Der Prozess

DER PROZESS

Well, here it is folks, the aforementioned D-day fast approaches and with it the vast, dark world of the future unknown. Mind you, I have read quite a bit about it so I’m not entirely in the dark. But you could also read about what it would be like to, say, encase your head in rubber but the reality would probably be quite different, I suspect.

This past week has been a whirl-wind of inertia. Hurrying up to go nowhere, I have had sleepless nights, good nights; no appetite, voracious urges… in other words, things are topsy-turvy.

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 15 (D MINUS 1)

Today, in anticipation of surgery, is no-solid-foods day. I will exist solely on a diet of water, juice, orange jello and broth. Actually, now that I’m writing it down, that sounds like quite a lot actually. But boring... Coincidentally, today I am not very hungry anyway, so that works out well.

As is so often the case in my business, work always comes at the wrong time. I found out a couple of days ago that today I will be recording an episode of Nearly Naked Animals, a cartoon show I do some characters on. This day I will be voicing the character of Shrimp and Captain Fizzy. How’s that for sublimely appropriate? Still, it is good to have something to take my mind off tomorrow for a couple of hours.

At the recording session I run into Robert Hawke who survived cancer himself and now does a one-man show called Norm VS Cancer, about it all, that he takes to hospitals and medical conventions and the like. I didn’t tell him about all my stuff, but I will after the operation.

Then it was off home to take a load of laundry to the laundromat and then Brooke and I are going to the movies. Which we do... We have a glass of wine at Milestones out on the Queensway and then enter the movie complex to see The King’s Speech. There is nobody about and we are early so we play Star Wars and race cars in the arcade until the movie is ready to go.

The movie is great but we are beside a woman with a huge pail of popcorn that, not unlike the horn of plenty, refuses to subside. After 45 minutes, I consider murder but decide to not anger the gods before tomorrow. The movie ends, we go home. The rest of the evening is quite pleasant and, strangely enough, I have no trouble falling asleep.

D-DAY

Gulp…

7:30 a.m. I wake up and have that great moment when you are first regaining consciousness and you are still sort of out of it and everything seems fuzzy and nice. Unfortunately, after about ten seconds of that ,reality hits home and you remember, if anything, hard stuff that you have to do that day.

Brooke is awake too and after brief acknowledgement of that fact we lie, staring at the ceiling and listening to the cats pacing around outside the door waiting for food and entertainment.

7:45 a.m. Time is ticking. We will have to leave for the hospital in about a half an hour. In all the mayhem of the last few months and stresses that build up, intimacy can be hard to accommodate. I have felt the tension of this for some time now and with the impending hardship and the remote but distinct possibility that the physical ability to produce in the bed might be more ambitious than practical, I have been saddened by the prospects. But as things so often do, fate takes a hand. And places it on your thigh. We make love. Good decision.

Now we have about 10 minutes to get ready and drive to the hospital, which we do, dragging a bag with way too many items and clothing in it. We have anticipated my every need.  I have a lap-top, an I-pod, books,  a cell phone and charger, pants, toiletries, a house-coat, underwear (be sure to wear the briefs not the boxers, I have been told) and other odds and ends. I have taken less on weekends to visit the relatives. It's surprising one of the cats didn't make it in there.

9:00 a.m. We arrive at the Surgical Admissions desk, second floor, Toronto General Hospital, where two cheery male clerks take my particulars, have me sign a couple of forms and usher me into the inner waiting room. There we sit, waiting for whatever the next step will be and very aware that we have had nothing to eat or drink. Well, I couldn’t anyway but Brooke is feeling the pinch. She is sharing the pain.

Everyone who comes and goes into this room (patient-wise) looks old and sick or frail. I don’t. Not anymore than usual anyway. I am youngish and appear healthy and hale. What the hale am I doing here? This must be a mistake, right? Strangely though, I am not nervous at all.

I remember that we were meant to page the lady in charge of my Vitamin D study. (Oh yeah, I didn’t mention that early in the process I volunteered to be part of a study trying to determine if Vitamin D can actually fight the progress of Prostate Cancer. I am part of a double blind study group which means that nobody, including the doctors, know whether I am receiving normal amounts of Vitamin D, super amounts like 40,000 I.U. or none at all. I have been taking my liquid D for the last three weeks.) We send for Sanda who arrives shortly thereafter with her assistant, Monica, in tow.

Sanda has bad news. Apparently my operation is ‘on hold’ because of a shortage of beds in the recuperation room. This could mean anything up to a total re-scheduling.  That wouldn't be good. However, Sanda thinks that because Dr. Fleshner is the head of the unit here (something I didn’t know and I am somehow comforted bythe knowledge that he is the big Cahuna) so it is likely something will be done.

Sanda takes us to a small room where I give her blood for her study and she also takes urine that I hand her in a small jar. There was some worry that I wouldn’t be able to do this but the river is still flowing apparently. We bid a sad farewell to Sanda (who actually has been the source of much inside information over the last few weeks and was reason enough to take part in the study) and return to the primary waiting area. There is only one other person there now, waiting as I, with a loved one, for their entrance onto the stage of the operating room.

10:10 a.m. I am informed by one of the cheery clerks that the hold is over! Sanda was right. A bed has been found. The downside of this is that now they are actually going to operate. Finally, the Sinking Inn begins to move. I am now in a mode of certainty that is both exciting and fearsome. This, however, quickly fades as the whirlwind that my late admission to the process has caused and that MUST culminate with Fleshner’s entrance into the operating theatre no later than 11 a.m., starts to blow. The well-oiled machine that is Toronto General Hospital kicks into hyper-drive.

10:15 a.m.  The pre-op orderly orders me out of my clothes and into two hospital gowns, one forward the other backwards and I quickly do this, getting my foot caught in my pants and having to hop about trying to take my socks off. I remember from my scuba equipment experiences to slow down a bit. The socks come off and together with the rest of my items (except for my reading glasses, that experience tells me I will need even if I think I won’t) I stuff them into the provided plastic bags. Ducking my head into the waiting room I shout to Brooke, “C’mon Cookie, we’re on the move!” Brooke gathers up the coats and we’re about to follow the orderly down the hall when…

10:20 a.m. We are accosted by Dr. Weebly and another intern, assistants to the great man, and Weebly takes me into the dressing room where he quickly sketches out on my gut where they are going to cut me open. “I know it seems sort of barbaric,’ says Weebly, ‘but we wouldn’t want any mistakes, would we?” This seems a given to me but I smile and nod and make some quip about organ harvesting. He doesn’t get it and I don’t blame him. Weebly, it should be noted, looks nothing like a Weebly but in fact looks like Ben Casey. Again I am reassured.

