But, for some reason—and maybe this had been explained to me at an earlier examination—I remembered that hormone patches should be placed on fatty tissue between the waist and the thigh, but never the breast. Now they’re going to give me breast cancer, too! I thought. Doctor #9 casually explained that the post-op nurse must have mistakenly placed the patch there because that’s where they often put the nitroglycerin patch on heart patients. That’s nice, but I didn’t have heart surgery, I had a hysterectomy, and I started ripping at the patch on my tit. Doctor #9
said not to remove it until she sent for a nurse to bring up a new one and put it in the proper place.
“And will you mention to the post-op nurse what she did wrong and to be more careful next time?” I suggested. She said she would.
When I asked her why something on my right side seemed to be hurting more than my left, she told me the pain I was feeling might be due to the appendectomy. “WHAT APPENDECTOMY?”
I exclaimed.
“You were at risk of it getting infected and we don’t want to have to cut into your abdomen again,” she responded. But why didn’t we discuss all this before? Shouldn’t I have known that 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 122
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standard procedure called for my appendix to be removed along with the hysterectomy? Even though her reasons made sense, the bottom line was, she forgot to mention it. It may not have been a big deal to her, but this was my body, my reproductive organs, and my appendix. It was a big deal to me.
I think back to the anger and resentment I felt toward everyone for letting my condition go undiagnosed for so long. At the time I needed someone to blame to make sense of it all. What a high price I paid for other people’s negligence. I felt so victimized.
But Doctor #9 delicately suggested I try to move on, that in so doing I’d help my own recovery. John agreed and said, “You’ve got to remain positive. Pointing fingers is not going to get you well.” It wasn’t easy, though. I was darkly embittered as I lay in my hospital bed brooding over the pickle I was in.
By early evening, after everyone had left, and it was just me and John, it became clear that I wasn’t breathing right. I complained to the nurse, who called for the doctor—not my surgeon but someone who worked under her. When he arrived, John and I were both concerned as we watched him check how many breaths I took per minute. It was about six, when it should have been at least twenty. I don’t know why I wasn’t breathing more. I just was too tired and kept nodding off into such a deep sleep I’d stop breathing for a while. As it turned out, the problem was that I’d received too much morphine. All afternoon I was pushing my I.V. button, and no one realized they’d set each dose too high for me. That’s nice, so now what do we do?
“Is there a shot I could get to counter it?” I asked the doctor.
But he shook his head no and muttered something about it just needing to wear off. Then he looked up at John and suggested he keep an eye on my breathing for the next couple of hours. So dear sweet John pulled up a chair right alongside my bed and watched me very closely.
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A million things can go wrong. I saw that movie Hospital.
I knew about Dana Carvey’s going in for heart surgery and his surgeon’s operating on the wrong artery. Even Howie, when going in for knee surgery, had the foresight to tape a sign to his good knee that read NOT THIS ONE. So after about twenty minutes, when John’s eyes were beginning to close, I forced myself to stay awake just long enough to say, “Get me round-the-clock private nurses before they kill me.”
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My Week in the Hospital
J u n e 2 2 – J u n e 2 5 , 2 0 0 0
enid and Harriet were my private nurses for the five days I was in the hospital. I’ve never been one to throw money away; I have far too much respect for the struggle it takes to earn it. But under the circumstances, I thought it a worthwhile expense. After everything I’d been through, I’m afraid I wasn’t very trusting of the medical community.
Enid was the night nurse. She was the first shift to arrive, an older woman with an eastern European accent. She was heavyset, but pretty, too, and seemed very uncomfortable as she passed the night hours sitting in the hard chair next to my bed reading her book and tending to me. The hospital brought a cot into my room for John to sleep on, and that was where he slept for the duration of my stay. Side by side we were, his cot next to my bed and Enid’s chair next to me—an odd trio at best. It was all for one and one for all. Enid talked about her daughter, her deceased husband, and the old country. She had a grandmotherly quality to her that was comforting. John watched TV and read mostly. I was never alone, I was never neglected.
The first night sucked. I was up, I was asleep, I was in pain, I was cranky, I was crying, I was a real prize. The floor nurses were 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 126
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in throughout the night to check stuff and none of us felt good in the morning. John called my folks to tell them to come later, but even later wasn’t late enough. I really wasn’t up for anyone, not even my folks. This was partly due to my need to be “on” for them. I should have just let it all hang out like I seemed to be able to do with John and not concern myself with worrying about their worrying.
Regardless, when they were due to arrive, I hurriedly applied some blush and under-eye concealer to try to look like I hadn’t just had a radical hysterectomy and appendectomy as well as been up all night. Moments after the last brushstroke of blush I suddenly felt so sick to my stomach I thought I was going to vomit, and frantically urged John to give me a pail. I’d been told that as anesthesia wears off you can get very nauseous, but until that moment I’d not experienced it. Nothing much came up, since I hadn’t eaten anything solid in days. My body was revolting against my futile attempts to camouflage my cancer surgery. What a yutz!
