Back from the Brink

Friday Feb 4 2010.

Dear Diary,

Or whatever this thing is. I sometimes wonder why I continue to write this blog now that everything is behind me (well, not all of it, thanks to Doctor Scheurs). I do need to look back on things and remind myself of my immediate past as my short term memory crumbles and I stampede towards dementia and it keeps one busy and off the streets and out of trouble. I shall probably discontinue it if the final hurdle is reached successfully. That is the result of tissue analysis of what is left behind. If there is no trace of cancer and of everything starts to heal up as it should, then I can count myself very lucky to now be amongst us. Sorry Stef, I promised to put something up on Friday, but have been taking it perhaps too easy. Your short visit gave me so much strength and I am so grateful. Not having a computer or paper and pencil in the hospital, I relied on mumbled mp3 recordings while trying not to look like an aging git talking to his dressing-gown sleeve.

It is just over a week since the second and more drastic operation, and I have to sort out the most important events of this most stressful time. 

Friday. Merel passed her driving test. I wonder if I shall ever see my car again. Not feeling up to things, Merel took the Crejat Academie class for me. My homework painting, exhibited by Merel, was not too good, according to Venerable Master. The background was too dark (it was black) and the rules of Divine Proportion had not been followed. And it was too neat. Let yourself go. It was supposed to represent 'movement' and I quite liked it, but is it art? Apparently not. I shall also miss the next 2 weeks, but since this is lino-cutting and printing I am unmiffed. I came to learn drawing and painting, and cannot really get worked up about cutting up lino and coloured paper and sticking string and stuff on to sheets of cork. Leonardo thought about it for the Mona Lisa, but the buttons for eyes wouldn't stick to the canvas so he went back to using paint.

Sunday afternoon, and off to the pub with Irene and Bernadet for an Irish afternoon with an Irish singer. The singer was Dutch and not Irish, but had been to Ireland, so that was alright. He didn't do any Irish songs either, not even Viskey in der Yar. Nobody would have noticed anyway because he was on a lost cause in the noise and smoke of battle. I thought him a good all-rounder and admired his tenacity. I am pleased that I was able to walk all the way to the pub and back.

Monday, Stef arrived. This was just heart-warming. A long night ride on the fart-and-vomit bus, a day with me and then back on the same unhygienic transport for the long ride home and to work. Brilliant, and what's more, with 8 boxes of my beloved Shredded Wheat, 4 of which are secreted around the house to be brought out and feasted upon when the ladies are at school and work. A message from Emma in England that almost had me in tears. Off to the hospital with Stef where I would receive a presentation about what would be happening to me. Lots of coloured photos and diagrams of an intestinal nature, and a red spot is permanently marked on my belly to show where the stoma will be. I am on the 'fast-track recovery program', and will be given only the lightest anesthetic through my spine and will be walking around within hours of the op. 

Thursday, off to the hospital for the all-day pre-op. A very competent and friendly nurse called Patrick (total contrast to the other male nurse from the kidney removal session) explains what will happen to me. He then talks about euthanasia, saying now is the time to decide about DNR and other what-ifs. Apparently it is much more difficult after an operation as one is not deemed to be competent to make such choices. Then off to my 2-person room and told to drink from the huge flask, a substance that will totally clean out the bowels. The jug is one liter, and contains stuff that looks and tastes like thin wallpaper paste. I can manage a liter. Patrick says that there are 3 more packets of goo in the bag, each of which to be mixed with a liter of water, and all within 2 hours. There is a toilet with a notice - 'Reserved for Mr. Ricketts' in the corridor. This stuff works very quickly. We don't want Mr. Ricketts to find the toilet occupied and have him dashing around the department looking for another and having embarrassing experiences on the shiny vinyl. In any case, Patrick must be summoned by pushing the red knob in the toilet to view the results. Every toilet in the place was reserved for someone. I got the 4 liters in and summoned Patrick, but he said I needed another liter. The record is apparently 9 liters. This stuff gives you the most acute squits imaginable, and it was almost back to the radiation days, so painful. The young girl intern assistant to Dr. Scheurs, who looked to be about 14 years old, said she needed to do a presentation to the team, and would need to do a latex glove job on me. I said no, it would be sheer torture but she seemed unimpressed. I pointed out that her lovely new doctor's coat was very white and crisp, but would probably not stay that way, nor would the walls if she persisted. We agreed that the examination had been made and that I would confirm the fact if asked. We were both very relieved to have reached this compromise.