10:25 a.m. Weebly and the intern shuffle us quickly into the pre-op room, point at a bed and hurry off to complete other operative tasks. I sit on the bed. Brooke is holding the bags of clothing. We look at each other. There is a small window of opportunity for a smile. We do so. Then, just as in the movies, all hell breaks loose. In the next fifteen minutes about 12 people of various medical practices swoop by. I can’t possibly remember all of their names and their jobs but here is a list of what they did to the best of my memory…

• ·         Take blood pressure and heart levels
• ·         Remove yet more blood
• ·         Talk to me about my relative state of mind (good so far)
• ·         Prepare an I.V. needle and insert it into my left hand (they have a little trouble with this and it kind of hurts)
• ·         Have me sign consent forms (Knew I’d need those glasses)
• ·         I am questioned by the anaesthesiologist and she and her team determines that I am fit to knock out.

 10:35 a.m. Weebly, accompanied by a small army of interns clad in royal blue scrubs, shows up and asks a few more questions. They all look at me. They all look at each other. “Right then,’ says Weebly, ‘kiss kiss.” This is apparently the cue for Brooke to say goodbye to me and I can see from her eyes that she is on the verge. She bids me farewell, tells me that she loves me, and kisses me. “See you on the rebound,” I toss over my shoulder jauntily as Weebly and a male intern wheel the bed away. I can’t believe how cool I’m being.

10:40 a.m. I am in transit. I can’t see Weebly, he is pushing the bed. The younger intern guiding the foot of the bed glances back at me and smiles. “All set?” he asks. “No, I’ve changed my mind.” I say. He laughs not knowing that I kind of mean it. They reach a junction in the hall. “Which way?” says the young intern. “Straight,” says Weebly. Young Intern reaches out to push a door access button. “No,’ says Weebly, ‘straight to the left.” They turn left, we wheel along. They pass the operating room. “Stop” says Weebly. It’s that one back there. O.R. 1.” I am reminded of the classic scene in Spinal Tap where the band tries to find the stage. They back me up and with a squeal of tires we come to rest in the Operating Room.

10:45 a.m. In the O.R… Just as in the movies the room is abuzz with activity. People are readying syringes, sharpening knives, etc. A burly orderly helps me roll out of the bed onto the operating table. The table itself is barely wider than I am and I’m surprised by this but it figures, I guess, as they have to get in close to the action when they work. Two arms swing out from the side of the table and I reminded of the lethal injection tables that you see in movies with capital punishment themes. And just as in the movies, my legs and arms are strapped and taped in respectively. “Guess I’m not leaving now,” I say to the taping orderly. “Nope, I guess you’re not,” She replies with a smile.

For the next few minutes people hover doing various things. Occasionally they stop by to ask me how I’m doing. As I lay looking up at the big lights that will soon be turned on, for the first time I find a sense of panic is beginning to take root. A small kernel at first, I worry that it might become too big, too soon if I don’t take control. I hear the media-friendly blip of the heart monitor. “Is that my heart rate?” I ask of no one in particular. Someone responds to the positive. “Good then, I’ll see if I can slow it down for you.” “That’s very Zen,’ says the voice with a laugh. “That’s me,’ I say and start to try to calm myself down with deep breathing. It seems to work. The feeling of panic subsides. I return to my limited observation of the room.

10:50 a.m. The Anaesthesiologist approaches. She is an older woman of about 55 or so and speaks with an eastern European accent. She is good humoured and quips along as they attach the anaesthetic drip to my right hand. This isn’t as painful as the I.V. insertion on the left hand but has its moments. Being as this is a teaching hospital, there are always about 2 or 3 trainees observing or doing simple things. The doctor has allowed the younger woman beside her to do the puncturing. “Don’t be afraid to ask for advice,” the doctor says to her. I concur.

10:55 a.m. Another young intern or orderly or something enters with a monitor that the Anaesthesiologist has asked for. Apparently it isn’t in the greatest condition. “I don’t think those boys down in supply like me anymore,” she complains softly, trying to make the monitor work. As they begin to administer the first of the anaesthetic, the orderly, Jason, has started a blood pressure wrap on my other arm. “Oh, no, Jason, you can’t do that while we’re pumping in.” “Oh, right, sorry.” Pause. “That’s all right Jason, don’t worry.” Teaching hospital, teaching hospital...

“Now, Mr. Truss… “

“No, please, Adrian…” 

“Now, Adrian. Just breathe deeply.” (This as they put the breathing mask over my nose and mouth) “Say goodnight, Adrian…” I admire her certainty as a professional but after 15 seconds, nothing has happened. “Hmmm,” she says, “Are you not feeling anything?” 

“Actually I’m feeling everything…” I hear the gas being turned up. There is a slight smell beginning and I can feel a bit of a tingle starting at my toes. Then there is only dark peace.

11:00 a.m. They operate.

The Sinking Inn (Part 3)

“Yes, your dog. The one you just gave that bread to,” I replied, starting to become annoyed. 

“Oh, dropped some bread, have I?,” he said, glancing down.” How careless of me. These old fingers you know?” He reached down and scooped up the bread and putting it to his mouth, bit off a chunk and chewed  on it thoughtfully. 

"Are you about to tell me that you have no dog?” I asked.

“I have three dogs, actually,’ he replied. “But they’re all at home guarding the coops. I don’t bring them into town with me.”

“Well, then I guess your old eyes missed this one that must have followed you. For it was at your feet when I came in.”

“You certainly are sure of yourself, aren’t you?” the old man said. “The young seem to be that way these days. So certain about everything.”

I had had enough. “Fine", I said. “If it is the common sport of this town to make strangers feel foolish and unwelcome, then so be it. I am tired of this town and this day also, so I am going now to bed. I bid you goodnight sir. “

I got up, angrily, and started towards the stairs. But I realized that I didn’t actually know which room was to be mine. Also, I was already beginning to feel guilty at my reactions to the old man and thought to pay for his meal by way of apologizing to him. I crossed to the Inn Keeper and said as much.