My parents arrived at one of my lowest points. I couldn’t fake that I was well, and I couldn’t cope with them seeing I wasn’t. I don’t know how to explain it, but I needed to just be able to relax about looking and feeling miserable. But after a lifetime of trying never to give my parents any reason to worry, I was unable to let them witness that. At my request, that was their last visit to the hospital. I don’t know how John told them, but I dumped that responsibility onto him. I’m sure this was strange for all of them.
John wasn’t Peter, someone my parents had known for more than twenty years—he was someone they’d only met a few times before. Maybe that made it easier for him, but not for them. I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t want company. I didn’t have the strength to battle my issues with my parents. People don’t change overnight; at least I couldn’t.
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how critical the first few days of post-op truly are. Enid would repeatedly ask me to blow into a device that’s designed to help get the lungs working fully in an attempt to prevent pneumonia from developing. “Blow harder and make the balls rise,” she’d com-mand. “That’s my specialty, honey, step aside,” I quipped.
A nurse came in with these leg massagers that wrapped around my legs like pants and pulsated up and down to stimulate my circulation.
“What are these for?” I asked the nurse.
“Prevents blood clots, common after abdominal surgery,” she explained, while strapping them on my legs.
“Blood clots? Oy,” I mumbled, as I looked down on the two huge blue vinyl blowup sleeves contracting and expanding around each leg. “Oh, this feels kinda nice, actually. Ahhh,” I sighed, as I began to relax and get into it. A few hours later, I pushed the in-tercom nex
t to my bed. “Do you think I could get those leg things again?” A few hours later, “Excuse me, but I’d love those leg things again, please.” Finally the nurse entered my room with my very own pair.
“Here,” she said, dropping them in my lap. “Just keep ’em.”
Was it something I said? . . .
I never used a bedpan; they discouraged it. So several hours after my surgery I was trying to swing each leg off the bed and, along with my morphine I.V., slowly shuffle over to the bathroom.
John and Enid were always by my side helping me get around.
It took the greatest of efforts to make the smallest of moves. The hospital staff was pleasantly surprised that I was able to urinate as soon as I did, and of course being the overachiever I am, I took pride in my superior recuperative powers. That was a wrong road of thinking I ventured down, and something that gave me nothing but grief. It was stupid of me to try to be the best patient. I wasn’t in competition with anyone. I should have been smart enough to 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 128
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let my poor broken body get the absolute rest it needed. I think psychologically I wanted so badly to put it all behind me and just be normal again. Never having had major surgery before, I didn’t realize that the surgery isn’t the end of anything. It marks the beginning of a long and arduous period of healing and recovery.
Apparently, one of the most important functions that needs to kick in and put you on the road to recovery is finally moving your bowels. And that brings us to Harriet, my day nurse, who made it her personal quest to get me to take a shit.
Harriet seemed like a middle-aged valley girl. Simple and un-complicated, with a passion for administering enemas. Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d never experienced one of those before. There I was on my knees, getting what she referred to as a
“Harris Flush”—in the presence of my boyfriend, no less. And after many failed attempts, John actually jumped for joy, cheering me on, when we finally hit pay dirt. Eureka! It was at this point, if it hadn’t already happened, that all mystery was lost between us.
Not that that’s a bad thing, mind you. You make trade-offs in life, and mine was mystery in exchange for the deep and loving bond that only extreme flatulence can bring.
Surprisingly, this small triumph for Harriet seemed to make Enid jealous, because an odd hostility began between the two.
The Day Nurse versus the Night Nurse! All we needed was a mud pit, a referee, and a couple of string bikinis. I couldn’t believe that, of all the possible combinations of people the agency could have sent over, I ended up with two women who hated each other.
Enid was more overt in her disdain, and shared with us her story of just where all the animosity began. It had to do with money and shifts and Harriet inadvertently saying something that made Enid look bad. Enid made sure we understood that she didn’t think Harriet was mean, or a bad nurse, just stupid.
Oh fine, that’s nice to know.
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It was rather entertaining for John and I to watch the catfight unfold between them. I remember during one change in shift Enid was helping me back to my bed from the bathroom when Harriet arrived. As Enid held one elbow and Harriet grabbed the other, the two of them fought across me.
“You’re late,” Enid scolded.
Harriet, waving a small brown paper bag, said, “I’m not late, I had to pick up her acidophilus.” She was supplementing the hospital medical supplies with her own homeopathy, but Enid just couldn’t stand her and the two of them began pulling on each arm, fighting over who’d get to put me to bed.
Finally, I stood my ground and shouted, “Enough! I can’t stand the fighting.”
“Who’s fighting? We’re not fighting,” they both said, like little kids who’re caught red-handed but deny fault anyway.
“Enid, you were great last night and I thank you, so go get some rest and let Harriet take over,” I said diplomatically. Exas-perated, Enid acquiesced, mumbling the words “she’s so stupid”
under her breath as she packed her bag.
In truth, they each had very different responsibilities. The nights were always more difficult for me. The pain would be worse, my temperature would go up, and I’d get more emotional. But Enid was like a rock, comforting, consoling, and caring.