A visit from Bernadet, Merel, Thijs and Emma. How's my car? Merel said she has a checklist like pilots on airplanes. Are windows closed? Handbrake on? Lights off? Oh dear, the lights are already off. How can you drive from Heiloo to Alkmaar without lights and not notice? Oh well, one must start somewhere. I feel very sorry for the lady who shares my room. She came in because of a bowel infection, but the scans show that she also has lung cancer. I was shocked to hear that my kidney would have to go, but lung cancer is something more serious.

Friday Jan 28. D-Day. A good night’s sleep and very fresh in the morning. I have the utmost faith in Dr. Scheurs. I have a shower and wait for Patrick to wheel me away. I have no fear and this for the first time in this whole business. Off to the lumbar room and pipes and things put into my back. There is a delay and we wait for an hour or two to clear the tail-back in the theatre. I get a sleeping pill, the same type that I tried at home that didn't work and kept me awake all night - Romans Drains on the History Channel.

Eventually into the theatre looking up at the big round lights and avoiding all the chromium cutlery. Apart from Dr Scheurs, there are 4 other women. I hope that they will put me to sleep as I don't want to be a spectator even if I feel nothing. Then the mask and oblivion.

Awake it seems at once, and unlike the kidney operation, no pain at all. Very happy that it is over and that there is nobody standing around the bed with a 'Sorry old chap, shit happens. We did our best but, well, when we stuck the knife in, you started to bleed and that came as a surprise and etc....'

Because the anesthetic is local and light, I am far more awake than last time and feeling very good. Tineke and Wisse came to visit and left a basket of fruit and a large bottle of grape juice. Then Merel and Thijs came in and then back to The Mayor of Casterbridge on the I-pod and the delicious grape-juice. Brilliant

Midnight. I am violently sick. I grab the bowl and throw up. Grape-juice. Bit too soon perhaps for the Fast Track Recovery Program. About 4 am, same again. Somewhat paler grape-juice this time.

Saturday Jan 29. Looking at Emma's message on the wall, and her painting. The message says how boring the wall is and needs cheering up and how much she loves me. The nurse says that if I am sick, I will have to have a pipe shoved up my nose and down into my stomach to vacuum up any fluid. This means that I would not be able to eat for 3 days. I have a cup of tea and feel sick, but smile at the nurse and say I think it's alright now. Please go away so that I can quietly and secretly vomit. Still not too much pain, but cannot find a comfortable position. I have things in my back and all sides, along with 2 abominable abdominal drains and the awful willy-tube. 

Later the pain gets bad on one side only, and it seems that the thing in my back may have slipped. I cannot keep anything down and the stomach-tube looms. Off to the lumbar man to pull up the thingy in my back a few centimeters, but that didn’t help the pain. They noticed that my back was wet, and cleverly deduced that this was the stuff that should be going into it. We start all over again with a new needle which worked well for a while. Michelle and Bernadet had to come down to this basement to find me. Not happy with the assistant to the anesthetist. Before touching anything, he licked his fingers. 

Trying to eat and not let anyone see that I am almost throwing up. I must avoid that pipe up my nose at all costs. Hide my ill complexion behind a book, but am listening to another. I usually read too fast, often skipping the less interesting sentences. Audio books are a revelation and force one to listen at the pace of a real reader. I shall do this more often.

Lots of visits and phone calls. Thanks to all I cry. Still feeling pretty good. The cancer is gone, and although I feel like Bionic Man, it is all a small price to pay for life. Thinking about life a lot, well I suppose one would stuck here where some make it and a lot don’t. I admit I had doubts about Adam becoming a priest, but he is acquiring a priestly aura that I find comforting. It may well be that sickness brings one closer to life as well as to death and more into the spiritual. We will all take insurance just before the end. Nothing to lose. Is it something that is happening to me or to him? Or both?  