“Morgan, for such as I understand your name to be…”

“It is that, sor. Morgan…”

“Yes, as well as my own supper I wish to pay for the old gentleman’s food as well. For he has been good company and I am afraid that I was rude towards him at the end.”

“Old gentleman, sor?” Came his slow reply. 

Now I was beside myself. “Yes!” I fairly shouted at the fat old fool. “The old gentleman. That gentleman over…” I turned to point to the table at which the old man sat but he was gone. He was gone, his coat that had hung on the chair was gone and the only thing that remained there was my empty ale cup and the half-eaten bowl of bread. I turned back to the Innkeeper and stared at him. Daring him to return my look and hoping that he would. 

“I would like to go to my room now,” I said with great measure, emphasizing each syllable and word, all the better to make known my displeasure.

“The second room on the right will be yorn,” said Morgan. “It isn’t locked.”

Without another word, I turned and mounted the stairs quickly leaving the fool to stare after me, his mouth hanging open. I arrived at the top of the stairs and turned to my right and to the second door along. Locked. I cursed under my breath and marched back down the stairs to have it out with the inn keeper. I was beginning to wish now that I had taken the bed under the tree with a fire and the horse for company. Better that than this mad house.

However, when I came out into the inn’s main room the counter was deserted. But I was not to be denied and I rounded the bar and pushed on the kitchen door. It too was locked. I pounded on the door crying out the man’s name. There was no reply. I pounded again, harder. Nothing. 

The once blazing fire had now gone out and the air inside the Inn was beginning to chill. 

“Madhouse!” I shouted out and once more began to climb the stairs hoping  that another of the rooms would be open and vacant and that I could, at last, find some peace. But as I started to ascend the stairs I felt as though the very floor had been pulled from beneath me. It seemed as though the entire building had been shoved aside and I fell heavily against one wall. Another jolt and I was thrown to the other wall. The building was shifting on its foundations!

I struggled and re-gained my balance and then jumped down the few stairs to the ground floor. I ran to the main door and threw it open seeking to escape before the roof came down around my ears. I gasped at what I found. From bottom to top I was met with a solid wall of earth. And this wall of dirt and rock outside was slowly moving upwards! The building wasn’t shaking, it was actually sinking down into the earth!

I screamed and fled to the one window in the place and flung open the shutters. It was the same thing. An earthen wall ascended as the room, the Inn, and I in it, collapsed into the soil. The horrendous noise of the walls scraping against the rock outside was deafening.

Suddenly, to this was added another noise and I turned about to find a steady stream of soil spewing out of the fire place. The earth was coming down the chimney! I hurled myself against the flu rod but it wouldn’t budge. The amount of sediment crowding down the chimney wouldn’t allow the hinge to work. 

I sobbed in frustration and fear and turned again only to find a slow flood of earth descending the steps from what had been the second floor. Obviously the roof was now below ground level and the earth above was beginning to collapse around it and over it, flowing in through the remnants of the destroyed thatching.

In shock and shaking with fear I staggered to the table in the centre of the room and sat down. My situation was now hopeless and I began to weep. I bowed my head and buried my face in my hands. And, soon, the earth buried my hands and all of me with its cold inevitability.

A Visit To Hospital-land

Yesterday we got up at 5 am and headed downtown during the first snowstorm of the winter. Not bad going for us but bad on the highways apparently. At least this is what everyone we meet at the hospital will tell us as they mostly have to take long drives to get downtown. This day was my pre-op appointment. It is during this event that they get the blood and info they need to proceed with getting you open and under repair. In return, you get info that you don’t particularly want to hear. Some useful (mostly), some just disconcerting.

The good thing about having a 6:45 am appointment is that you are going to definitely be one of the first to be dealt with and that was the case today. The parking lot was empty, covered and warm. You would expect these minimal assets from a parking lot that you would later find out was going to cost you $28 for the three hours that you use it. Hospitals sure know what side their bread’s buttered on when it come to parking. You have little choice or inclination to go hunting around for better deals when the one thought that you have is survival (if you’re a patient) or worry (if you’re a visitor).

We were a bit early due to the lack of traffic on the road so we sat and had coffee and absorbed the recently-mopped, linoleum ambience of the hospital. This was the first time I had been in the hospital since getting “The News” and whereas I hadn’t thought much about it before today, the reality of the impending stay here was starting to become all too itchy.

There was virtually no one in the waiting area and the receptionist saw me right away and took down some info, found out what kind of room I wanted, (I opted for a private room. My union insurance covers most of it and I will pay the difference between private and semi-private myself, the better to be left alone to lick my wounds) and then she soon sent me down the hall to holding pen 3. She didn’t call it holding pen 3, of course, but it was that. One of the countless 6 x 6 foot cubicles that seem to form the bedrock of the modern hospital. This one, at Toronto General Hospital, was a bit seedier than Princess Margaret (the hospital, not the royalty) but essentially the same.

Then began a dizzying array of visitations by various hospital notables…

First up was Leah, an RN who’s function it was to tell me more or less exactly what was going to happen on D-day and answer any procedural questions I might have. She basically echoed the pamphlets and booklets that I’d already been given but spent more time on the sexual after-affects. This was a little odd, sitting there with Brooke, and having this kind of flashy woman talk about what I would have to do to rehabilitate my sex life. Apparently, it is this side effect (the potential for impotence or raising the flag at all) that most men find the worst thing to deal with. My mind immediately went to the catheter that would soon be going in where things should really only come out. That, I felt would be my waterloo. Incontinence or “dribbling” is also a concern. For this, I am told, there are men’s diapers. That should be good for the old sex-life, I think. “Excuse me, my dear, can you help me with these pins?” Still, she was entertaining and quite bright. My mild quips (meant to make myself feel like I still had some vestige of control) were met with raised eyebrows and a wry smile. From Leah, I mean. Brooke has heard anything I could possibly come up with, I would think.

I should say, at this point, that all the personnel I ran into on this day were professional, personable and sympathetic (to varying degrees). If I seem to poke fun at any of them, it’s only because of the extreme process I was going through at the time. If a clown tries to make you laugh while you’re drowning, he’s going to have limited success at best. Even at this point you can’t really accept that this is happening to you. You who counted his good health, athletic abilities and joie de vivre as a given. There is a parable about living life…. carpe diem… don’t let the moss grow on…. well, you get the picture. Get out and do stuff I guess is the gist.

