#12. In the Blood Lab - Part 2

The facility referred to by bureaucrats and politicians as the Kawartha Regional Health Centre, and by everybody else as the Peterborough Hospital, also has a blood lab.  Considerably smaller than the one at Princess Margaret, but often busy, I'm sure.

However, when I entered yesterday, it was not busy.  There was a receptionist, and one technician.

I handed my requisition to the receptionist, who then requested that I take a number. Uh oh, but OK.

Behind me, I found a small stand with the old-fashioned plastic "Now Serving No." cards on it.  Number 35.

Having acquired my place in the nonexistent line, the receptionist then requested that I give her the number.  Which I did.  Because I'm Canadian, and I do what I'm told.

She proceeded to put my Number 35 with my requisition papers, hand them all back to me, and announce that I could now proceed into the (empty, remember?) lab.

Whereupon the lone lab tech put down her iPhone, took my pile of papers, and my number (Yes, 35), and did the blood lab thing.

I wonder if Number 36 ever showed up . . .

#11. In the Blood Lab

The Blood Lab at Princess Margaret Hospital is a busy place.  Hundreds of people occupy the chairs lining the waiting room.  Others stand, or overflow into the hallway.

For all its activity, everything is well-organized.  You drop your blue hospital card in the box, and when they call your name, you go to the window, where they hand back your card, along with your doctor's requisition, and a tear-off number.  You then sit down (if you have a chair) and watch the big red display as it crawls up towards your number.

But now it's 4 o'clock.  The room is deserted.  Our hero (me), being a true Canadian, walks up to the window and drops his card in the box.  After a few minutes, a lab tech appears, examines my requisition, tears off a number, and hands it all back to me.  Number 57.  Whatever, we're the only two people here.

He then takes two steps to his right, and appears in the doorway under the "Now Serving" display.  He reads the display, and calls out, "Number 57."

I look at him quizzically, but he is oblivious.  This is what he does, every day, day after day. No variation.  Any change in the routine would probably be traumatic.

Well, what can I do but say, "Here", and follow him into the deserted lab?

And all I can think is, "You know you've been working at your boring, repetitive job too long when . . ."

#10. Happy Birthday, Patrick. Here's a Nice UTI for You.

Hello Everybody.

As some of you are aware, I decided to celebrate my birthday somewhere different this year.  So I spent the last three days in Peterborough's luxurious ER facilities.  Quite pleasant, I suppose, if you like that sort of thing.

But seriously, folks, on Tuesday I developed a fever of 38.6°C, chills, headache, backache, even my eyeballs ached.  Since somewhere in my Owner`s Manual it says to get thee to a doctor if your temp goes above 38°, off we went to PRHC`s Emergency Department.  After much waiting around (surprise) we finally saw a doctor (a very nice little girl, named Dr. DeFoort) who invited me to stay the night, and partake of some intra-venous antibiotics she had on hand.

So I stayed the night.  And Wednesday night.  And Thursday night.  My temperature yo-yoed (yo-yo-yo-ed?) sort of downwards, and gradually settled around normal by Thursday.

But my old nemesis also reared it's ugly head.  I could not pee on demand.  And I was retaining urine when I did go.  So off to ultrasound we go, were I learn even more exciting birthday news.  "You have a small kidney stone.  But it's quite small.  Let's just see what it does."  I'm so happy.  My birthday is complete.

And now I'm home.  For a rest, I suppose.  The infection is "controlled", which is better than "uncontrolled", no doubt.  My birthday kidney stone remains where it is.  For now.  And many thanks to all the people who described in graphic detail just how awful, excruciating, mind-destroyingly painful it is to pass a kidney stone.  ("It's worse than childbirth.") ("Little ones hurt more than big ones")(Etc.)  You get the idea.

And the urine retention issue.  Well, it may be getting better.  I'm sure it's getting better.  It will get better.  So there.

We carry on. 

P

P.S. Someday, I may tell you about nighttime in the Emergency Department.  But not now.  It's too scary.

