A Day With The Hatchers

I.

I'll start with this:

1. Almost ten years ago, I had surgery to remove my tonsils, adenoids, and deviated septum.
2. This was not the first time I was a patient at a hospital.
3. A dear friend of mine has now had three instances of cancer in three different parts of his body (eyes, leg, lung).
4. This dear friend had surgery last Thursday to remove a spot on his lung (instance number 3).
5. My father died a couple years ago of cancer, after having spent more than a month in the hospital.
6. Despite all of this, I do not fear, nor do I have great distaste, for hospitals.

When I was not quite a year old, I had a run in with a bathroom faucet. I've told this story so many times, even though I don't remember the events. Apparently, I decided to climb up into my parents' bathroom sink, plunk my feet—in footed pajamas—in the sink, and turn on the hot water faucet. The result was a month long stay in the hospital with both feet in casts. The skin graft scars on my feet are still clearly visible.

Then there was the lung infection. I spent two weeks in the hospital that time. I remember some of that one—the constant blood drawing, the I.V. in my wrist, the Jell-O, and the get well cards from my classmates.

Oh, then there's the ear operation. Can't forget about that one. Some yahoo of a doctor decided to put tubes in my ears because I was having ear and sinus problems. One of those tubes eventually fell out. The other one? Punctured my right ear drum. Several doctors and hospitals later, I had a new ear drum and fifteen percent hearing loss in that ear.

It's no wonder my mother has a deep distrust for doctors.

As for me, I recognize that, despite our hopes and delusions, medicine isn't an exact science. And its practitioners are, after all, fallible humans. There's something terribly frightening—and terribly beautiful—about the human body's capacity to surprise us. I'm probably not the first to suggest this, but I think it's likely that we have as good a chance of discovering the secret of the universe (that last equation to peg string theory?) right about the same time that we figure out exactly how to read every cause/effect of human physiology. Actually, that seems about right to me: the human body is, after all, the microcosm of the universe.

And so, a good doctor is simply a good problem solver. A human repository of medical knowledge with solid critical thinking skills and a touch of empathy. Interestingly enough, that's where House gets it right. But I'll say no more about that.

It's possible that my general ambivalence to hospitals is a result of my early exposure to them—in the way that being exposed to large bodies of water (pools and the ocean) at an early age resulted in respect instead of fear of water. It's also possible that I don't hate hospitals because I was a kid. It's almost humanly impossible to be mean to a sick kid. Jell-O and ice cream cups, watching t.v. in bed. A few nurses who were really good at drawing blood without hurting me. Yeah, I was in pain, but the hospital staff did their best to help. I was spared the adult drama of poor hospital care. Plus, I was oblivious to the fears and anxieties floating around me. It was kind of like a weird vacation.

I'll never forget the nausea of that anesthesia, though.

I remember coming out of it for that last surgery (in 1998) and being surprised that it didn't make me nauseous. That last time when I was a kid, I couldn't stop retching for hours…

Yeah. Hospitals.

II.

So last year, my friend went in for surgery on his leg. It was supposed to be a routine mole removal, but the mole turned out to be a sarcoma. They cut so much out of his leg (muscle tissue) that he was not only miserable from the pain, but he had trouble walking and had to wear a drain (little tube and bag to catch, well, drainage) for a while. As if that wasn’t enough, he had to go through weeks worth of harsh radiation treatment that resulted in some serious leg burns. He made it through all of this like a champ (never missed any work). He wasn't the only one who was happy when he got his first survival pin; he was the happiest, though.

All the stuff with the leg happened late last summer and stretched well into the fall. Last spring really was like a new awakening for him—for all of us.

It should come as no surprise, then, that I was a little less than jovial when I got the call from him a couple months ago saying they'd found a spot on his lung. That was a bad day.

So here we are.

A somewhat more extreme repeat of last fall's trials. We all knew this could (and likely would) happen, but that didn't make it any easier to handle.

It's interesting. When my father was in the hospital, it didn't make much sense. My father was a good man—the best of men. An outwardly healthy man. In those months of his illness and in the period around his death, countless friends of the family, friends of my father, remarked that they were so surprised because my father was always so healthy. Even now, my mother claims that my father never really got sick in all the time they were together (over forty years). He was a Polish work horse. How could this happen to such a healthy man?