Next on the agenda was Olive, the swab girl. I doubt that that was her official title but it amounted to a good deal of what she did. She took my blood pressure (145/90, not great. Too much idleness lately…) Then she took out a series of long cotton swabs. “We have to protect the other patients against communicable disease,” she said. “Super bugs are rampant. We have to check you for bacteria levels.” It occurs to me that in the sci-fi movie of all this, this would be the moment that they miss the critical NEW superbug in my ear that later on kills thousands. Swabs go everywhere in seconds. Nose, armpits, crotch and bum all fall prey to the swabbing. I hope she doesn’t find anything. How embarrassing would that be? Mind you, I’d probably get my private room for free. Olive bids me good day and wheels her machine and cart out. I go and search for Brooke. I made her leave for the swabbing. I have to be left with SOME dignity. She’s never seen me in a position like that. Well, other than that time in the hotel in Florida.

Brooke returns moments before Phil the Pharmacist. Phil wants to know exactly how much crap they can shoot into me to keep me under, kill the bugs and relieve the pain. Phil seems happy. In fact he is constantly smiling, part of his eastern heritage, I assume. That or perhaps he breaks the drug-dealers golden rule and indulges in the product. Anyhow, every negative response I give to questions gets a vigorous check mark on the paper. Phil seems satisfied with my profile. Phil moves on.

Now its time for the blood-letting. A nurse, who I shall call Violet, because I didn’t catch her actual name and she kind of looks like a Violet. In a short, pleasantly plump, Greek sort of way. Violet enters with a basket and another machine. She is going to take my blood and give me an ECG examine. She dumps a pile of vials on the desk and starts going through them. “Can’t find mine?” I enquire innocently. “They’re all yours, dear” she says and wrapping a rubber tube round my arm, runs me through with the needle. The blood starts running and she deftly catches it up in the dozen or so vials. Apparently everyone is going to get one. Including the mayor. Then I lie down and she covers me with taped-on electrode receptacles. Now I have a relatively hairy chest and sides and as she puts the 10 tape tabs on me, pressing them down firmly, with Greek, people-of-the-sea hand strength, I know what the outcome will be. She does the ECG, my heart is fine apparently. I think about having a memorial put up to the one part of my body not giving me trouble. Knock on wood. Violet leaves and I spend the next five minutes extricating the tape from the hair on my chest. Brooke looks on and, I suspect, is vastly amused at this. 

Last but not least is RN Judith. This is a very nice nurse who is the head nurse and will be putting together a profile of me so that other nurses on my ward will know best how to deal with me. They will know better than to mention the war, for instance. She asks many questions and is interested in my career as an actor. I tell her  that I mostly do voice work and she asks what she might have seen. Turns out she has children and is familiar with some of the shows I’ve worked on. This, I feel, can only stand me in good stead with other nurses who probably have children too. She concludes her time by passing on a little map of where I should go on D-day and what Brooke, who will be with me, should do for the three or four hours between when we part and when she will see me again. Apparently there is a time, as she waits in the waiting area, that Dr. Fleshner will come out, wipe the sweat from his brow and peel off his bloody latex gloves. Removing his mask, he will smile and say “It was a complete success, ma’am. Not only did we get all the cancer, we anticipate no side-effects and we extended his penis by 4”!” 

A teary-eyed Brooke will then enter my room and as I come-to from the gas, we will acknowledge each other’s presence with a shy but marked intimacy. Then I will probably throw-up.

The Sinking Inn (Part 2)

Inside, as you might imagine, the room was misshapen and odd. The roof and beams were at absurd angles, but the floor had been raised or levered up and was at roughly the angle one would expect for easy use by its inhabitants. There was a blazing fire at one end of the room which I quickly strode to and continued my inspection of the place while warming up. At a table not far away from me sat an old man,  his chin resting on the the handle of his cane. A flagon of ale sat on the table and a dog lay curled at his feet. It seemed that both were fast asleep. 

The Innkeeper, a burly man with ruddy cheeks and a gruff countenance, eyed me from behind the counter as he cleared the last of some cups up on to the shelf behind him. To his left was a door that I imagined led into the kitchens and at the far end of the room a set of stairs led up on a treacherous angle to the rooms above. There were candles set about, a lantern fixed over the bar and, atop the entrance door, the head of a boar that seemed to be about to fall and would surely kill the next entrant. Indeed,  it might have been me, in fact, should I have shut the door too harshly when I came in. 

The overall effect of the room was to leave one almost giddy as attempts to make head or tail of the proper perspective of it were useless. At this time, a young, plump girl entered from the kitchen with another tray of dishes and, spotting me, placed them down and approached. She smiled and her cheeks, that seemed to have two apples positioned in them, raised up and down as she spoke.

“G’evenin’ to ye, sir.” she said, wiping her wet hands on her apron. “Is there anything I can get for ye?”

“Yes,” I replied, “Can you tell me if a traveller might find lodging for the night here and perhaps a plate of food?”

“Well, as to the room, sor, we can certainly find that for you. I’m afraid the only food that’s left now though is some stew and perhaps a scrap of bread or two.”

“The stew would be welcome,” I assured her, “and perhaps some ale.”

“We have the finest in the world,” she proclaimed proudly and smiling again turned to fetch it. 

“Oh, and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I have a horse outside that needs shelter as well as I.”

At this the barkeeper joined in. “There’s a stable out to the  back of the place that would do. There are oats and water and blankets there, but it will cost you extra coin.”

“I would expect no less,” I answered and wasting no time, I exited the tavern and took the poor animal, now limping more noticeably, to his room for the night. When I returned, I walked over to the counter and asked of the inn man if there was a local smithy that might look to my horse.

“Aye, there’s a smithy. By name of Corban. I’ll send a boy for him in the morning, if that would suit you.”, he said.

“It would suit me fine, and I thank thee.”, I replied.

At that moment my stew and bread arrived and the maid placed it on a table across from the sleeping ancient. Thanking her, I sat down and began to eat voraciously. Here’s the thing, though. Hungry as I was and in need of nourishment, I was amazed immediately as to how little flavour there was to be found in the dish. I could see the pieces of lamb, the chunks of potato and the carrots swimming around in the dark broth, but it tasted as if it had been nothing but water. The odour of it was transfixing though and made the mystery of why it tasted so thinly even greater. When the ale arrived, I grabbed this up and poured a good quantity of it down my throat. Expecting the warm, sweet savour of a fine ale to be the result, I was mystified to find that I might as well have drunk down a beaker of water. 

