Part 134 The swallow test and other failures


I am wheeled down to a special room to have my swallow study. Jacob has promised to meet Becah and I in the room to give us moral support and observe the proceedings. Of course, I can’t just go right in. I must first lie in the waiting room and watch as others are rolled in and out. What is worse than seeing all the other patients in front of you is having to endure the interminable daytime talk shows. This time it’s “Talk Soup”, or something, where a group of ladies like Whoopie Goldberg and Sharon Osbourne are yakking about nothing and taking an hour to do it and making me long for the good old chemo room days of CNN or the Home and Garden show. I pray for a quick exit from all this, which fills me with more anxiety than I already have anticipating the test. My grimaces and sighs are probably mistaken for physical pain, and I am assured by the staff that I will be going in soon.

An aide eventually guides me in the room, where I am greeted (to use the word loosely) by a serious looking speech therapist and a physician who has a look on his face that he is mildly put out by this and has better places to be. The therapist sets a dark tone immediately that I should not expect to be successful in this swallowing effort, since a relatively short time has elapsed since my surgery, and my larynx may not be in good enough shape to handle this. Undaunted, I decide to try anyway. I step out of my bed and onto a device that is tilted so I am leaning back but in a near standing position. Jacob enters the room with thumbs up and I feel a little better, just by his familiar presence.

An array of decidedly unpleasant looking liquid substances of varying consistencies is placed before me and I am asked to ingest small amounts of each. First is a very thin liquid, with a consistency like soda. I hesitate, knowing what is on the line here, then take a tiny sip.

The therapist, physician, and Jason are monitoring my progress, intently watching on a screen. The speech therapist shakes her head, and the physician blurts out quietly the word “aspirate”. Next we try a thicker, milky-like potion. This feels wrong going down too, and they confirm my fears. “Aspirated”, he repeats. The therapist asks if I want to continue. “Yes”, I mumble, but the depression is already settling in. I am given a spoon of a chalky, yogurt-like something which I know as I place it in my mouth where it is going, and Mr. Aspirate goes three for three with his remarks. The fight is stopped in round one.

I am devastated, almost to the point of tears. Becah and I vent our frustration at Jacob, but shift this over to Dr. Bl-, who has just come in and who I have now decided is the villain who caused me to be in this position. We are visibly angry that my situation has turned so ridiculous. Before the surgery, I could physically swallow, but foods would not pass through my esophagus. Now my esophagus functions, but I can’t swallow the substances to begin with.

I ask Dr. Bl. if she can re-implant the button g-tube in my stomach. My stomach, however, has been raised higher in my chest, and placing a tube in its present location would endanger vital organs (like my heart). Relying on the jejunal tube, or j-tube, will be totally unacceptable. This tube in my side bypasses my stomach to go directly into my intestines. I have been told that it sometimes requires suturing to remain in place. It also requires feeding via an Enteral pump, a slow process that takes hours for a sufficient amount of food to be consumed. Not the fast 10 minute lunch that the g-tube allowed. Attempting to take liquids in too rapidly using the j-tube will be guaranteed sickness.

I am truly in a hopeless predicament. Becah erupts angrily, saying “why did we go through all this?”

Why indeed.