Another day down, a little progress made . . . {{{hack, cough-cough, hack-hack-hack,gag, cough}}}

I'm taking desperate measures to get better . . . latest effort is a Neti pot up my nose, to try and clear some congestion and post-nasal drip. Thanks Julie, for the suggestion and the photo. New profession: circus freak. Friday night, I even tried an onion/honey concoction I'd encountered on countless websites as a natural "cure all" for dry, hacking, persistent cough. I about vomited all over the kitchen with that one; though I did fall asleep for a few hours after choking it down . . .

I stopped by a Target quicky-clinic Friday morning on my way to work, to see if someone could at least tell me what I don't have—strep, H1N1, whooping cough, pneumonia, bronchitis, sarcoidosis, cystic fibrosis, lung cancer . . . for better or worse, the world wide web has replaced the old-skool Reader's Digest Medical Encyclopedia as my go-to source for self-diagnosis . . . Strep test came back negative and the PA at the clinic said it sounds like I just have a lovely little virus that's running rampant this spring, starts out with body aches, sore throat, low fever and morphs into a dry, hacking cough that, all in all, takes a few weeks or so to clear. Nothing to do except treat the symptoms, so I walk out of Target with a bottle cough medicine, a prescription of little gel-pills that are supposed to melt in the throat and coat it with a numbing agent, more Excedrin, a bag of cough drops and bottle of Vitamin Water to wash it all down.

Thursday night, I had left a message on Bob's beside table for him to show every doctor who came in to see him if I wasn't there: that they must call me after visiting Bob, so I can hear first-hand what was discussed. No more traumatic doctor's visits for Bob to deal with alone. Often, the docs make their rounds so early, before I can get to the hospital, and I end up missing out on critical information. I want to know everyone and everything that comes through his room, so Bob isn't left to have to hear and process all of it alone.

I worked a few hours Friday morning and then got up to Bob's room around 1 pm, chocolate malt from Grand Ol' Creamery in hand. In hindsight, I probably shouldn't have been on 7D, feeling like I have been, but still had so much to do, many people to try to contact, because many doctors aren't around on the weekends. They told me at the quicky-clinic that I should be past the contagious stage of the virus, but tell that to the casual observer who was lucky enough to witness the coughing fit I had while taking a walk around the wing with Bob. Must have looked like a violent evil possession worthy of an exorcism. At the very least, a quarantine.

With gallons of water, the cough syrup, drops and obsessive hand-washing/sanitizing, I held up long enough to talk to the colorectal surgeon on the phone (not sure if it was my bedside message or the message I'd left with his nurse in the morning that prompted the phone call). I was surprised at his candor; despite not knowing anything at all, really, about Bob and his situation, he was extremely empathetic, listening to my concerns respectfully and openly.

At this point, I'm done trying to be "together," done with filtering and censoring words to try to stay on the doctors' level. I will never be on that level, so I have to quit trying. I'm emotional, reactive, on edge, freaked out, sick, scared, desperate, bleary-eyed, mad as hell, cannot bear to see Bob suffer any longer . . . I'm going to make Bob as real a person as I can to these people, so that maybe it finally sinks into their heads that their patients aren't diseases. They aren't tumors. They aren't a diagnosis. They are people, with lives, loves, dreams, fears, hobbies, likes, dislikes, idiosyncrasies, quirks, talents, faults, families, friends . . . who just happen to have a disease, a tumor, a diagnosis . . . pathetic, fruitless endeavor, I know. Doctors don't get to be doctors by being sappy, wimpy, emotional, sensitive wrecks, by caring too much. I don't mean they don't care. They just don't get too attached. And that's probably a good thing for all of us, as much as I don't want to admit it. . . but a little compassion? Sensitivity? Communication skills? or at least have a spokesperson . . .

I tell Doc M that I was extremely concerned that he didn't know about Bob's heart attack. I said, "You're going to be doing a major surgery on him and you didn't know that critical piece to his history? Do you know that that wasn't his first heart attack? Do you know that he's a childhood cancer survivor and that all these critical health issues that he's experiencing as an adult is the result of the radiation he was exposed to over 30 years ago?" That we were told that when they stented Bob's heart, there was a lot of scar tissue in his chest from the radiation. That maybe that is something he, Doc M, might encounter when he does his part of the surgery, and that maybe sooner than later is a better time to know that? That I can't pretend to even have one bit of knowledge about what his role as a surgeon entails, but the more he knows about Bob, in my book, the better?