I considered complaining to the inn keeper but thought the better of it, reasoning that they might refuse me the room above if I complained overly. Besides, even though tasteless, the food had filled me anyhow and I had no more hunger. The ale, too, was having its desired effect and I was slightly hazy. A combination, probably, of the ale and my long ride in the cold air. I would have to find my way to my bed soon, I thought.

Looking up, I realize that the old man was now awake and was staring at me. When he saw me look over he winked at me and beckoned me to his table. Being the polite sort, it was beyond me to refuse, even though all I really wanted now was to climb upstairs and nestle beneath some fine down quilts. I got up and joined him.

“Welcome to the Sinking Inn”, he said as he pulled a piece of bread from off of his bowl and tossed it down to the hound, who was now awake also and stirring beneath him. “Have you come far?”

“From Gimroy by the coast road,” I replied.

“That’s odd,” he said. “I know many of the folk of Gimroy. I don’t recognize you from among them.”

“I’m not a citizen there. I came by boat this morning and am making my way to Trethmondy on business.”

“Important business and all, I would say, to make you take to the roads on this chill night.”

I realized that he was probing for more information, that sating his curiosity, spurred on by the boredom of his rural existence probably, was what he was after but I wasn’t of a mind to discuss my dealings, especially with him and especially in my weary state. I decided to change the subject.

“This Inn is a peculiar place. I’ve never seen the like,” I said, glancing around.

“Aye, it’s true,” the old man said, his tone a bit petulant that I hadn’t sufficiently answered him. “You’re not likely to see another like it.”

“I’ll warrant that’s true,” I said. “What happened to it? Is it the ground around it that has given way?”

“Yes, I think that’s it,” he said. “At any rate, it’s been like it since I can remember, and that’s a long time. But time is odd that way, isn’t it? Sometimes I can remember things that happened when I was but a young lad and then there’s other times when I can’t remember what I had for my morning meal.”

“Would you allow me to freshen your ale?” I asked, feeling warmer and more friendly now that my ale was gone. 

“You’re a kind, gent. Ta very much,” he answered.

I rose up and approached the barman. “Two more ales, if you please, inn keeper,” I asked of him.

“Of course, sor. I’ll bring them right over to ye.” he said, turning to me.

“Thank you, kindly. And would you mind asking your girl to bring more bread. I am still somewhat hungry.”

The barman looked at me queerly. “Gorl?” he asked slowly.

“Aye, man, the girl that first served me when I came in.”

“Thar’s no gorl, sor.”

“How do ye mean, no girl? Did she leave for the night?”

“No one’s left, sor. There is no gorl. But I will bring ye more bread if that’s what yer wont.”

I was perplexed but decided not to pursue this matter as it was clearly the result of a misunderstanding, probably stemming from my mishearing his odd accent. I returned to the table where the old man awaited.

“That’s very odd,” I ventured as I sat down.

“How’s that?” said the old man.

“I asked the inn keeper to have the serving girl bring us more bread, but he said that there was no girl. Very odd.”

“Well, it’s true. Morgan’s had no serving girl since the one who quit last winter and left for the city with a stranger that passed through.”

I looked him over wondering whether I was now the victim of some local prank that these people had cooked up between them and visited upon unfortunate strangers venturing in. I know this had happened to others before in similar circumstance. But I figured that there was no use in going into it as, if I was right, it would just provide further fodder for more merriment at my expense. I looked down and noticed that a large chunk of the bread the old man had tossed down onto the floor still remained there, uneaten. Probably, I supposed, because the dog was gone and had left it for the mice.

“It seems your dog has gone to relieve himself,” I said. “Hopefully not inside, as the inn keeper doesn’t look like the sort to take that very favourably.”

The old man looked at me over the top of his ale flagon. “Dog?” he said.

(Part Three... the conclusion... soon)

The Sinking Inn (Part 1)

I can only suppose that in the brief (although sometimes maddeningly lengthy) intervals between my constant dreaming  at night (more on this later), that any stories that came to mind would be extensions of my dream-state and perhaps that the stories thus engendered would be unintentionally metaphoric in nature. So, reader, you can make what you will of the following tale that occurred to me last night after having dreamt of a large, black bear outside my window and of my father’s voice reaching to me from the grave by telephone.

The Sinking Inn (Part 1)

It was a cold night and I was travelling, by horseback, from the western seaport of Gimroy, up the coastal road and heading to Trethmondy for business there. I had disembarked from the HMS Rudyar that very afternoon and upon being notified by messenger of a certain lady’s request that I journey to that northern city, I secured a horse at the local livery and without further stopping headed forth on my journey.

Now the road to Trethmondy, although beautiful enough on a calm, sunny day, by night and in this early winter season could be, by most reports, treacherous. But I had been assured by the ship’s purser that if I remained vigilant, that the road would prove worthy. Apparently it followed the coast, a good deal of which was cliff-face and a traveller was bordered on one side by the cliffs themselves and on the other by  thick tangles of brush and thicket. The road continued like this for almost the entire length of it, except for a small section of a mile or so that ventured inland for a distance of some three or four hundred yards.

I had been riding now for about four hours and was sore and uncomfortable. My steed, purchased from a man at the livery that I perceived was something less than trustworthy, had developed a slight limp and I suspected that he was beginning to lose a shoe on one of his hooves. He was a sturdy enough beast though and responded well to the rein and I had no quarrel with him per se, but the going was getting increasingly difficult and we sauntered along at a dull pace and I began to suspect that it would be only a matter of time before he lost the shoe altogether and I would be forced to dismount and walk him.

I now realized that I had been far too ambitious in setting out when I did and that I should have waited until the following day which had promised to be somewhat warmer. My spirits were low now and it was with glum resignation that we plodded forward. 

When we reached the section of the road that I mentioned before and that the locals thereabout had named Himmond’s Leg, after a man that had fallen to his death through having missed the turn, I believe, we headed eastward along the narrower but well-worn trail. I rode along this way, slumped in my saddle and shivering against the wind, for about a half an hour when I arrived at a fork in the road. Nobody had mentioned a fork to me and I had been led to believe that the road stretched, unbroken, its length to Trethmondy. However, here it was. 

