I spent the night in a ward with about 4 or 5 fellow inmates/patients. My mind would not stop turning over, it could not stop churning. I have been a poor sleeper since my conscription in the air force when I had to stand guard at night. My mind went back to when my physiotherapist had treated me for my neck that had been going into spasms. Was there a link? I doubted it; my neck had always given me pain, but it was muscular, surely? Towards the end of January she decided to stop working the neck area too close to the spine; she voiced her concern that the problem could be something different this time (my GP had been chatting to her regarding my neck)
Later that first night I had to go to the loo, I asked a nurse to help me as I could not walk unaided. As I lay there in the bed, being troubled by the snoring of others, I felt quite alone. After living with my wife for about 25 years, I was here alone. I drifted off... Then at 4 am I got woken up when the light was switched on then asked if I would like some tea or coffee and a rusk! WHY? WHY?? if you are sleeping why do they have to wake you up? Surely if a patient is sleeping that is good? I have tried to invent reasons to justify this (night shift changing, being awake is more beneficial to healing than sleep, I suppose I am really fishing for reasons).
So a new day starts – medication! My first cortisone (very mild in strength) and a few other things. Hmmm, maybe the reason in the above paragraph could be it is not good to take medicine on an empty stomach?
Then wheeled down for my first MRI.
Air conditioning in the waiting passage makes me grateful for the blanket covering my legs. Huge steel door with all warning signs on. Door opens into an empty room with “the machine” in the centre of the room. I pull myself onto a narrow bunk kind of thing. Smiling radiographer explains what is going to happen. She vacates the room and closes the steel door with a thud. Alone. Estimated time to be half an hour, very loud chattering/banging noises as I look through a tiny glass while lying on my back. Do you know how long half an hour is when you have to lie motionless with your arms literally jammed next to your body? But you endure because you must, then half wheeled out and a needle is inserted into your arm and iodine put into your blood stream. The expected side effect happens; my bladder feels very hot – weird. Not long left now, five minutes to go, hang on in there I am told. It is over and I am wheeled back to my room. I have missed breakfast tea, but a kindly nurse brings it to me. Without any exaggeration, I have not even finished my rooibos tea when the orderly is back to take me down. Another MRI, can you believe it? Same ordeal. Back to the room where I drift off to sleep.
Michele arrives for a visit, brings me some goodies. Lovely to see her, we chat but we know we must wait. When will the visit from the neurologist happen? Michele must go, nothing, no news. I have supper, evening falls, pills are taken, I doze awkwardly (remember that my right arm is still bandaged from hand to past the elbow from the hand. Suddenly I wake up, the neurologist is there with another doctor. I am then introduced to a neurosurgeon. They have the MRI scans, after a brief discussion (mostly between themselves), I am instructed by the neurosurgeon to meet him at his offices the next morning.
[the first MRI]
So off with the hospital orderly the next morning to visit the neurosurgeon, glad I am not walking, seems like a hell of a distance. Why must I go to his offices, why didn’t he tell me the results yesterday? Premonitions...
Get there and meet his very friendly receptionist. She sees my name and tells me that another fellow sitting on another comfy lounge chair also has the same surname, are you related? No. After a fairly longish wait, I duly go into his office. He looks directly at me and says, “Your life will never be the same again, you have a tumour in your spinal cord!” Just like that, no frills, no drama filled voice, just matter of fact. I am stunned, numbed, I just sit there.
He puts the MRI scan against a lit board on the wall and shows me some images, but little goes into my spinning mind. I do remember some of the things he tells me. The tumour is expanding and cutting off the flow of the cerebral spinal fluid in the spinal column, the signals from the brain that are transmitted down the spine to the rest of the body are being cut off, hence the numbness being experienced simultaneously in both hands, arms, legs and soles of my feet. The ability to breathe will soon stop if the tumour’s growth is not halted. It is inoperable as it is in the centre of the spinal cord and the risks from surgical intervention are too great, “one drop of blood and you will be a quadriplegic”. He had spoken to a close colleague who is an oncologist. But the oncologist was on conference in Israel. When he gets back the following week, I must go see him. Go and tell your wife then both of you come and see me tomorrow.
I am wheeled back to my ward, I phone Michele and tell her I had seen the neurosurgeon. There is something important I need to tell her but I can’t do it over the phone. Of course she wants to know because she knows something is desperately wrong from the sound of my voice, I can hardly speak coherently. She left her work immediately and cried the whole way to the hospital, she could only imagine the worst possible news. How long that half an hour trip must have been for her! She held my arm and assisted me as we went into a hospital laundry room looking for a little privacy. I tell her the news. We weep together. She has to go back to the school to tell all the girls. Two were still at school and the older two were at university. Obviously the news was very traumatic to our family.
Michele related to me the night she got home with the two youngest girls; she lay on the bed. She found the house dreadful and oppressive in its silence. She screamed for the girls to put on some music, any noise!! She rushed to the toilet and vomited repeatedly.
Thursday we see the neurosurgeon, same news for Michele, the suggested treatment was going to have to be cortisone and radiation. He asked Michele to take the scans to Olivedale Clinic where the oncologist’s offices were located, so the preliminary things could start being done before the return of the oncologist. Back to my ward and off goes Michele. Later I get a frantic phone call, Michele is hopelessly lost in Johannesburg; what she thought was the location of Olivedale Hospital is actually the location of the Garden City Hospital. Being so emotionally fragile she had fallen apart; people she spoke to eventually helped her to find the place, completely on the opposite side of the city. The much maligned taxi drivers helped her finally get it right.
Michele and the all the girls visit that night; a boyfriend kindly brought the varsity girls down for a visit, what a lovely surprise. All smiles, harboured feelings hidden, the English Way of the “stiff upper lip”, no undue, excessive emotions were demonstrated in front of Dad, now I realise what horrible costs were being suffered by the girls. Too bad the girls take after me and not after their mother. Emotional displays can allow much quicker healing compared to suppressing emotions.
[all smiles, a surprise visit]
That night while walking to the bathroom, I suddenly found my stability had returned! The cortisone tablets were taking effect, I could walk. After the drama of the last few days, I now experienced such joy! I immediately phoned Michele to give her the joyous news. It is hard to imagine such an amazing contrast in emotions that I experienced over those two days.
I was chafing to get out of the hospital, I had made friends with all my fellow “inmates” but time had become a tedious affair. How well I seemed to know the view from the window, every shrub on the horizon I knew, all buildings I studied, and all paths in the bush were memorised. I knew the tones of how my fellow patients snored at night. The nurses and support staff were very kind and quite professional, it certainly made my stay more bearable. I was told that patients are only booked out of the hospital on Fridays, how I hoped that my neurosurgeon would come that day but he never did. I resigned myself to stay over the weekend. Yet on Saturday morning he rocked up in jeans and told me to “go home and have a braai, get out of here”, news gratefully accepted. I phoned Michele and off I went, really happy to go home. I did not want to think too far ahead...
[happy to be at home]
Enjoy each moment, let next week take care of itself!