Part 125 The truth bared


The following is an account of the first days of my eventful hospital experience, pieced together from Becah’s observations, my jotted down notes, and my fragmented memories after the medications finally bled out of my system and my sanity returned…



On day one, Monday, June 27, 2011, I check into the hospital at six a.m. After some early anesthesia, I doze off, having no memory of entering the surgery room.

The surgery lasts for over seven hours, with Dr. Bl- stopping during the process to walk into the waiting room to inform Becah that plan A will be abandoned. The vogal nerve cannot be saved, an essential component of the plan to remove only the constricted portion of my esophagus and piece together a new one, saving the healthier section. Instead, the entire esophagus will be pulled out. Ironically, the only section that looks good to Dr. Bl- is the upper portion which had received the bulk of the radiation during treatment. It is her belief that I had an undetected reflux condition for years that was aggravated by my inability to eat during the radiation sessions.

After the long surgery is finally concluded, I apparently cannot talk, swallow, or do much of anything. My return to reality is horrifying. I panic. They threaten restraint and re-inserting the breathing tube that was placed in my throat during surgery. In the midst of all this, a young nurse named Jessica advocates for me.

I am admitted to the intensive care unit, and Jessica accompanies me, remaining there initially as my primary nurse. I ache everywhere, especially in my throat and esophagus, and on one side of my body. They pump in megadoses of drugs for pain. I have an oxygen tube under my nose to aid my breathing. My mouth is incredibly dry, and I am craving a Coke. I speak with much hoarseness in my voice.

I am told that my stomach is now positioned higher up, under my chest. I wonder if that means I will have to wear my belt ridiculously high. And what if I acquire a beer gut? How will that look? What if I’m ever in a boxing match? Will I pull my shorts up to my chest?

Day two. Jessica has left, replaced by the night nurse. I grumble at her by-the-book approach and her refusal to swab my mouth to give me some relief. She is a pain in the ass to me. After some time, though, I adapt to her style and appreciate her good qualities.
It is very warm in ICU. Eventually someone brings in a portable fan, turns it on, and lets it blow up my gown to cool me. Sort of like the famous Marilyn Monroe picture, only
I’m lying down. I’m less hoarse today, although I still sound bad.

A new nurse comes by. She too is a little too rigid for my taste, but she turns out to be alright. She cleans the area around my nose, and I breathe more easily.

At night, a tall, handsome young male nurse breezes in, looking like he is straight off a GQ cover photo shoot. He strikes me as a real hustler, with his energetic style and aiming-to-please “sure thing, man” banter (although that is better than the “no problem, dude” that I expected to come out of his mouth). He turns out to be amazing, better than any nurse I ever had. He is genuinely conscientious, remembering to show up on the dot at the time promised, with my meds or IV fluids, and even bringing items that he anticipated (correctly) that I might need.

I watch the movie “National Treasure” on my portable DVD player to help relax me, and I’m soon dozing. I sleep several hours and wake up refreshed. It is two a.m., and I mistakenly think it is the afternoon. Dr. Bl- had called the nurse while I was sleeping, having had a premonition that something was wrong. She has been worried about me and about the possible complications from the surgery.

Wednesday, day three. I am still in intensive care, but the plan is that I will leave soon. I try to play the DVD, but it malfunctions. About six o’clock in the evening I experience a severe shortness of breath and panic. The resident Jason and several doctors are summoned. In a flash my oxygen level has plummeted to a dangerously low 70. I freak out. A mask is placed over my face. Jason thinks quickly, adjusting my chest tube and stitching it with a pocket kit he whips out, just like a Boy Scout. And all the doctors are just standing there, watching.

My breathing improves, and the machine registers a much better 90. I am calm now, and experience no further crises today. I will need to stay an additional day in ICU, though, for monitoring. Dr. Bl- feels that due to my past radiation treatments I am at high risk for internal swelling, and wants me closely watched.

Becah arrives in the ICU room after 10:00 a.m. on my fourth day and immediately fixes the DVD. She tells me that a news crew is here to do a story about a 28 year old male patient who has been given an artificial heart. Dr. Bl- has been involved, monitoring his lung functioning.

