Careful what you wish for;
The light at the end of the tunnel may be another train. The ER is a dismal place. People without insurance, people with no doctor to care for them, people talking about urination, old people, young people, people from all walks of life, including crazy people; you can find them all in the ER.
It didn't take a brick to fall on my head; I knew for sometime that my cheese was sliding off of my cracker. I had no idea about the reason, though. I just knew I didn't have "it" anymore. I can't really define "it" other than to say if you have "it", you know "it"; and I knew I didn't have "it" anymore.
An ER visit was warranted if I didn't want to wait on insurance approval. I knew the approval process could be weeks long, and so we made sparse plans for an ER visit on the advice of my neurosurgeon.
I had a very bad headache on Thursday, May 17 so we proceeded to North Florida Emergency Room. The waiting room was at capacity. One person's very loud cell phone conversation consisted of wishing that he could urinate; but if not he was in hopes that they could probably get a urine sample from his diaper, otherwise they would have to catheterize him.
Sitting directly across from us were two young ladies who were obviously sisters and looked enough alike to be twins. One was very ill and in pain. Her sister did everything in her power to comfort her, including getting her a big fluffy pillow, a warm blanket and rubbing/massaging her head. Connie struck up a conversation with one of the girls, and before you could blink an eye, we had their life story. They were from a family of 7 girls who always had been mistaken for septuplets. The ill sister (suffering from uterine cancer) was the eldest of their family. They had driven 90 minutes from a small town north of Gainesville. This very ill young lady had previously been told she had a very short time to live. I told her to dismiss those statements as Doctor's are not God and have no clue what His plans are for you in this life. The younger sister jumped to her feet, came to my side and asked if she could pray over me. I said "why certainly". I then shared my cancer history with the young ladies and told them the doctor's set my deadline for 18 months ago. Both girls were elated at that good news and smiled from ear to ear. They seemed to momentarily forget their troubles. I often think of those sister's and hope things are going well.
Another gentleman was bragging about the source of his tattoos (he inked them all himself) and he and his sister were both saving their money for a tattoo sleeve (these cost thousands of dollars).
After three hours they took me to a bed in the ER holding area. There was a woman in the next "room" (separated by curtains) whom you would think the nurses were murdering. She was very hard of hearing and clearly didn't understand the medical personnel's instructions. They were trying to put a tube through her nostril and feed it into her stomach to drain the contents. She kept screaming "stop doing that". The nurses eventually got the job done, only to have her yank the tubes out. It was agony just listening to her. I kept hoping they would write some instructions for her, because it was clear she could not hear much.
Sitting directly across from us were two young ladies who were obviously sisters and looked enough alike to be twins. One was very ill and in pain. Her sister did everything in her power to comfort her, including getting her a big fluffy pillow, a warm blanket and rubbing/massaging her head. Connie struck up a conversation with one of the girls, and before you could blink an eye, we had their life story. They were from a family of 7 girls who always had been mistaken for septuplets. The ill sister (suffering from uterine cancer) was the eldest of their family. They had driven 90 minutes from a small town north of Gainesville. This very ill young lady had previously been told she had a very short time to live. I told her to dismiss those statements as Doctor's are not God and have no clue what His plans are for you in this life. The younger sister jumped to her feet, came to my side and asked if she could pray over me. I said "why certainly". I then shared my cancer history with the young ladies and told them the doctor's set my deadline for 18 months ago. Both girls were elated at that good news and smiled from ear to ear. They seemed to momentarily forget their troubles. I often think of those sister's and hope things are going well.
Another gentleman was bragging about the source of his tattoos (he inked them all himself) and he and his sister were both saving their money for a tattoo sleeve (these cost thousands of dollars).