#9. Yes, I'm Home

Hello All,

I'm sure since you haven't heard otherwise, you have assumed I made it home OK on the appointed day.  Yes, yes I did.

It was a long exhausting day, but we arrived in Peterborough about 4:30 (Thank you DVP.  Thank you 401.)  There wasn't much left of us.

Friday was declared a "slug day", and we did nothing, saw no one, and tried to get some rest.  (This is not entirely true, as it is impossible.  Never mind.)

Yesterday (Saturday) was better, and I actually felt small (and brief) flashes of energy.  Walked down to the end of the street.  Sat on the porch in the sun (Heaven!)  Greeted neighbours.  A pretty good day.

Today will be even better.  Day by day.  Baby steps.  One cliché at a time.

I would like to invite everybody over to say hello, but of course, that's ridiculous.  However, if you happen to be passing by, feel free to stop by and say hello.  I can't promise entertainment or sparkling conversation, but then, I never did.

The sun is coming around to the west, and the porch, so I am outta here.

I remain,

Pat

#8. Well, Here We Go.

Hi All,

Not a real blog, just an an information post, to let you know that we are in Toronto for my surgery.

We will see Dr. Surgeon today (OK, actually Dr. Kennedy).  She will tell me what I have to do tomorrow.  (I already know.  It involves those words "purge", and "cleanse", and a delightful concoction known as "Pico-Lax".  Yummy.  And no food.  And Jello.  Which is not a food.)

And on Wednesday morning, I will present myself, all cleansed and purged, at Mount Sinai Hospital.  Surgery will ensue.  Yay.

I will be in the hospital at least a week, and possibly longer, but not too much longer, I hope. (10 days?  Whatever.  It will be what it will be.)

So if you're in the neighbourhood, I should be more or less coherent by the weekend.  I warn you, though, I will have a morphine "pain pump", and I'm not afraid to use it.

So if I begin to babble about spiders from Mars, or talking cheeseheads, you might be visiting me too soon.

I am hoping to watch the Masters, though.  We'll see . . .

Pat

#7. "Home for a Rest"

Well, this is a bit different, to say the least.  But who knows where the creative process will lead?  Think of my mind as a dark room full of half-formed ideas, all bouncing around off the walls and each other.  (Sounds rather like the Kinetic Theory of Matter, doesn't it?  And so it is.)

Anyway, every now and then, one of these ideas falls out a window (The windows of my mind.  Of course.)

This is what fell out a few days ago.

I'm sure most of you are familiar with this song by Spirit of the West.  If you are not, it's an Irish-style drinking song by a Canadian band about their experiences in England.  Got that?

  

Home for a Rest - Spirit of the West, 1990

I strongly suggest you check out "Home for a Rest" before you go any further.  Then you can hum along.  If you wish to accompany yourself on the guitar, the chords are Am, G, uh, C (I think), and maybe D.  Oh, and there's an F, too.  I can't do F.

Home for a Rest

With compliments and apologies to Spirit of the West.  

Facts may have been adjusted to fit the original.
(Oh, and that's my version on the left.)

You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best I've had chemo all month, and my system's a mess This damned radiation has drained all my zest I'm so sick of it all, I need home for a rest.

You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best         I've been gone for a month, I've been drunk since I left         These so-called vacations will soon be my death         I'm so sick from the drink, I need home for a rest.

It began in December, Toronto was cold As we camped out at Julie's near Avenue Road It was MRI's, CAT scans and one ultrasound Where they shoved a big probe up my hospital gown. You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best Radiation and chemo, and all of the rest. Each day on the subway, and down to Princess Margaret Hospital.  God, how I long for a rest.

We arrived in December and London was cold     We stayed in the bars along Charing Cross Road     We never saw nothin' but brass taps and oak     Kept a shine on the bar with the sleeves of our coats.

College Street Station, the subway train North As we swayed with the crowds, as we lurched back and forth    We read all the ads or just stared into space And we tried not to look anyone in the face. You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best Every day is the same, every day is a test Radiation and chemo have brought me distress And my lower G.I. is one hell of a mess.

