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.