One side of the fork I judged, because of its proximity to the sea, was probably the one that led to the city. But perhaps not. As I looked about me I happened to spy a small wooden sign that indicated that the fork to the right led to a town named Grommond. I had never heard of this place but the thought of somewhere warm to stop and wait out the dawn would perhaps be welcome. My horse beneath me shuffled nervously and started to head down the other, left-hand fork.

Well, I thought, it would seem that the decision is made for me and perhaps I would make the greater city by dawn after all. Besides which, there was no knowing how far Grommond was up the other way. This line of thought came to naught, however, as some fifty feet along the coastal road I encountered a blockade in the form of a huge tree that had fallen in the wind and now lay across the way, it’s trunk barring two thirds of the road and its massive canopy, a tangle of branches and twigs, covering the remaining third. 

Now, it seemed, my options had been reduced to three. I could attempt to cut through the stiff branches with the small axe I was carrying or I could take what blankets I had, start a small fire and attempt to sleep out the night. My third option, and the one upon which I quickly came to believe the best, was to return to the fork and attempt to make the town of Grommond for the night, rest in warmth and comfort and then return to the road the next day with a forester or two in tow to help me clear the way. 

I returned to the fork and started along the right hand way but the horse was reluctant and reared slightly despite his worn-out state. I wrestled with the bridle and after a bit he reluctantly lowered his head and slowly made his way up the slight slope.

Not long thereafter I stood atop a rise looking down into a shallow valley and the rooftops of a small town of some forty or fifty houses. It was mostly dark there but one or two lights could be seen even from this distance of about a mile. A town of this size must have at least one inn or tavern, I reckoned and with renewed vigour I headed the horse there. He must have sensed an end to this tedious journey, for he now strode forward with energy and purpose and within twenty minutes we were at the edge of town. 

Despite its small size, the central street through the town had been cobblestoned and as we made our way along it, the clip clop of my rides hooves was the only sound to break the silence of the sleeping village. I began to feel that perhaps there was, indeed, no lodging at all to be had here as I had now traversed three-quarters of the main street with no luck and no one in sight. 

Suddenly, from around a corner, a man came striding, clad in a great coat and a thick woollen scarf wrapped around his face and neck. He had on a cloth cap and large black boots and was walking quickly, the sooner to be home and out of this damned cold.

I hailed to him and he stopped up short, startled, I suppose, to find anyone about and particularly a stranger on a limping horse. I called over to him, asking him where I might find shelter for the night and did he know of an inn hereabouts. He paused for a moment and, without answering directly, pointed one half-gloved finger up the road. Then he thrust his hand into his coat pocket and strode off up the street. I prodded the horse on and in a moment was at the far edge of the town, standing in front of an… “inn”.

I had never before seen such a place. The structure itself was of a typical construction, with white plastered walls and thatched roof and gables and the like. But there, any comparison to a common tavern ended for the entire building was buried up to the ledges of its windows in the earth below it. And it was set at a crazy angle with one end of the building slanting up to the other. It gave the appearance that the entire inn was being pulled down into the earth and that it was being eaten up, bit by bit, by the surrounding countryside. 

Over the door (which  could only be reached now down a slope of earth that had been cleared away to allow admittance) hung a rough-hewn, wooden sign that blew back and forth in the stiff breeze. “The Sinking Inn” it proclaimed. So it would seem that this local hostel had not recently fallen upon its position but had been so for some time. At least long enough for them to change the name and this some time ago, judging by the worn look of the sign.

I wondered as to how the building could possibly be safe in this condition but as they say, beggars cannot be choosers, so I dismounted, tied the horse to a post outside, descended the earthen ramp and entered The Sinking Inn. 

(PART 2... SOON)

On The Hard

Bit of a glum day, today.

I drove down to the boat which is now “on the hard” as they say. Earlier I had been listening to the CBC and there was a brief article on Robert De Niro who had started an award for first-time artists in honour of his father, Robert De Niro, Sr., who was a painter before he died. He died of Prostate cancer.

Two things strike you when you hear something like this in my condition. 1) Shit, that’s what I’ve got!  And then… 2) hey, if he died of it maybe, statistically speaking, that makes it more likely that I won’t. Stupid probably, and I’m pretty sure that a real life statistician would point out the flaw in that logic pretty quickly. Anyhow, it stayed with me the rest of the morning.

One of the main problems in all of this is the thinking. It never stops. You wake up with it, stumble over it all day, and then go to bed with it. And that’s even with no pain at present. It must be totally inescapable for the pained ones.

On the hard… (its a boating expression for when your boat is up on blocks on land) … today that expression seems even more appropriate as I get to the boat (our Grand Banks trawler, Mary Mary) that is now laid up for the winter months and fumble with the combination lock that holds the mounting ladder to the shaft underneath the stern. It’s cold and the stupid lock won’t open for several tries and the aluminum ladder is frigid to the touch.

I get the thing undone, finally, and prop the ladder up against the swim platform and clamber aboard. Another lock and I’m in the main salon. The air is stiff and chilled and the boat feels dead under me. Everything is hard and I can see my breath.

The first thing I notice is that the floor and helm are covered in dead flies, dozens of them. I guess a couple must have got in the last time we were here and somehow managed to lay eggs. Persistent little fuckers… literally… Now they lie about in piles. I reach under the sink and grab the dustpan to gather them up and give them the heave-ho out the door. As I do so, I notice that some of them are still alive, weak and struggling and crawling up the pan; alive after at least three weeks of no water or sustenance. Amazing…

I am here to do one last bit of winter maintenance. I forgot to slacken off the fan belt on the generator. Down in the engine room things are even colder and more desolate. The engines, now idle and useless, are brittle and hard… there’s that word again… and as I attach the wrench to the nut holding the belt I am struck with melancholy and almost sob.

When I’m done, I seal up the generator and climb out of the space and re-locate the heavy, teak hatch cover. Usually, at this point in the boating season, even though I am somewhat sad that the boat is out and we have to wait at least five months to get back in the water, there is a sense of continuity about it all. This time it’s different. I wonder if I will ever see her again. I hold my hands on the smooth helm wheel. I think back to times at this wheel when we were against heavy water and how it was both frightening and extremely exciting at the same time. I wonder whether I will be allowed to feel those things again. And if not me, who will be on her? For, surely, the boat must go on?