After three hours they took me to a bed in the ER holding area. There was a woman in the next "room" (separated by curtains) whom you would think the nurses were murdering. She was very hard of hearing and clearly didn't understand the medical personnel's instructions. They were trying to put a tube through her nostril and feed it into her stomach to drain the contents. She kept screaming "stop doing that". The nurses eventually got the job done, only to have her yank the tubes out. It was agony just listening to her. I kept hoping they would write some instructions for her, because it was clear she could not hear much.
Once I was admitted they wheeled me back to the ER holding area. This is the place where one goes to await a permanent lodging assignment. A nurse came in with a bevy of questions about my current medication. All of which they had they had in stock in their pharmacy with the exception of Alecensa. Alescensa is a cancer clinical trial drug with which I've been particpating. They were unable to supply those, and so they asked Connie to return home and deliver her stock to them for inventory purposes. She did not return them all, thank goodness, because guess what? They lost them. At $500 per pill, that's a size able loss. The investigation continues.
Things started rolling bright and early the next day. I had not been in my room for more than 4 hours before they took me away for an MRI. I was told no food or drink, because the neurosurgeon was determined to have me in surgery by 10 AM. About 9 AM, they came and took me off to surgery pre-op. I was told that the surgery on my brain would last approximately 3 hours. According to Connie (I was not conscious at the time), the first craniotomy took 7 hours. Connie was informed that the earlier radiation treatments had caused the tumors to rubberize, making the surgery very difficult. The neurosurgeon said the surgery was one of the most grueling of his career. He was in hopes that he removed all the cancer but a followup CT scan would tell the whole story.
A CT scan was ordered and performed the following morning. The neurosurgeon met with Connie at 10 pm on the night of the 19th and told her there was cancer remaining in the brain. He begged her to let him finish his job and get it all out. He was sure that I was strong enough to make it through the surgery. It was no easy decision for Connie but she knew without having the surgery my chances of beating the odds against cancer would diminish. If there is one thing I regret it is putting Connie into the position of having to make the decision. After much discussion, none of which I remember, the second craniotomy was scheduled for the 22nd to allow the neurosurgeon to finish his work. This surgery was apparently simpler, in that it only took 6 hours. Connie spent the next three weeks at my side day and night. Mom took care of things at home and that included spoiling three dogs. Don't know what we would have done without my mom holding up the home fires.
My stay in the hospital was very long, much longer than the two days I was led to believe it would be at the start of the ordeal. I couldn't go home as I was in tremendous pain. I was unable to do anything on my own, including getting out of bed without assistance.
Things started rolling bright and early the next day. I had not been in my room for more than 4 hours before they took me away for an MRI. I was told no food or drink, because the neurosurgeon was determined to have me in surgery by 10 AM. About 9 AM, they came and took me off to surgery pre-op. I was told that the surgery on my brain would last approximately 3 hours. According to Connie (I was not conscious at the time), the first craniotomy took 7 hours. Connie was informed that the earlier radiation treatments had caused the tumors to rubberize, making the surgery very difficult. The neurosurgeon said the surgery was one of the most grueling of his career. He was in hopes that he removed all the cancer but a followup CT scan would tell the whole story.
A CT scan was ordered and performed the following morning. The neurosurgeon met with Connie at 10 pm on the night of the 19th and told her there was cancer remaining in the brain. He begged her to let him finish his job and get it all out. He was sure that I was strong enough to make it through the surgery. It was no easy decision for Connie but she knew without having the surgery my chances of beating the odds against cancer would diminish. If there is one thing I regret it is putting Connie into the position of having to make the decision. After much discussion, none of which I remember, the second craniotomy was scheduled for the 22nd to allow the neurosurgeon to finish his work. This surgery was apparently simpler, in that it only took 6 hours. Connie spent the next three weeks at my side day and night. Mom took care of things at home and that included spoiling three dogs. Don't know what we would have done without my mom holding up the home fires.
My stay in the hospital was very long, much longer than the two days I was led to believe it would be at the start of the ordeal. I couldn't go home as I was in tremendous pain. I was unable to do anything on my own, including getting out of bed without assistance.
