Time

The dark blanket gently lifts as I begin to awaken. Something is not right. The clock outside of the recovery room I am in is barely legible. As it comes into focus, it makes no sense. How can it be so late after the surgery started? There is no way that clock is telling me the correct time. I stare at the clock, waiting for some explanation to come. I look away, then turn back to the clock. Trying to focus, I feebly hope the clock’s fuzzy hands would make sense to me. They don’t.

I’m locked in this spiraling state of confusion, a grinding roller coaster moving at a hauntingly slow speed. If only I could grab hold of something to stop this spinning. I look away from the clock, seeking a brief moment of relief, loosening its grip on me. Then I look back at it – intrigued by its hold on me and wondering if its hold on me is gone, but it’s not. It grabs me just as tightly. Am I losing my fucking mind? I know this is just a clock, but it is speaking to me, telling me lies about how long I have been in the hospital. It was a 30-minute surgery with some recovery time. What the clock is telling me doesn’t add up. Temporal math is failing me.

The curtains to each side of me limit my view. I cannot see anyone and I don’t have the energy to call out. All I have that connects me to anything is the clock, but it no longer intrigues me – it scares me.  It’s one of those rare moments when I feel I have no control and no way of gaining control. I am being led by something else I don’t recognize in a direction I cannot see. I do not like it and yet I can’t stop it. And then the nurse arrives…

Place

Seeing the nurse burst the clock’s hold on me. She checked some lines and machines connected to me. Then I realized that a lot more wires and accessories were hanging off of me than what I would expect for a 30-minute procedure to remove a cyst. I asked her what was happening. She simply and correctly told me that I was in recovery and that a doctor would be around to see me shortly. I had to wait.

Some layer of normalcy began to wave over me. There was still the question of the time on the clock, but it was now a curiosity instead of frightening confusion. While waiting, my focus shifted to how completely uncomfortable the bed was. My tailbone seemed sore for some reason and no matter how I shifted, any relief lasted only seconds. Trying to make that pain go away kept me focused on something until the doctor arrived. I am not sure how long it took for him to come to my bed as I was occupied with my tailbone. There is not a lot to do in a hospital anyway.

News

His words were blunt but necessary, “You have cancer”. For a little while, my tailbone stopped bothering me, with my focus now on trying to digest those 3 words. There is no right time to hear that message, but there is no wrong time if it is necessary. The lone exception might be when you are coming out of sedation after major surgery lasting 6 hours. If a clock was able to haunt me in this state, this news about cancer had no problem ricocheting through my mind and body.

Sue arrived, with a look of worry and distress. This was understandable given she had been given this news a few hours earlier and had that extra time for it to dance in her mind.

The doctor explained some of the things I could expect. First, he told me that it was neck and throat cancer, but the specifics would not be known until further test results came back. Next, he said that this type of cancer could effectively eat at my throat (my words, not his specifically), and it could lead to me requiring a tracheotomy. He also said that it could lead to damaging my vocal cords. Treva had these procedures so it probably wasn’t as shocking to me as it could have been, but the news was still shitty.

Reaction

My mind was spinning so much I could almost physically feel the gyroscope of thoughts, like holding a heavily weighted, yet delicately balanced top in my mind’s centre. So charming from the outside, yet the grinding of the tip burned a hole where it sat and its unforgiving edges ripped away at whatever it touched. I was numb. Then they brought me a mirror…

Now I know why there are few mirrors in the recovery room. I looked at the mirror and it wasn’t me. The person I saw in the reflection had a dark red, yet stitched-up cut on his neck, running 7 inches from the side of his neck to the centre of his throat. On that same side was a deep cavity – part of his neck was removed. I felt a little sorry for the poor bastard in the mirror for a fleeting, ridiculous moment, then better sense reminded me of the reality. When I went in for the surgery, I expected a small cut to remove a cyst, not this.

They took me to a semi-private room. It seemed they thought I might be in the hospital for a couple of days. This was initially reasonable given the story that the doctor and mirror were telling me. I could barely sleep in that room. My roommate moaned all night. I know it was shallow and inconsiderate of me, but all I could think of is how to get this neighbour to shut up. Plus I still couldn’t get comfortable because my tailbone was still painful. Odd how the ass in the bed beside me and my ass in the bed with me were keeping me awake.