I was going to stay a while, look about, but I’m feeling more and more weighed down by the cold and stillness and a sense of aloneness that is beginning to seem like it has its own life.

The wind is whipping through the rails. Nearby boats moan and complain against the strain. The yard is empty except for me and all the temporarily abandoned ships. I lock up and leave, stopping for a moment to run my hands along the hull at the bow. The paint needs touching up and scuff marks should be removed before launching in the spring. Will I be around and capable of doing it? Well, it’s a cold day. I can be excused a little doubt, I think.

I love this boat.

A Brief History of Truss

I come from a British family.

Now, despite the general robustness of my countrymen, there is, unfortunately, an attendant pasty un-healthiness that can also be considered to be a national trait. We’re strong… but susceptible.

There aren’t many of us Trusses in this country. With the recent addition of my cousin Carrie, there are 11 altogether, including sons and daughters and grand-daughters. Although we aren’t particularly close-knit (especially as far as discussing health matters goes) we all care for each other and by-and-large, I think the rest of the clan is quite healthy.

However, the same cannot be said of recently past generations. My mother and my father both died of cancer. (She of Cervical, he of Bowel). My mother was the youngest of 11 children. With the exception of my Aunt Vi and Uncle Ted, who are still alive, they all died of cancer. On my father’s side I think it was mostly heart issues.

My mother and father differed greatly in their dealing with the disease. None of us (four brothers) knew anything of our mother’s illness. She kept it to herself. We knew that they (mum and dad) took trips occasionally down to the city for unspecified medical reasons, but we always supposed that this was for typical womanly issues. Issues that no English person has the remotest ability nor slightest inclination to discuss with ANYONE.


By the time we discovered (mostly because she wore hats indoors quite a bit of the time) what the matter was, it was towards the end. Because they lived up north and we only had infrequent contact except by phone, it was an easy secret to keep, I guess. Add to that the classic British stoicism engendered by countless war years and living on powdered eggs and you get a situation that although shocking in the main, never really came to us as a surprise in the end. She died a fairly lengthy and not very appealing death. She was cremated and has a plaque beneath a small maple tree in Little Lake cemetery.

By contrast, my father was on the phone the moment he found out. Well, in actuality he had been misdiagnosed about a year before with acute peritonitis. Had he known in time what he really had, the outcome may have been different. At any rate, it would have been nice to have had the chance to find out at least. I received a teary phone call late at night from my clearly terrified father. He was alone at the time and was distraught. I offered to drive to Peterborough if he didn’t want to be alone that night but after some second  thought (and probably a British trumpet blasting somewhere in his sub-conscious), he declined the offer. More British stoicism. I did go up the next day and found him somewhat calmer. Calm enough to ask me to get  hold of a bag of pot for him to help control his increasing pain (which had led him to the doctor in the first place).  I did get him the pot and I guess it helped somewhat. And no, I can’t get you some.

Without dwelling on it, he gradually deteriorated and after about six months he was gone. His last couple of weeks were spent in a hospice in Peterborough and towards the end it wasn’t pretty but fairly quick, I guess.
So that, briefly, is my recent past, family cancer-wise. Not an encouraging prospect, I suppose. Now, I must point out at this point that, according to most that I’ve read, if you are going to have cancer, the type I have is one of the ones you want. (There’s probably a joke about the Conservative government you could insert here, but damn if I can come up with it.)

Anyhow, prostate cancer is pretty treatable with an encouraging prognosis. In other words, I don’t mean to grouse without warrant. People go through this shit all the time. My good friend Gary lost his young wife, Carolyn, to a worse form of it just months ago. Right now, my main battle is with a certain amount of fear about the upcoming surgery and another battle that I have with letting others know about it all. I guess I am somewhere in between my mother and father on this. Intensely personal when it comes to things like sharing my problems, but in my gut, needing a little tea and sympathy. Having said that, I get an abundant supply of the latter from Brooke. I don’t like to whine. Except to her. Maybe that is reason enough to tell others; that she shouldn’t have to bear the brunt of these darker days alone. That is why last week, I gave her leave to tell her parents, Brad and Mary. This week I've told my brothers, mostly so they can run (not walk) to their closest F.I. expert and get the 2-point inspection. Later we can all discuss insertion technique. Oh, and today I told one of my many dentists. But only because he wanted to book me a cleaning in January. By January, bleeding gums might be the least of my worries.

In The Beginning

In the beginning….

Well, that’s a longer story than I have either the inclination or time to set down. The fact of the matter is that time is something I may not have a lot of.

There is a biker gang holed up in my Prostate Gland and they’re raising hell even as I write. And like most bike gangs, they are seeking to spread their influence and gain more territory. They’re also a bunch of assholes.

To carry on with that analogy, like a bike gang, you really don’t hear that much from prostate cancer until it runs you down. Then it just gives you the finger and carries on.

I found out about the gang’s invasion about 2 months ago from a doctor named Neil Fleshner. He is a prostate specialist and in a few weeks, December 16th to be exact, he will don his surgical scrubs, wash his hands (hopefully) and try, with single-minded purpose, to remove the bike gang by force.

Neil seems like a nice enough guy and supposedly he’s one of the best. When they eventually sling my extricated gland down under the old microscope they will be able to tell, apparently, whether or not they managed to eradicate the entire gang. But as we know, it isn’t easy to get a gang out of the neighbourhood. They have drugs to sell and bikes to largely ignore.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF MY DIAGNOSIS

Sorry in advance, O delicate reader, for what may be disturbing and squeam-inducing descriptives, but you asked for it. Well, maybe you didn’t but you’re reading this aren’t you? Besides, maybe this knowledge will be of some service to you guys out there that are wondering what this Prostate thing is all about.

Last summer I had a physical exam that was long overdue and I decided, with much prodding from my partner, Brooke, to get a prostate exam. Little did I know that when a grim-faced Dr.Waxman (the doctor to the stars) inserted his finger in my anus, that this would be the first of many digits and instruments that would find their way there.

Dr. Waxman was concerned. He had felt a swelling in the gland and thought that I should do something about it. What, I asked? And so he set me up with Dr. Fleshner. Fleshner, he felt, would get to the bottom of it all. (Sorry about that, but we have to keep the mood light, yes?)

An appointment was made for September 3rd ( a fair distance from the physical exam and this will give you an inkling as to just how busy the average Prostate doctor is, be warned) and I showed up for some blood tests and further finger work.

