Later that evening, I announced that I had to use the bathroom. After two subsequent failures earlier in the day, I rejected the bedpan with obstinance; the contraption was immodest and impossible to operate without the patient feeling horribly unclean. Moreover, I preferred a dry bed to a wet one, and having twice illustrated my inadequacy for the nurses, who then had the extra chore of changing my bed, I found them more than agreeable toward the idea of escorting me to the bathroom.
As I was helped to a sitting position, my mom looked on in unconcealed surprise, thinking that I would certainly cry out in pain. With an inquiring glance at one of the doctors, who happened to be making his rounds, he smiled proudly and explained that, although it was more difficult, they had worked around the stomach muscles during the surgery, rather than severing them. Thus I was spared the excruciating pain which further cutting would have wrought.
The adventure across the room was a success, and from that triumphant hour, I no longer necessitated a bed pan; I had secured a far better means of relief.
Although most of my hours spent in ICU consisted solely of rest, there were those aspects of each day which I learned to abhor. The most objectionable was the routine of pounding my back, enacted by one of the hospital staff, to insure that I would not accumulate fluid in my lungs. It was an obligatory function, I realized, yet it hurt dreadfully. As I was instructed to lay on my side, the ruthless process would begin, thereby releasing my protests as well. I remember that I would beg them to stop; angry that I had to endure such hostile treatment; I feared that the incision would burst open midway through the ordeal, spilling my organs onto the bed sheets; that frightful thought never materialized.
After a week of this stomach-wrenching routine, I was given a contraption which was composed of two bottles, connected by four plastic tubes, two of which were mouthpieces. One bottle contained a blue solution, while the other was completely empty. This, I was told, would be a substitute for the back-pounding if I would promise to use it often throughout the day. The object of the device was to blow through one mouthpiece with sufficient pressure as to transfer the contents of the full bottle into the empty one. Then, once completed, one would take up the alternate mouthpiece and repeat the process to return the fluid to its original canister. Even though this procedure was rather slow from the outset, I welcomed it if it would spare my incision the pain which resulted from the blows to my back.
Among my other daily routines were shots, administered twice to my thigh, and the blood profile, in which blood was drawn in the morning. Those who drew blood were quite practiced in that area and rarely created any unpleasant moments; when the veins in my arms became uncooperative through constant use, their faces did not waver in protest at the thought of probing my feet or ankles, which were in better condition and actually quite accessible.
On Friday, the IV which had been in position since Tuesday began to infiltrate, wherein the IV solution no longer ran only into the vein, but into the surrounding tissue as well. My hand started to puff, swelling into a spectacle which was twice the size of my other; with all of the misdirected solution seeping into the tissues, I also began to feel an annoying tightness which pained me when touched. I hoped that something would be done to alleviate my discomfort, without the expense of additional anguish, for at times, a remedy invited unforeseen unpleasantries greater than the one with which a patient was currently battling.
Dr. W. was called in the room to start a new IV in my other hand. I hoped it would not be an ordeal, and remained silent as the probing began. Aiming for a vein, the doctor edged the needle through my skin and missing his target, attempted to strike it again and again by manipulating the direction of the needle. I looked on, wincing, trying desperately not to think at all. His method was not succeeding, and he withdrew the needle to make ready to try another vein. Shifting his position, he pierced through the flesh, striving for another site. The vein rolled about, eluding the valid efforts of the doctor, and once again, he pulled the point from my hand to ready himself for his third attempt. I was holding my breath, uncertain how long I could withstand the slow, methodical jabbing. The needle was again thrust beneath my flesh, poking back and forth as each try was foiled; in exasperation, Dr. W. pulled the needle from my hand, stating resolutely, "I'm not going to hurt you again!" and fled the ward in search of another doctor to fill his duty.
Several minutes passed, and then a bearded doctor strode toward my bed, introducing himself as Dr. A. I greeted him politely, though quite wary, now, at the prospect of having to possibly relive the previous experience. My fears were groundless, however, for he quickly guided the needle into a vein and wrapped my hand to secure its position. I thanked him gratefully, branding his face and name into my memory. The following day I was transferred to the pediatrics ward, no longer requiring constant observation. It was a pleasing change; the rooms were light and cheerful in comparison to the ICU, and the hallways were brightly painted, having here and there, small lounges for the benefit of both the young patients and their families. The room boasted a TV, which, after four days of silence, was welcome entertainment. As an added bonus, I was now able to receive mail, as well as several lovely flower arrangements, which had not been allowed in the unit, and as a result, spent their first days at the nurse's station. The flowers and plants brought life and color to the room's overall whiteness, and reminded me of the genuine concern which, initially, I had been too alienated by pain to realize. The most important part of my day was the mail delivery; the majority of my cards and letters came from members of the church and my family. The church response was utterly amazing, and my days would have proven quite dreary had it not been for their continuous demonstration of awareness regarding my condition.
I learned the full story behind my operation after my transferral to pediatrics. "A base-ball sized tumor. . . ," I marveled. "Did they keep it?" Mine was a question spurred by outright surprise and wonder. I had no real desire to see the ugly mass. I remembered how the various organs looked floating in a pool of formaldehyde on the shelves of the biology room, and shuddered, not caring to see something which was, most likely, far more grotesque to the eye. "It was a low-grade form of cancer," Mom continued, "but they feel quite sure they got it all . . ."