Euston Station the train journey North         In the buffet car we lurched back and forth         Past old crooked dykes through Yorkshire's green field         We were flung into dance as the train jigged and         reeled.

Now the hospital's empty, it's quiet inside But the crowds in the subway, they surge like the tide I'm knackered again, so I'll stare at the floor And won't lift up my head 'til the train gets to Bloor. You'll have to excuse me, I'm not at my best I've been gone for a month, I've been gone since I left And I know in my heart that it's all for the best But I'm sick of it all.  I need home for a rest.

The gas heater's empty, it's damp as a tomb     The spirits we drank now ghosts in the room     I'm knackered again, come on sleep take me soon     And don't lift up my head 'til the the twelve bells at     noon.

 

#6. In Which Sharon, Christy, and I Arrive at PMH

Let me tell you about some of the people we have met in our travels.  

For example, let me tell you about the rudest receptionist in the world.  

It is our first time at Princess Margaret Hospital.  We are confused, disoriented.  We have spent half an hour driving around the area, trying to find the damn place.  Never mind that it is an enormous building right on University Avenue, between the Ontario Hydro Building (the curvy, shiny one), and Mount Sinai Hospital, where I have been many times.  Never mind that I have the address on a slip of paper; 610 University Avenue.  Just, never mind.

We have spiraled endlessly upward in a parking garage that wants $5.00 for every half-hour we stay.  We have negotiated elevators and traffic and crowds and more elevators, and finally arrived at our destination: the G.I. Clinic.

The waiting room is packed.  Hundreds of people fill almost every chair in the place.  It is huge, and it is packed with people!  How can this be?  If even half these people have cancer (most people are with a companion) the number of people with cancer must be staggering.  And this is just the Gastro-Intestinal Unit!

[Interesting aside:  my spell checker does not recognize "Gastro-Intestinal".  Fair enough, I suppose.  It suggests instead I might want to write "Castro-Intestinal".  I am bemused.] 

But we are here.  We make our way through the crowds to the reception area, patiently wait our turn, and approach the glass partition which separates the office staff from the madding crowd.  The receptionist is a Chinese woman of perhaps 50.  She is busy.  Typing or something.  We wait.  She types.  We stand there.  She ignores us.  We shuffle our feet.  She examines her computer.  We notice she has a large mole on her upper lip.  (This is not really relevant to anything, but we have lots of time to notice such things.)   She continues to do . . . what?  Anything but acknowledge our existence.

Finally one of us notices a large, Plexiglas box on the counter in front of her.  In the top of the box is a slot.  Below the box is a sign.  "Put your OHIP card in the box," says the sign.  It is an "Aha!" moment.

I dig out my Health Card, and dutifully drop it in the box . . .

We've all seen those "fortune-telling" machines in arcades or at fairs.  Drop a coin in the slot, and an animated, robotic "fortune-teller" waves her arms about, makes some vague pronouncement, and presents you with your "fortune" on a little card.

And so it is with our receptionist.  Her eyes drift away from her computer, rise slowly to meet mine, and she speaks.  I am mesmerized by her mole.

"Do you have a blue hospital card?" she says.  I do not.  I am new here.

"You have to get a blue hospital card.  First floor."  End of conversation. 

We have arrived.  Welcome to the machine.

#5. For Sharon

I cannot go any further with this blog business without dedicating a post to my wife, Sharon.  Without her backing me up, I would be in very bad shape in just about every respect.  Without Sharon, I would quite literally not have a clue.

You get the idea.  I am a hopeless know-nothing.  Sharon is my guide, my secretary, my advocate, and something much, much more.

She is with me.  She supports me, cares for me, scolds me if I need scolding, nags me if scolding isn't enough.  She sympathizes.  She empathizes.  She understands if I feel bad, she keeps me moving on.  Holds my hand, hugs me, shares the burden.