A young Asian\Canadian intern, who’s name escapes me as I was in a bit of a fuzz at the time, came into the small, cold cubicle in which I had been allowed to wait for an uncomfortable amount of time.

“Dr. Fleshner?” I asked.

“Oh no,” said the intern with a smile, “I’m just his assistant. Dr. Fleshner will be along later. Now, can you pull your pants down please?”

I wondered for a moment if this was something I should do given that just about anyone could have come in and said that. I decided that this probably wasn’t the time to start getting finicky so down the pants came. Up the finger went. (As a side note, it is amazing how quickly you become something of a connoisseur when it comes to finger-inserting techniques. My rapidly growing list of doctors are primarily rated by their relative insertion skills. I judge them mostly on comfort level, but also speed is definitely a criteria.)

Dr. Unknown finished his exam with a snap of his latex gloves (he now sits at number 2 on the F.I. scale) and with a serious tone said that he had felt an abnormal swelling on the left side of the prostate but no nodules. No nodules was a good thing I was led to understand and was meant, I suppose, to give me some good news along with the bad. Then off he went to meet the mysterious Dr. Fleshner.

Sometime (a long time, actually) later Dr. Fleshner entered along with Dr. Unknown and another young intern.

“Well,” said Fleshner, after a brief bit of small talk, “we’d better get you a biopsy… it’s a no-brainer, actually.”

My first thought was that I would prefer it if all my care-givers actually did use their brains. My second thought was, well, that puts an end to any hope I had that this exercise would be over any time soon. I imagined that I could hear the bike gang revving their engines even now.

About two weeks later I was back at Princess Margaret Hospital in the GU clinic on the fourth floor. This is a room in which I appear as a fresh-faced youth compared to the others there. Brooke is with me this time and she waits as they walk me off to the biopsy room. She is along not only for moral support but also because after whatever happens in the biopsy room happens,  I will neither be able to operate a car nor wish to.

Now in the little brochure they give you to prepare you for your biopsy, they show you the instrument (not to scale) that will be inserted. They describe it as “about the size of a finger”. Well, if your system of comparison is based on the men of the CFL, then I guess that description might be right. But only a three-hundred pound tackle would have fingers the size of the ultra-sound stick that they actually use.

What is going to happen is this. The Ultra-Sound stick with its ultra-sound camera will be journeying up-country until it finds the prostate. It will be wiggled around until it gets some good pictures for mapping and then a small, needle-like device will project into the gland and take anywhere from 2 to 15 samples. As it turns out, I will have 11 samples taken.

But first, there will be another digital exam. This is news to me as it doesn’t mention that in the guide book. I mention this to some nurse who says…

“Well, we’ll have to have a look at that, won’t we?”

I consider offering to edit the booklet for her but don’t have a chance as  (and again, I’m sorry, but panic has played havoc with my memory) a doctor enters, lays me down on my side and enters me with the stick. That doctor takes position 3 on the F.I. scale.

Now, I’m pretty tough when it comes to temporary discomfort, but I have to warn you that should you have this biopsy thing done to you, you probably won’t forget it anytime soon. Although, having said that, I have been informed that some guys don’t feel a thing. How that’s possible I can’t imagine. Maybe you’ll be the lucky one.

Each pinch of the biopsy needle is accompanied by a loud bang that I assume is some sort of hydraulic device nearby letting off pressure. The process is agonizingly slow and after about 4 or 5 pinches, I am ready to talk. I would willingly give Hitler the plans to the atom bomb if he’d just get that goddam hockey stick out of my ass. Inevitably you start counting down. As I was told initially that there would be 8 extractions, I am ever so grateful when my countdown gets to 1.

Bang!

“Well, I think we’ll need to get 3 more,” says the good doctor. I renew my countdown. When it is finally, mercifully over, the doctor says, “you know, it wouldn’t have been so difficult if you’d have just held still. It made it more difficult for me.”

I open my mouth to tell him just how sorry I was that I had made his job more difficult that day, but no words come out and I start to get woozy. They take me to a lay down area and give me a Tylenol.  The good news is that this doctor can’t see any nodule either. No nodule news now.

After about 5 minutes, the new pain, pain that was probably there all the time but I was so relieved to get the stick out that it felt like heaven by comparison, begins. After a while they help me out to the waiting area and I sit down by Brooke. I can’t speak at this point and just sit there shaking and holding her hand. Brooke is teary and is looking at me like I probably look like I’m about to keel over. Apparently many men do this. Keel over, I mean.

Eventually, we slowly walk  the few blocks to the car. Brooke offers to go and get it but I can’t stand the thought of being alone there on the street. Parking is impossible around the Princess Margaret, so bear that in mind if you have to do any of this stuff. We get in the car and a few blocks later, I start to cry a bit. I don’t really know why, not because of the pain really. That wears off eventually, in about 4 or 5 hours.

Cut to October 15 back in the CU clinic.  I am now going to get the results of the  biopsy. I have decided to go this one alone and sit waiting my turn in the uncomfortable, grey chairs. I am getting more and more nervous as I wait. It was probably foolish not to bring Brooke along. She did offer.

Finally I hear my name called but it is to inform me that they can’t  find my results. A mix-up has happened it turns out and they have filed them wrongly. Eventually the missing results are recovered and I am again ushered into the consulting cubicle. Dr. Fleshner arrives, this time with a young man, a young woman and a nurse in tow. The young people are administrative and medical respectively. The five of us are crammed into the tiny room. The stragglers are standing with their backs to the wall. No body is meeting my eye. I don’t like the way this is going. The smell of motorcycle exhaust is heavy in the air.

“Well,” says Fleshner., “I’m afraid there is cancer in there. In three places.”

It’s amazing how you can feel so hot and cold at the same time. I’ve read about this but never really expected

to experience it. I am temporarily at a loss for words. Eventually I just say…

“Well damn.”

“Yes,” says Fleshner, “damn.”

He informs me that the cancer is not of the wildly expanding variety, but neither is it of the mild variety. It’s sort of like Satan’s Choice as opposed to the more aggressive Hell’s Angels.  He begins to run me through some of the options. Surgery, radiation etc.… (More on this later). He tells me to think about it and then let him know. I tell him how I have lost both of my parents to cancer and I just want this thing…

“The fuck out of there?” he says. The others shift uncomfortably.

“Absolutely.”

We decide to operate.