He apologized for not being more knowledgeable about Bob's condition at this point, but that I should be assured that they will be going over his medical history in great detail prior to the surgery. He went on to explain his role in the surgery, that he will be "clearing the path," so to speak, for the orthopedic surgeon to come in and remove the tumor, and that he will spend considerable time examining Bob's scans, slides and all pertinent information about Bob's condition, alone and with the team. I didn't get any sense of arrogance, annoyance, impatience or any other "doctor attitude" from Doc M. Just a genuine apology and explanation for why he wasn't yet up to speed with Bob's situation. Once again, I'm told that it's going to be an extremely lengthy, complicated surgery, and many very difficult decisions have had to be made and still have to be made. We've been told the surgery will be at least six hours . . .

I then had to ask the doctor why, upon introducing himself to Bob, was the first thing he had to say was that he didn't think he could save Bob's rectal function? I told him that it had disturbed Bob tremendously, that it was a rather harsh and insensitive introduction because Bob was alone, with no support around him, and being on all the medications, he couldn't even begin to process what that meant and what else it could implicate . . .

Doc M first said that he didn't intended to upset Bob; he thought Bob was aware of all the potential issues regarding the surgery and just thought he'd dig right in and share his role, what he was going to be doing, and be upfront about the very real possible outcomes of the surgery, from his standpoint. Yeah, but Bob's never met you before, Doc M, I say. And he was alone, no family or anyone with him when you told him that. Back when Doc O was laying out the best and worst case scenarios, we heard about the good, the bad and the ugly in a general, generic kind of way, but here you come in and throw out what you know, specifically relating to Bob, that's very different. It hit home. Hard. What he heard is that after the surgery, his life will never be the same. In every possible way.

Doc M apologized if there was a misunderstanding; he said that he didn't tell Bob he couldn't save Bob's rectal function, rather that he "wasn't sure" if he could, that there's nothing definite at this point. Based on what he's seen about Bob's situation, the tumor is located in an area where many nerves are located, nerves that control everything from the pelvis down. He didn't say he absolutely couldn't save those nerves, but that the potential for permanent damage was there; that they won't know for sure until they get in and see first-hand how the tumor impacts everything. He tells me that colorectal surgery is his specialty, that he has treated many, many patients who lose bowl and bladder function but go on to live normal, active, fulfilling lives. He's not saying that's how Bob will be, for certain, no one does, but that he wants to be straighforward about the risks and potential outcomes. The main goal is to save Bob's life. That's what we all want, right? he asks me. Absolutely. But, did you have to start with that kind of introduction? I ask. I mean, why couldn't you have started on a more positive, a little more hopeful note? Especially given all Bob has gone through already. . . Doctor M, if someone told you that you could possibly lose all function of your pelvic region, wouldn't you be just a tad bit disturbed yourself . . .

I stood in the hallway, leaning against a window on the 7th floor of the hospital, looking down at the tiny people below, the cars coming in and out of the hospital driveway. I start crying. Again. I tell Doc M that no one appears to care that before this cancer, Bob had a real life. A fulfilling life. He's a very active person. That he likes to camp, hike, kayak, golf . . . that he just started his dream job, but had to give it up almost immediately when the problems with his leg began. That all along this journey, for six months and counting, no one has given us any tangible hope for his life. I mean, yes, they say they can remove the tumor and save his life, but what about his life? His life as he has known it, may be deeply altered in a way that right now, we can't even begin to comprehend. How do you expect someone to take that kind of information in, to even begin to process what that means? All I'm saying, Doc M, is that maybe there was some other way to drop that bomb . . .

He apologized again for that, that he only meant to be upfront, to make us aware of the very real possibilities. We discuss the potential outcomes of the surgery a little more, but eventually he says until he really reviews Bob's records and meets with the other doctors involved in the surgery, he can't give me much more information. I ask him to do me a favor, knowing I'm going to sound like a nutcase, but can't help it . . . that the night before Bob's surgery, will he make sure he gets a good night's sleep, and that the morning of, he eat a good breakfast, please not fight with his spouse, and do the very best work he possibly can for Bob. Please?

There's a pause at the other end of the line. Absolutely, he tells me.

Photo collage of Bob, in his room, right above his bed, Pictures of him doing what he loves and will be able to do again: camp, kayak, drink beer, take pictures, snowshoe. . .