Today I got out of bed determined to take a walk. Everything that was attached to me I hung on my pole, willy-bag and all, and prepared to march out and join the pole-dancers streaming up and down the corridor. Something held be back. It was the oxygen pipe that ran from my nose to the wall, and electric power for lots of little gadgets that flash green and red diodes and go ‘ping’. Everything had to go back again, like taking the Christmas tree down in January. The nurse says nice to see you standing up, Mr. Ricketts, but don’t try to walk because you are plugged into the wall. Patrick is gone for the weekend. The nurse says we should get started on that pipe up the nose and down into the stomach. What? Didn’t Patrick tell you? Better to try to eat and keep stuff down. Patrick’s very words, Miss. Honest. No way will I have that tube in me. The next lot of food will stay down even if I have to stop breathing.

Sunday Jan 30. This afternoon the second painkiller fails. It is decided that I shall be detached from the thing in my back and have injections in the legs instead. Fine by me, it means I no longer need electricity and since the oxygen is also gone, I am mobile, albeit with a pole to hang stuff on. Managed to get out onto a chair. Freedom, and the food is staying down.

A new room-mate arrived. Bram, A very old man whose head hangs down on his chest. This, he said, was caused by working a computer in the wrong position. He said he was 65, which shocked me because he looks so much older. He is also in for cancer but will not need a stoma because his tumour is just floating around somewhere between the organs. He turned out to be extremely negative about everything and complained constantly.  

Monday Jan 31. Decided to have a shower, with myself on one side of the curtain and my pole on the other. Fabulous! One by one all my pipes and tubes are going. The doctor says he is very pleased with my progress. And could he, and the huge crowd of white coated students, have a good look and a prod. Oohs and Aahs, and that’s really nice stitching, and I can leave on Wednesday. Finally, the willy-tube is gone and I am my own man. Bram is scared. I try to assure him, but he is so down about it all. The nurse came in with a newspaper and did we want one? Yes please, say I. No way, says he. I don’t read that crappy rag. And could she clean him up down there, after his little accident. Not worth it, says Bram, it will probably happen again. I don’t know whether our attitude to our illnesses have any bearing on the outcome, but it is certain that we can change the way we experience it for the better, whether we win or we lose. Take a look at Irene.

Tuesday Feb 1. Not such a good time last night. Because I have been on an infusion for so long my body is saturated with water. I stagger to the bog like a giant cactus for a massive pee, but need another almost immediately. And next day I have Bram to contend with. Do my wife and I sleep in separate rooms? Why? Because she can’t gets much sleep with all that snoring. But don’t worry, I have sent for ear-plugs. Can I have some too? And do I leave the bathroom at home in such a filthy mess? What’s wrong? Apparently I left my soap bag on the glass shelf under the mirror. The nurse comes in and says she wants to ‘prick his blood’. Not possible, says Bram. You can prick skin or balloons, but blood, a liquid, cannot be pricked. The nurse looks at me. We offer a mutual sigh. Later he asked if his painkiller drip could be increased. Yesterday he said he would not need much because his pain-threshold was much higher than normal people. I have to get out of this room.

Hilde phoned. She asked how is it going. I told her that the stoma, as I had been warned, made a lot of gurgling sounds in the beginning. Also, I had lots of folders and stuff from the Stoma Association. Maybe they have get-to-know-you evenings. What the Dutch would call a ‘borrel-avond’. Hilde said that would be a gas.

Bram takes his First Walk. Leaning heavily on the nurse and his pole festooned with bags and pipes, they are at the door to the corridor. You are doing really well, Bram. Look everyone! By all the blessed saints and a sure sign that my slight leaning towards belief and the existence of a deity is welcomed, Bram’s pajama trousers fall to his ankles.

Wednesday Feb 2. Tuesday night was very bad. Awake all night in a cold sweat. My blood pressure is way over the top and we must wait for the doctor to give his blessing for my departure. Lots of humming and harring, but eventually we are out.

I don’t know whether I will add anything to this blog, probably just the results of the biopsy to see if there is anything cancerous left in me, but I cannot leave it without giving my thanks to all who have supported me in these months.

God bless you.