But… I'm not going to say it was all a lie, because my father was one of the healthiest, strongest men I've ever known. And it really was shocking to discover that something fatal had been growing inside of him. But he wasn't impervious to illness. He had high blood pressure. He had one of the worst cases of eczema I've ever seen. Out of the shower, he looked like a white and red leopard. He also had the worst eyesight of anyone I've ever known. And, after a really good friend of his died of prostate cancer, he routinely had himself checked for prostate and colon cancer. Is it wrong of me to say, "Maybe they should have checked further up the line?"

Again, I'm not saying that he was a sickly man. Rather, I guess I'm trying to loosely tie this back to my earlier comments: The human body has an infinite capacity for surprise. And, no matter how vigilant we are, well, surprise!

All of this is made even more poignant for me given that I've spent the last few days homebound with acute bronchitis—the first semi-serious illness I've had in years. I've had the thought that my bronchitis is a psychosomatic response to my friend's surgery—a kind of sympathy sickness. Not likely, but…

III.

Last Thursday, my wife and I got up, grabbed some Starbucks, and headed to the hospital. We knew that Dana was told to be at the hospital by six a.m. and that he would go into surgery at seven. We got there at about eight. He didn't actually go into surgery until about a quarter after nine. The surgery lasted about an hour and was, by the surgeon's account, very successful. The surgeon informed us that he found the spot, removed it (cutting a wide swatch, much like the previous surgeon had done with Dana's leg), checked the rest of the lung for any other possible spots or tumors, found the rest of the lung to be free and clean, and stitched him back up. All of this was delivered in a cavalier manner that was not boastful but comforting.

This was very good news.

I would like to say that the post-op recovery has gone smoothly, but it hasn't. I'll get to that later. For now, I'd like to ruminate on the day long wait that ensued from what it took the surgeon (and his team) only an hour to do.

Hospital observations:

1. Every hospital that I've been to has made absolutely no sense in regards to design. I'm sure this is a result of constant "updating" (Oh! How I long to blog about that word! Update indeed.). I remarked to Dana's brother that I felt like Spinal Tap trying to find the stage. (A tried and true joke, to be sure, but damn those hallways twist and turn!)
   
   
2. The surgery waiting room presented a new hospital environment to me. It was a large room with long, low but comfortable couches. Its windows looked out over the sprawling parking garage and the heliport for airlift emergencies. The room had a reception area, as well as another reference desk that handled incoming calls from surgery rooms and the outside world. Throughout our wait, those manning the phones would announce "Such and such family, please come to the desk for an outside call." They would then direct the families to a bank of numbered phones to receive their calls. It was an efficient system. It was also a bit shocking to think that so much was happening at the same time. So many families, so many surgeries. Statistically speaking, not all would go so well.
   
   
3. On a trip back to my car, I spied not one, but three individuals smoking in their cars. Say what you will about personal choices and responsibilities, but I still find it absolutely stupefying that anyone continues to smoke given what we all know as honest to God truth about the habit. I can understand anyone older than me who smokes. Not forgive, mind you, but understand. Anyone younger than me should know damn better.
   
   
4. Despite the general mythos of hospitals, you would think that their cafeterias would be more health conscious. Wake Forest's Baptist Hospital had a fried chicken and wing bar! Yeah, their cafeteria had all the usual suspects. True, they had a salad bar, but should a hospital offer so much processed food and beverage? Is this some kind of irresponsible insurance policy? Or is it simply comfort food? Ugh. No comfort in that.
   
   
5. The bathrooms were clean. Yeah, that's to be expected, but I will take this opportunity to praise again those most glorious of inventions: the automatic urinal, faucet, and paper towel dispenser.
   
   
6. When the surgeon came out to tell us about Dana, he still had on his hair/face mask. Dana's brother leaned in and said something about this that made me laugh. I found it comforting (and ironic) that this guy turned out to be Dana's surgeon! That made my day.
   
   
7. Despite the wealth (I mean wealth. This is, after all, one of the premier medical institutions in the state of North Carolina) of technology contained within that hospital, I couldn't use my debit card to pay for parking. Could this be another failing on the part of the U.S. health care system? I still owe Baptist four bucks…
   
   
8. The surgery took an hour. We waited for nine. Granted, three of those hours were spent waiting while Dana went through his initial recovery, but… Well, that's the way it is, I guess.
   