What kind of cancer do I have?  What did that CT scan show?  What did the pathology report say?  Sharon knows.  She asked.  And asked.  And asked, until she got an answer she was satisfied with.

What stage is my cancer at?  I have no idea, didn't know there was such a thing.  Sharon researched everything she could find on the 'Net.  She learned, and pestered doctors and nurses and anybody who knew anything, to give her straight answers.

In fact, our Peterborough doctor complimented her on the quality of her questions.  High praise indeed.

As we moved on towards the Toronto phase of our journey, she took on more and more, fielding constant phone calls about appointments, accommodations, transportation options.  Returning calls.  Arguing with unhelpful helpers, prying missing information out of vague receptionists, finding out for sure.  Where should we go, when should we be there, how will we get there, what will we be doing when we get there?

Oh, help.

Sharon has a binder.  Her binder contains everything we have collected since this thing started.  As you might imagine, it is a very big binder.  Flyers, pamphlets, literature, books.  Contacts, web addresses, and stuff I can't even hope to remember.  Doctors' names, office locations, imaging sites, floor numbers, room numbers, addresses and telephone numbers.  Schedules, consult notes, questions-to-be-asked, things to do today, tomorrow, next week.

This is really what having cancer is all about.  It all becomes too much.  It is overwhelming.

So this post is for Sharon.  She is at my side all the way, whatever may come. I don't have to face this alone.  Alone must be terrible indeed

She loves me.

And I love her, very much.

#4. A Chapter List

I tried looking back on the two weeks just passed since New Year's, and it was a blur.  Everything was all jumbled up in my mind; what we did, when we did it, how it felt.  So with a lot of help from Sharon, I have tried to set out events as a Table of Contents, in an order somewhat approaching reality.

I doubt I will write about everything here, but it does serve to fix things in what's left of my mind.  A framework on which to hang my blogs, as it were.

I'll post it for your continued amusement and edification.


Wed., Jan. 2

1. In Which We Learn That the Doctors Will See You Now.

2. Finding Princess Margaret Hospital.  Or Not.

3. Parking in the Sky, a Bargain at Only $5.00 per 1/2 Hour.

4.The G.I. Waiting Room.  Oh My God, It's Full of People!

5. We Meet the Rudest Receptionist in the World.

6. Dr. MacKay, Lady of the Chemos.

7. The Slowest-Moving Nurse in the World.

8. The Worst Waiting-Room Poster Ever.

9. Radioactive Dr. Ringash.

10. Lunch at Druxy's, $40 for Three, No Cheeseburgers.


Fri., Jan 4

1. Forty-Five Minutes of Clunks and Bangs.

2. A Romantic Lunch With Ontario Hydro.  Could Life Get Any Better?


3. "Simulated" MRI and CT Scans. We're Just Practicing!

4. Leave Your Pants at the Door.  But you can Keep Your Socks On . . .

5. My First Tattoos Ever.  And They're on My Butt!

6. And we go shopping for boots . . .


Thur., Jan. 10

1. In Which We Meet Dr. Mackay's Tiny, Perfect Intern, Dr. Wong.

2. We Visit Sharon's Niece in Her New Apartment,

3. Spend a Night in a Nice Hotel,

4. And Learn How to Spell Pogue Mahone.  Will This Be On the Exam?


Fri., Jan. 11

1. Breakfast Should Not Be the Most Stressful Meal of the Day.

2. We Climb Mount Sinai and Meet Dr. Erin Kennedy, Super-Surgeon, at the Top.

3. And the Ever-Radioactive Dr. Ringash.

4. Adventures in the Pharmacy, or, Does Anybody Here Know What's Going On?

5. The PMH Lodge, a Most Despicable Hive of Scum and Villainy.


Mon., Jan.14

1. A Real CT Scan (Not the Fake One).

2. And It All Begins for Real.

#3. OK, Now What?

Well, now that we all agree it is cancer (". . . well, probably . . ."), let's get on with it!