Late in the morning I am transferred to a private room. My middle brother and my mother drop by in the early afternoon. I am given another steroid injection while they visit. Ten minutes after they leave I experience another breathing attack. After a quick panic sensation, I regain some composure. Jacob comes in to check on me, and informs me that the steroids I have been receiving cause some people to feel very anxious. My blood pressure and blood sugar levels have been elevated lately due to all the meds that have been pumped through me. A CAT scan is ordered to check my lungs, even though my chest x-rays have looked good.

I have learned by now that hospitals excel at running tests. Any test. The type is irrelevant. What matters is to order every part of the body to be repeatedly examined and analyzed, whether it is malfunctioning or working just fine.

A new resident from Bl’s team arrives and is an instant irritant. He demands a CAT scan with iodine, despite Becah’s and my arguments that I am allergic to that substance when flushed intravenously and that there are iodine alternatives that can be administered. They finally decide on an ultrasound, calling a technician at home to come and do the procedure. Despite the fact that I have had numerous x-rays where they bring the machines to me, this time they insist on packing up all my stuff and hauling everything downstairs for the procedure. I endure it fairly well, although I fear another bout of distressed breathing. After returning with no difficulty, they later change me from masked oxygen to tube (nasal canula) under my nose. During transition, the rapid breathing and panic erupt again. After returning me to the mask, I finally calm down. I begin watching the terrific movie “Immortal Beloved”, a fictionalized biography about Beethoven, and fall asleep about halfway through.

I am awakened early the next morning as Dr. Bl- and Jacob perform a mini-procedure by popping in a chest tube to expand my slightly shrunken left lung. The part where they probe a needle into my chest looking for a rib is not very entertaining for me. Jacob informs me that he is not bothered by a little blood as long as it isn’t his. He hits me with the last of the steroids and they leave me on an oxygen mask until my oxygen level peaks at 100%. They leave, and my new nurse Ella introduces herself. She is very good, and I feel better accordingly. I watch the remainder of “Immortal Beloved”. My oxygen mask is removed, replaced with the tube, in hopes that it will suffice. My level immediately drops to 92. I gasp that I need more air and that I can’t breathe well, and my anxiety is rising. So the mask is back on, and the level subsequently bounces back to about 98. Later on, Becah gives me my second bath in two days, and I feel much more human.

In the early afternoon someone enters and informs me they are ready to perform a barium swallow test which will take about five minutes. The downstairs bureaucrats have determined that I couldn’t be wheeled down in my bed, so I am transported by stretcher. Thirty aggravated minutes later I arrive in the room, where I am greeted by Jacob and other residents. The x-rays and swallow tests are positive, and the normally chalky-tasting liquid actually is a pleasant sensation to my parched throat.

By 3:00 I am back in my room. The five minute procedure has taken two hours of my time. Becah returns home to see how the kids are faring. I call home after she gets there to check in with her and talk to the children, who I am missing very much. I call my friend Mike, who has asked me in my spare time to compose lyrics for a song about gratitude. I watch a little of a concert video with Chicago and Earth, Wind, and Fire, then, sufficiently pumped, write Mike’s lyrics. I drift off to sleep that night as usual.

At midnight, Jacob startles Becah with a phone call. My breathing is labored, and he doesn’t think I sound good. He has called Bl-, who directs that I return to ICU. Becah hurriedly returns to the medical center, talking on the phone to Dr. Bl- on the way. Dr. Bl- observes that my breathing airway is compromised and my oxygen levels have dropped to the low 80s. My airway is constricting, and I will need to be re-intubated. “He is in distress”, she calmly states, as Becah steps on the pedal.

Becah rushes into the ICU at one a.m, greeted by Dr. Bl-’s team. Dr. Bl- has “front loaded” the operation with a pulmonary specialist and ENT physician. I could incur complications, and the July 4th holiday is approaching. If she includes these individuals to the team now, they will be obligated to return if needed. Otherwise, I would get the on-call staff.

If the tube procedure is unsuccessful, Dr. Bl- will perform a tracheotomy. Becah is falling apart at this time – total panic has set in. Her mother is at the Bolivar beach keeping the children, so she calls her stepmother Linda in Nederland, who immediately sets off for the hospital.