Next Morning

The daylight of the new morning brought some needed clarity. My neighbour had left and a quieter roommate arrived. The curtains were kept closed between us. Some places call out for the need to be outgoing and personable – this was not one of them.

Sue was at home, having left the hospital the prior night. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. I have known Sue long enough to read fatigue and emotional wear and tear in her eyes. As much as she tried to hide it, the outward reflection in her eyes showed her inside state very clearly. We did not know what would be happening the next morning, so it was important for the both of us to get as much rest as possible.

The ENT who did the surgery came into my room at 9:20. Up to that time I was tossing back and forth in the bed, vainly seeking a comfortable position. My reprieve was a couple of bathroom breaks, which simply presented another set of challenges being hooked up to monitors and an IV pole. I had a good rapport with the ENT doctor, and his first line upon entering the room was “what happened here?” I shot back some retort about coming in for a simple snip and getting a lot than I bargained for – or wanted.

We shared a quick warm smile to warm the air, then he explained what happened. He discovered cancer cells in my lymph nodes and had to remove a lot of these nodes and surrounding tissue. He then told me that the procedure he gave was called a neck dissection. What the fuck was that? I had never heard the term and seeing the results in the mirror the prior night, the term seemed to fit.

Then he handed me use a mirror to explain the results. He discussed the 7-inch incision coming down the middle of my throat and how he did his best to follow natural lines on my throat. He pointed out the additional 7-inch incision on the left side of my neck, running from my ear to my collar – which I didn’t even notice until then. Again, what the fuck was that? What other surprises were to come?

Going Home

This was a Saturday morning and from experience with numerous hospital stays with my daughter Treva, getting released on weekends can be tricky. I asked Dr. Jackson if I could go home. I just simply said that there is likely not much more they could do for me at the hospital that I couldn’t do at home. He agreed and my release was set in motion. Tubes were disconnected and I was given a crash course on looking after the surgery site and drainage.

Sue picked me up. Between the pain, recent sedation, and no ability to shoulder check, I was not in a state to drive. She drove moderately slow avoiding any quick stops or starts. Even the gentle bumps on the road that we never usually notice sent shock waves through me.

We got home. The place where we would endure months of cancer care and treatments.

Let’s fast forward to today …

Today

Much has happened since that night. So many things have changed.

My wife had been wanting a pool in our backyard for years. I resisted because I was nervous about the safety aspect. I wasn’t sure how well I would sleep, awake at night worrying about pool safety. That mindset shifted when cancer knocked on my door and I unknowingly opened it. I started to think that life is much too short not to enjoy it fully – not just for me, but also for the people around that I love.

Later that year, a pool arrived in our backyard. We have enjoyed it immensely. It is not only ourselves but also for the people we love sharing it with.

That change in my thinking brought on by cancer opened an opportunity for our family and friends to share laughs and plant the seeds of memories. Ironically, in some ways, cancer helped me to live more fully.

Healing

The recovery from cancer was also a reflection of my recovery from emotional damage and addictions from my past.

The years I spent drinking in an attempt to fill holes within eventually started to take its toll – eating at me psychologically and physically, piece by piece – akin to cancer’s insidious growth. Then making the decision that finally put the cork in the bottle was like ringing the bell at the hospital when I finished the final cancer treatment – an opportunity for a brighter future. Then as time passed, I was able to step into the light of this brighter future. Recovery from alcoholism and cancer both left scars that I can readily see and feel, but living with those scars is a pleasant, very acceptable alternative to living with the diseases.

Today, my scars from the cancer are much less noticeable. The scars on my neck are not as visible. My neck twitches and spasms daily (sometimes many times a day). I have very little feeling under one side of my chin. One side of my mouth has a mind of its own – not exactly moving in sync with the other side, causing me to talk like an English version of John Cretian! And I don’t care. I am glad to take all of this and more because I have been cancer-free for nearly 2 years.

Oh – and my tailbone? It’s still sore and I’m quite sure it’s not a result of radiation on my neck! But like the other lingering side effects, I can live with this sore ass over having cancer.

Two years post-cancer – life just keeps getting better …