"I had far too much confidence and hope to fly to the arms of despair, for in despair, one finds no warmth or comfort."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Diagnosis and Recovery
I opened my eyes to a throbbing pain, and saw that my parents were standing nearby. Blinking at them idly, my mom inched closer and ask, "Honey, do you know us?"
Suddenly I felt as if I was an actress in some ridiculous soap opera; the elements were all there, from the tragic figure of the patient to the damp-eyed parents. Do I know them, I thought. "Of course I know you!" I spat the words at them in obvious rage. They smiled at my fighting spirit; it was a good sign. Had I been too weak, I would have been incapable of such an emotional outburst. I suffered no delirium, only intense pain. I despised pain, but more than that, I was infuriated by phrases which at the time seemed to be idiotic cliches when words do not easily yield to the tongue. Not impeding my rapidly surfacing thoughts, another jolt of pain opened my mind. "I wish I was dead!" My ill-chosen words were daggers to my parents, whose faces were wrinkled with pains of their own. "Don't say that, honey," responded Mom, hurt by my instantaneous verbal combustion. Speech is something which, once flung into the air, cannot be repealed; language is a component of memories, at times forgotten, but more often returning to the mind. So it was that the life of my last phrase during the visit has not yet reached its end, and lives still in our recollections, a youthful tongue which dared to speak of death, indeed, to welcome it, was that which emblazoned the imprint with such permanence.
I was tired, and after gratefully receiving medication to ease the pain, sank my head into the pillow. Mom and Dad had taken their leave; there was not a great desire for small talk, even if they could have produced it.
The following day found me in a much more civilized mood. All post-operative grogginess had long since disappeared; my exhaustion resulted only from my body's mad attempt to heal its scars. I was constantly under observation, and soon adjusted to the frequency of the temperature, pulse and blood pressure readings; those simple matters were not disruptions at all.
In the morning I was introduced to the bedpan, and although my ego did not merit any cruel blow, I found myself further humbled. With a deplorable lack of skill, I managed to dampen myself and the bed considerably; I was miserable. Fortunately, in that respect, it was time to be weighed, and the nurses lifted me onto a table-like scale; I remained there until my bed had been prepared anew, then was happily replaced despite the agonizing trip to and from the bed.
Any extensive movement seemed to evoke pain, and I readily understood the reason for my discomfort when I was bathed. In addition to the regular routine, the nurse also changed my bandages. Seeing the incision for the first time, I gawked in amazement, thoroughly repulsed. The seams of the long gash rose above the surrounding skin, and with the multitude of black stitches, resembled a rail-road track. It seemed to me that it would leave a scar of monstrous proportions looking, at the time, so hopelessly grotesque. Then I noticed the drain located to the side of the incision, and was shocked to discover that the soft rubber tube extended to my interior regions through an open slash in my side. I'd not have thought it possible that one could entertain such an opening without risking complete loss of one's blood. I was learning new biological facts with each passing hour.
My parents visited each hour, sometimes speaking with the family members of other "unfortunates" when I was not awake. It is in the confines of a hospital that one learns he is not alone in his pain. The boy who laid in the bed next to my own would literally "poop himself out" during a bowel movement, losing his insides as well as the excrement, while a child across the room had a valve on his head which he could push when water accumulated, thereby releasing the pressure and accompanying pain. I wondered how those children could ever lead normal lives with their present situation appearing so dismal. Although I existed in the present, I lived for the future and my return home; accepting each moment, I fostered no suspicions that I would die, having tumors removed; I knew nothing, as yet, of my tumors being cancerous, for the grave seriousness of the operation I gathered slowly, as I gained physical strength, since spirit I never lacked. The business of getting better was simply a matter of time; "whether or not" I would improve did not enter my mind. Feeling sick, followed by recuperation and health were as inseparably linked as popcorn and salt. I always "got better."