During Harriet’s shift it was an entirely different situation.
Harriet needed to get things accomplished. During the day I needed to walk, I needed to shit, and I needed to eat.
And like a bad sitcom, Enid and Harriet continued to bicker at each changing of the guard both morning and evening. John and I called them “Heckle and Jeckle.” But after three nights of sleeping on a cot, John had had just about enough of them. By day four, we’d walk the halls on our own, letting Harriet take breaks or run errands, and Enid would sit outside the room at night reading, 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 130
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and would be called in only if needed. I didn’t have the heart to dismiss them early, and who knew? A complication could’ve set in, no matter how good my progress . . . better safe than sorry.
Walking down the hallways on my floor was a trip unto itself.
I’d always seen those sickly-looking people in hospital gowns shuffling down the halls, pushing their I.V.’s, and thought how terribly self-conscious I’d feel doing that. But guess what? It’s not so embarrassing when it’s you. For some reason, all the stuff that concerned me when I was a well visitor flew out the window when I was a recovering patient. John said half the time my ass was hanging out of my gown. I was wondering what that draft was . . .
I really appreciated all the art that lined the hospital’s hallway walls. I studied each piece as if I were in a gallery or a museum. It didn’t matter whether it was a poster, litho, or original, each work filled me with its beauty. I was lucky that Cedars understands the importance of aesthetics; it truly did make a difference.
Sometimes there’d be a man walking down the halls in his hospital gown, pushing his I.V. I remember one time I decided to try to catch up to and beat him in a race he knew nothing about, all the while covering the event like it was a horse race. “And here comes Fran, the long shot of the day, closing in on the favorite.
And there’s Fran running neck and neck, and now she takes the lead! And it’s Fran by a length!” The man had no clue, but I for some reason got a real kick out of it. That was the first time since my surgery I started to feel a little joy, as if my old personality was coming back. John and I explored all the closed doors on my floor.
We entered offices and rooms like a couple of mischievous kids.
I hated that I couldn’t get fresh air. All of the windows were screwed shut. How are you supposed to get better when you’re surrounded by sick people and can’t even open a window? I’m a big believer in the curative powers of fresh air and a nice breeze.
Whenever anyone has a cold, I immediately open a window to 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 131
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get everything circulating. Perhaps I’m trusting in old wives’
tales, but I put great stock in fresh bed linens, clean pajamas, opened windows, and chicken soup.
When Rachel and Greg were preparing to stop by for a visit they phoned to ask if I needed anything. I simply replied, “A Phillips-head screwdriver.” Greg, bless his heart, was so happy to help he picked one up at a hardware store on their way to the hospital.
It was great watching Greg and John roll up their sleeves and get to work. What is it about men and tools? It was just what John needed after spending the last few days in that hospital with nothing to do but read and watch TV. In no time the windows in my room were wide open and beautiful summer breezes were blowing through the curtains. I was worried we’d g
et in trouble for doing it, but everyone turned a blind eye.
It wasn’t long before my doctors switched me from morphine to lesser painkillers. But some upset my stomach or made me drowsy, while others made me nervous or put me in a bad mood. There’s a million different prescriptions out there. I forced the physician to discuss all options until I felt the best I could under the circumstances. I started taking Vicodin, which is a fairly strong narcotic but really effective against pain. In fact, I’d say it works almost too well, because during the pill’s peak performance, I felt so good I ended up bending, lifting, and doing more than I should have. Some people take Vicodin to get high, but it didn’t give me a buzz. Damn! Also, it would aggra-vate my stomach if I didn’t take it with food. So during the night I was forcing myself to eat crackers and pudding and rice hoarded from the day. Okay, I’ll admit it, at first I relished the excuse to eat starchy stuff like macaroni and cheese, but after a while even I had had enough!
It was gross, pushing food down when I didn’t want it, so I 9377 Cancer Schmancer 2/28/02 4:18 PM Page 132
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asked what else I could take. I decided to try a new drug called Vioxx that’s described as being a twenty-four-hour, Advil-type medicine. I liked this pill. It was easy to take—only one a day and it seemed to do the trick. The hitch was that it lasted for only sixteen or eighteen hours out of the twenty-four. So I mostly stayed with the Vioxx for the sixteen hours I was awake, then at night would knock myself out with a Vicodin. It was just a matter of trial and error before I figured out which routine worked best.
Nobody ever knocked when they entered, and one nurse after another kept walking into my room. It took getting used to, not having locks on the doors and people coming and going at will. I soon realized that the only thing private about a private room is that you aren’t sharing it with other sick people. That’s where the privacy begins and ends.
On the third day of my hospital stay, my surgeon came waltzing into my room, all chipper and smiles, followed by Doctor #8, the gynecologist who’d finally diagnosed me. I was still mad at all the doctors I’d seen, but her above all. This was the doctor who’d initially insisted I didn’t have cancer and had given me birth control pills with estrogen! I began bleeding 24/7, which I found very alarming. She, who was supposed to be the big Hoo-Ha, with all her books and TV appearances—shouldn’t she have tested me sooner?
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