I started the post below on October 1st, three days after surgery and almost three months ago. Since then, I've been declared cancer-free, have gone back to work and am getting ready to go visit family for the first time since this all started. 

I can't believe it has been three months. It happened so fast and almost feels like it didn't happen. At the time, my intention was to blog, or at least take notes, daily. That just wasn't in the cards. I am glad I captured at least some thoughts, to which I  have now added. All of it happened so fast and was so intense I've only recently begun processing it.

October 1, 2017

My recollection of the past few days is fragmented:

Surgery

• The woman they call "the vein whisperer" prepping me for surgery. She is leaning in very close to my arm, almost as if she is listening to my blood as it pumps through my veins. The next thing I know she has me all hooked up, I never even felt the needles going in.

• A coolly professional, well-dressed, clearly in-charge head surgery nurse wheeling me in to a large, well-lit room. It does not feel like an operating room, all sterile and space-age. Rather, it feels like a big conference room, well lit and open, as if for extra seating. I feel like there are going to be some awesome PowerPoint presentations as soon as the lights go down. I am the feature presentation of the morning.

• The mask being placed on my face and me going out quickly. Not going to sleep as much as fading into the background. I clearly remember that.

Post Surgery

• The hours after surgery are a real blur of ice chips and someone repeatedly telling me not to pull at my nasal tube. Then more wonderful ice chips. I am so thirsty.

• I talk with my doctor, despite being heavily sedated. He is pleased, I remember that, though I don't remember details, just the sense that I am indeed acting like I have my act together and have not just been through major surgery. He tells me I am very alert and doing great. He is impressed. I am there but not there.

Surgery was Thursday morning and now it is Sunday afternoon. I have been in my home away from home for three days, with a view of the tree-tops of Redwood City and the San Mateo Bridge.

I have the biggest scar that anyone has ever seen. It looks truly Frankensteinian, a good eight inches long and tracing about 50% of my neck in a large C  shape (ed. note - it is actually 5.5 inches long and traces half of the front of my neck.) 

December 25,2017

That was all I got done while actually in the hospital. Between the tubes coming out of me and the drugs going into me and the regular vitals checks, etc., etc. I just didn't have it in me to write daily, like I had planned.

Also, it was tough. Looking back, I was a bit overwhelmed. I can see it more clearly now, with a little distance.

Three things stand out in my mind:

The feeding tube, through my nose. Necessary, critical even. But not fun. While it kept me fed and hydrated, my mouth remained dry and I was so, so thirsty. All I wanted was a drink of water, which was the one thing I definitely could not have. It would have aspirated directly into my lungs. I can still see my doctor's face when I asked how soon we could take out the tube. I don't remember what he said verbally, but his look said "nowhere nearly as soon as you would like."

The lack of sleep. I was medicated, my pain well-managed. I had a quiet room all to myself. The bed was not great, but it wasn't horrible. However, I could not sleep.

Part of it was the feeding tube, always tickling my throat and limiting my movement. Part of this was due to another thing that sticks out in my mind: my disappointment with morphine.

It has a certain reputation. I hear "morphine" and I think of a cozy intoxication, a pleasing relief from pain. I think of rest. I didn't get that. I was not happy with what I did get.

The nurse would inject the morphine and leave the room, fully expecting, as I was, that the patient would be drifting off into a pleasant slumber. My eyes would close, my breathing would ease and just when I should have been on my way to happy-drug land my thoughts would turn dark. Very dark. Images of death and mutilation filled my head. Needless to say, I would open my eyes.

There were other drugs to turn to. Hydrocodone worked well enough. It had to be administered through my feeding tube, which was a hassle, but hey, at least I wasn't having visions of dead children.  

So, through the night I would lay there, open-mouthed. Doze for 20-30 minutes and then get up, sometimes mindlessly rummaging through my room, sometimes reading. Several times a night I would leave the room and walk around the floor.

There were two routes to choose from, the small loop and the long loop. I quickly started doing the long loop. On the positive side, it was good that I was able to walk that much so soon after surgery. However, I was only getting this good practice down because I could not sleep.

As I would make my way around the loop at 2:30 AM, the rolling rack of fluid, pump and monitor in my right hand, holding my gown closed with my left, I would pass the other rooms with a variety of patients. Some were sports-related surgeries - knee repairs and the like. They appeared to be sleeping soundly. Others were much worse off - negative-pressure rooms where folks deep into chemotherapy were kept isolated from germ-carriers like me. Then there was the older gentleman that I never saw, but heard crying out in agonized moans whenever I walked by.

One night I heard a woman shouting "Where is nurse ____?" We don't want to talk to any of you! We need nurse  _____."

I would get back to my room feeling lucky that my situation wasn't worse. But I still couldn't sleep much

The hospital's "Healing Garden." Though my room was large and comfortable, I quickly starting feeling a bit claustrophobic. To be isolated indoors, with no direct sunlight nor fresh air, with tubes in my arms and up my nose, was harder than I thought it would be.

I asked if there was any way I could get outside for some air. The nurse beamed and said "Yes - we have a healing garden!"

It was indeed healing and I think every hospital in the world should have one. Marissa would take me down the elevator to the ground floor and we would make our way slowly to the space, where trees and bushes and flowers welcomed me with open arms. The sun on my skin was the essence of healing. The fresh air in my lungs gave me both strength and relaxation. Looking back, I believe I would not have healed as quickly if I hadn't had access to the fresh air, sunshine and living plants.

The visits. Marissa would come every day and nothing made me happier. Just seeing her face lifted my mood. Jennifer came with her, too, which was a fantastic bonus. Then Jennifer would take Marissa out and make sure she ate a hearty meal. She did this every day. Knowing my caregiver was getting taken care of brought me peace of mind and gratitude. Martin joined them on Saturday and we all enjoyed the healing garden together.

I was getting great care and, given the circumstances, was in great shape, but these visits kept me connected to my life outside of the hospital. They helped me deal with pain and pain meds, and stitches and tubes and the enormous cavern in the back of my throat. But they also kept me present in my normal life, the one I knew I would be returning to over time. That was invaluable.

So here it is, Christmas Day 2017. While not completely healed, I am getting close and the things described above seem so distant. I am still processing exactly how I feel about it all. While I wouldn't wish it on anyone and I certainly wouldn't do it again, I have to say it has added a certain depth to my existence. I don't know how else to describe it yet.

I do know two things: The world is a wonderful place and I am happy to be alive.