   

IV.

The Hatchers are good people. I've known them for years, but until this day spent waiting, I had not spent much time with Dana's older brother, nor had I spent any time with Dana's wife without his presence. I was not surprised by this quality time with the Hatchers, but it was definitely welcome on such a stressful day. I just hope my wife and I weren't an imposition. I don't think we were.

Dana's brother is an interesting individual, a college professor of journalism. I've heard a lot about him, but I had only met him on a couple of occasions. And while I was not surprised by his openness and sincerity, I was surprised by the fact that the waiting didn't drag on; good conversation kept boredom (and/or anxiety) at bay. The ability to strike up good conversation must run in the family.

We all spent about nine hours in the hospital and it did not seem like that long. True, by the end of it, we all felt drained by the experience (a physical reaction heightened by bad cafeteria food and over-exposure to florescent light), but it could have been much worse.

And then there's Marty. It's interesting. I've been friends with these people for years now, but there's nothing like hours of waiting—and the ensuing conversation, bits and pieces, random thoughts with brief glimpses of something deeper—to elevate a relationship. I've never doubted the solidity of the relationship between Dana and Marty. They're an odd couple that works instinctively.

The story of their relationship is a great one. Old acquaintances who went about their lives separately, to greater and lesser successes, only to end up happily together many years later. They've known each other for most of their lives but have only been married for seven or eight years. Dana is fond of saying that Marty told a friend of hers, "That's the man I'm going to marry someday." He, of course, was an oblivious (and slightly self-destructive) youth. But when he finally came around, it was for good.

They're both such terribly interesting people. An elementary school librarian and a community college instructor. He's an encyclopedia of television and movie trivia with a penchant for speaking his mind; she's a sharp witted Jimmy Buffet fan. In his office, Dana has a little statue of a big bear with its arms around a small cub. "It's me and Marty," he says.

A couple of years ago, when his favorite cat, Spooky, died, he called to tell me about it and I thought it was one of the saddest phone calls I've ever received. Mandy and I went in search of a sympathy card (only to find that they don't really make many "death of a pet" cards that aren't condescending). We were so honored to find that very card professionally framed and hanging in the hall of their home.

That's the kind people the Hatchers are.

And so, and anyway, over the years, I've known that Dana's relationship with Marty is the best kind there can be. But until this day spent waiting in the hospital with Marty (and Anthony), I wouldn't have said that I know her. And I still don't, really. But this day convinced me that she is the best kind of person. I know that.

Dana has repeatedly said (and I've echoed the sentiment about my wife as well) that he knows Marty is too good for him and he never forgets it—and, as such, he will do everything in his power to be as good as he can for her. (Or something like that).

About some things, we can be so incredibly lucky. For that we must be grateful.

As for the other shit (hospitals, cancer, human fallibility), well, that's for the universe to decide.

V.

Yeah, so that spot they cut out of the lung was a sarcoma. They got it. And Dana won't have to have radiation or chemo this time around. He will, however, have to have CAT scans every three months. And he's still staring down the barrel of a long recovery from having his ribs pried open and his lung dallied with. And if this first week is any indication of how that's going to go… Well, October is going to be a long month.

I have to circle back to the whole human physiology 'bag-o-surprises' thing. Microcosm of the universe. Being grateful for the lives that intersect ours and make those surprises easier to cope with. Easier, of course, being a relative term.

Words like grateful, deserving, and fair always pop up with discussions of cancer. Lord knows I've been batting those words around in my rotting melon for the last few years. I've been, on the surface anyway, the first to knock back any argument for fairness. "The universe doesn't work that way," I say. I think of a line from O Brother Where Art Thou? (one of my father's favorite movies, mind you): "The law is a human institution." By extension, fairness is a product of our human need for reasons and resolution.

We want it all to be fair.

And, to be fair (har, har), about some things—many of them actually—we can rightfully expect fairness.

What's happen(ed/ing) to the Hatchers is not, by anyone's (terrestrial or divine) definition, fair.

But what I became convinced of (again) last Thursday was that I am so thankful to have the Hatchers in my life.

They are a surprise of the good kind.

And despite that big bully of a universe (the macrocosm picking on its little brother) I will do everything in my power to fight for some of that fairness they deserve.

You and me, universe. Ten rounds.