You'll need chemotherapy, and radiation therapy, aromatherapy (Hey, why not?) and surgery, and more chemotherapy, and a puppy, maybe.

Whoa!

As my friend John says, "Hold 'er, Newt."  What we really need is a second opinion.

The reaction was interesting.  The words said, "Of course.  You have every right to seek other medical input.  I respect your decision."  The words seemed to say, "Sir, you have impugned my honour, my professional abilities, my family members both alive and dead, and I am hurt, so hurt."

Well, whatever.  Please refer us to Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto.  Let us decide where I want to be treated.  Thank you.

And so it was that we came to be sitting here, on a cold, sunny day in Toronto, the first week of a five-week tour: pills and radiation machines, doctors and nurses, imagers and their imaging machines, pharmacists and techies and receptionists and volunteers and the seething tide of humanity that appear to have signed up for the same tour.

We go on.

#2. Finding Out

Hello Anyone,

How do you find out you have cancer?  Rather slowly, as it turns out.

Blood in the toilet.  That can't be good . . .

I first saw a doctor on November 9, a Friday.  He told me it was probably nothing serious, but he figured it wouldn't hurt to see someone. Uh, OK.

So on the following Wednesday, I saw someone.  (You know, with the weekend and all.)  He said it probably wasn't anything serious, but I'd better have a colonoscopy, just in case.  Next week, OK?.  Um, sure, whatever.

(Does the word "colonoscopy" produce a momentary chill?  It does for me.  Never mind, we do what we must.)

So I had a colonoscopy.

Let me tell you about my colonoscopy  (Now there's a sentence I hope I never hear from anyone.)

Actually, the procedure itself is a non-event, as they knock you out.  So the account remains suitable for the dinner-table.

The preparations, on the other hand . . .  I will simply list some words: purgative, laxative, and cleanse.  Also fast, and Jello.  Assemble these words into any sentence that amuses you.

"Oh, and by the way, we'd like to get a CAT scan while you're out.  It's probably nothing serious, but, well, better safe than sorry.  Haw Haw."  (OK, I made up the last part.  Doctors NEVER guffaw.)

The result of all this hilarity was that they couldn't really tell if it was cancer.  They thought it was cancer, but maybe an ultrasound would give a clearer picture, so to speak.

Peterborough's almost brand new hospital doesn't have an ultrasound machine.  Of course not.  No problem, Oshawa's does.  Swell, so off we go to Oshawa's Lakeridge Healthy Cancer Centre Hospital Place.  It's now December 12.

Another week, and we return to get the results.  We enter the office, sit down, and wait for the news.

Yes.  It IS cancer . . . probably . . .

Oh for crying out loud, can't doctors ever just say something is what it is?

Very well, I'll say it.  It IS cancer.  Period.

#1. Intro

Hello Anyone,

Thought I should lay out what's happening with me, in case you didn't already know.

Yes, it appears I have cancer.  Colo-rectal, as they say.  We have caught it early (a good thing, of course) but I will be undergoing "treatments", and surgery will be required (ugh).

After much running about, consultations, imaging, second opinions, interminable waiting, and driving, driving, driving, we have decided to go to Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto for the treatments.

This will involve 5 weeks (!) of chemo/radiation, 5 days a week.  So we will be living in Toronto during the week, and spending our weekends at home (whoopee).  This will shrink the tumour and ready it for surgery.

The surgery will occur after about two months' rest, which means sometime in April or May.  Having talked with the surgeon, it does not sound very nice.  Beyond that, probably more chemo.

Well, we shall see.  I'm not really thinking much beyond that.  One day at a time is about all I am capable of.

I will keep you posted.

So, Cheers!  (No, really!)  Although our life has been totally disrupted, and we must live in Toronto 4 days out of 7 for the next 5 weeks, there are no symptoms, no pain, no indications at all.  I'm still just me.  Slightly more disgruntled than usual, but just me.

Details of the experience, tastefully edited as to be suitable for dinner conversation, will be forthcoming.

Pat