Part 95 The young specialist and the desperate man


Valentine’s Day has a special poignancy this year due to all we have been through, and continue to experience. I give Becah sleep shirts and lotions from Victoria’s Secret and we have lunch out. The family enjoys the afternoon down the street at the park. These idyllic moments precede a big meeting tomorrow with Dr. Bl-, the esophageal specialist who will discuss surgical options with me. She comes with a glowing endorsement from Dr. Ra-, who it seems has come to the end of the line in his efforts to pull my esophagus wider. What I will require is something more dramatic.

She is surprisingly young looking, and attractive, with shoulder length auburn hair and pearls around her neck. Dr. Bl- enters the room well after her assistant, Allison, an even younger looking lady, has met with us an obtained the usual facts of the case. Where are all the old, crusty-looking, chiseled veterans when you need them! How can I take these people seriously? Dr. Bl- quickly dispenses with such thoughts with her sharp, witty, and egghead-like banter. She professionally cuts to the chase, spinning my head with unsettling descriptions of esophageal reconstruction possibilities. Unfortunately for me, none of them are pleasant. They require some form of carving on at least the now shriveled up section of my esophagus. One involves pulling up part of my intestine high up into my chest to form a new place through which food can flow. Dr. Bl- meets my borderline pessimistic and sarcastic observations and unreasonable requests with smiles, ignoring some of what I say and raising me with some of her own wry comments. (“Can’t we wait until the stricture just heals?”. “Yes, if you don’t want to eat again.”).
One option sounds pretty experimental to me, involving strange foldings of skin and organs in ways that I’m fairly sure were never intended to be. The procedure would be done using laser equipment monitored on a video screen. The most frightening aspect of all is the requirement that one of my lungs be deflated to make room for the probing inside me. Regardless of what she says after this, it never quite registers. Collapsed lung?! It all sounds desperate. It is. She assures me that she has experience in all of the proposed methods, and is confident we will be successful. A surgery could take six to seven hours to complete, with numerous risks. I am already uneasy about the prospect of being under anesthesia for that long. But possible pneumonia? I blank out from hearing about the many other possible malfunctions. Fortunately Becah is with me to take notes and ask about the particulars. Brooke has also come along, squirming in her seat. But she is calmed and entertained when Dr. Bl- suddenly whips out a pen and paper and sketches, then hands to her a picture of the cartoon character Garfield. After this interlude, the discussion continues. After about 30 minutes we walk out of the office, and I find I am in no hurry to make any decisions or pick any one of these undesirable paths to walk.

This isn’t fair. This isn’t right. Why am I being punished so long? What did I do? Have I been such a bad person in this life? Or are the reincarnationists right, and I have committed crimes in a previous life. Will this ever end? Where is my relief? And so forth…

I do a background check on Dr. Bl- , to whom Becah has taken an instant liking. She graduated from prestigious universities, has trained extensively, and has practiced for years. She specializes in thoracic surgery, has taught, and does research, participating in experimental treatment trials. Dr. Bl- has even received a “Compassionate Doctor Award” from high ratings received in all areas related to her practice (from physician skills to bedside manner). I would certainly recommend her to anyone else but me.

I am still holding out for an alternative to going under the knife. .