteriogram, was spent primarily
in my room. They did little but watch in silence as I slept, breathing
quietly as dream after dream filtered through my subconscious mind.
Aside from mealtimes and occasional strolls to exercise their legs, my
parents remained near my bed until the ripe hours of the evening. Near
8 p.m. Mom was paged on the hospital intercom. Receiving the phone at
the Nurses Station, she found herself conversing with Dr. T., the
surgeon who would lead a team scheduled for my case the following day.
The operation would be of great consequence, and he wished Mom to fully
acknowledge that fact before it commenced; to all operations, a risk
was involved, and regarding the seriousness of the situation was of
utmost importance. Since the mass had so thoroughly encroached upon
the stomach, they would have to remove most of the stomach itself,
thereby reducing its overall size considerably; though the stomach
would stretch with time, it would never return to its original size.
The conversation came to a close. It seemed awful that a young girl,
Mom's little girl, should have to endure so much, so massive an
operation. She returned to the hospital room where I still breathed
steadily in a tranquil repose; while Dad received the portents of the
previous conversation, I was adrift on a sea bereft of anxiety or pain,
and ignorant of their anticipation, I did not stir when they stood to
return to their hotel.
The day of the operation had dawned amid countless hours of waiting,
yet the waiting for my parents had not ended; the minutes would drag
while I laid beyond their sight, and a doctor kindly advised that they
leave the building, for the operation would most surely prove quite
lengthy, and the hospital atmosphere had less to offer than did the
beauty of the nearby sanctuary on the hospital grounds. They
nodded, numbly deciding to try his remedy for over-wrought parents.
Mom and Dad found their way to the garden, their legs propelling leaden
bodies through some distant, unknown source of power. Ambling through
the sunlit passages like automatons, their eyes would focus, yet they
did not see. Finally disposing of the useless suggestion, they checked
their course and wheeled around to return to the hospital once more.
They felt compelled to be nearby, even though there was nothing with
which to occupy their senses; the operation so filled the capacity of
their thoughts that no other form of diversion was required.
I was in surgery for six hours. My parents were anxious, at times
pacing the hallways, and then sitting once again; despite the
voluminous weight which seemed to claim their energy and tax their very
soul, they were always watchful, ready to receive any news of the
progress from the operating room. Staring dismally at the various
activities that were going on about them, Mom suddenly noticed two
nurses wheeling a cart past the lounge where my parents were seated.
"Those are Laurie's things!" she exclaimed; suddenly overwhelmed by
the thought that I had died, and they were removing my personal effects
from the room. On rubber-like legs, she raced down the hall, adrenalin
giving her energy which seconds ago she had not possessed. Rushing up
to the nurses, she again cried out, "Those are Laurie's things!"
displaying fully the horror of her panic-stricken assumptions.
"Oh. . ." they replied "we're so sorry! We never would have moved her
things without telling you first if we knew you were sitting there.
You see, a room is vacant in the pediatrics ward, and we're taking her
things down there." The explanation heralded unspeakable relief,
and Mom returned to her seat, an older but less fearful woman.
Resuming their stationary poses, my parents waited, each fostering
thoughts of dread and flickers of hope. If only one did not have to
think during the long periods of uncertainty and ignorance, and could
somehow benumb the senses until the hours of darkness had passed! The
truth can burn the heart like a smouldering ember touched lightly to
the flesh, but waiting. . .waiting is the relentless torture of unseen
phantoms, made more hideous through one's blindness as the seconds
slink by, without an end.
A door opened, and Dr. T. strode toward my parents, who immediately
rose, brimming with questions. The doctor ushered them into a
conference room, and closed the door behind him. Already present were
Dr. M. and W. who had assisted him with the operation. The doctors
said that I was in the Intensive Care Unit, and would remain there for
several days until my condition had stabilized and I had regained some
strength. It had been a long and grueling operation; Dr. T. confessed
that when he first looked at the incredible mass in my stomach, he did
not believe that they would be able to remove it. The growth was
cancerous and severely advanced; having one baseball sized tumor and
several smaller ones in the stomach, it had begun fingering into the
pancreas as well. Nevertheless, they decided to work, the minutes
fading into hours, until their degree of progress flooded them with
hope. By the time they finished the operation the doctors felt quite
confident that they had removed the growth entirely.
Understandably pleased with their efforts and apparent success, the
doctors continued to further explain the cancer which had invaded my
stomach. The type that I had developed was called a "leiomyosarcoma,"
which was considered a low-grade cancer and one quite slow to spread.
Ninety-eight percent of those having that type of cancer were cured
simply through an operation alone. A factor which mystified them about
my case was that most leiomyosarcomas occurred in older women; why a
young girl of 13 would produce such a cancer seemed baffling.
Visitation time in the ICU was strictly monitored, and limited to
several minutes out of each hour. My parents were anxious to see me,
however, even if they could not long remain at my side. After the
conference had ended, they were guided into the dimly lit room which I
shared with others demanding close attention. Their eyes were greeted
by an alien spectacle, quite changed from their little girl who tromped
through the woods and gleefully rode her bicycle. A tube exiting my
nose was attached to a machine which suctioned out the contents
(acids, fluids, etc.) of my stomach while it healed. An intravenous
bottle dripped some unknown fluid through a long tube which trailed
down several feet and then disappeared under an ample wrapping of
cloth. The incision itself was hidden beneath my hospital gown, a full
six inches in length. Also concealed beneath my gown was a tube
connected to a small bag taped to my skin in which the seepage near the
wound would accumulate; called a "drain." It operated through gravity
alone.
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