The universe gave us a little reminder on Friday not to take what we have forgranted.
My Dad went in for a knee replacement. Nothing urgent, in fact the doctors and nurses teased him he was there by his own free will and was, indeed, asking for it. Knee surgery ... in our world, the world of kidney transplants, three hip replacements, infections, hospital stays running weeks to months and calls in the middle of the day announcing cardiac arrest ... in that world, knee surgery is pretty mild.
So my family very calmly and almost nonchalantly prepared for the surgery. Mom and I took off work to be with Dad on the day of the surgery. They picked me up and we went to the hospital. We checked in and soon they took Dad to be prepped. We got to see him and sat and chatted waiting for the doctor to give the final go ahead by ceremonious marking of the body part to be cut on.
He arrived and looked at Dad's leg. As he was feeling the knee, he stopped and looked at Dad. "What's this lump?" he asked. Dad said it was nothing, a bump from something that happened during the summer, it appeared and never went away. But never got any bigger either.
His doctor shook his head with a frown. "It feels like a tumor," he said. He went on to explain that in addition to elective knee surgeries, he removed cancerous tumors ... tumors that were often discovered when people came in for different procedures or scheduled check ups. "Most of the time bumps bring the tumors out to the surface. Do you know how stupid it would be for me to cut on your knee with a tumor there?"
I think the bottom of all our stomachs dropped out from under us. I had to sit down. Dad put his arm over his eyes. Tumor. Cancer.
"What can we do so I can get his surgery today?" my dad asked.
His doctor explained a MRI would show if it was a tumor or something else like a fat pocket or fluid, etc. "But there's little chance they'll be able to fit you in today," he said.
"So do the surgery and we'll deal with the lump later," my dad decided.
His doctor shook his head. "If I did a biopsy when I was in there today, we still wouldn't know for sure. Because I could only take part of it and miss more behind or beneath it."
He took out his marker and drew a circle on the bed sheet, coloring one section of the circle. The part that changes a person's life.
"Let me make a call," he said. With that he disappeared down the hall.
The nurse hovered at the door ... "Are you okay?" she asked in a whisper. I can't remember if anyone answered.
We could hear his doctor, who I found out is a neighbor of my parents, give orders to nurses around him.
He came back in. "Dr. So-and-So is a friend and is able to squeeze you in. The transport team should get you over now. Then we'll see what'll happen next."
So they cart my dad away. A nurse explains we where we can wait and it'll take 45 minutes to an hour to find out.
We run an errand then sit in the waiting room. Stare at the floor. Look at magazines. Watch the clock. I wipe at tears that keep creeping up to my eyes. Finally they call our name.
We do our best not to run to the prep room. And there, they are prepping. We look to the nearest nurse. Surgery? What did the MRI indicate? "It was just fluid from where he hit his leg. The OR was held for him. We're getting ready to take him back."
Well. That's an hour or so that reduced my life span.
Our hearts and stomachs settle back to their respective places and we take a deep breath. Talking and joking like we were before, this time with renewed perspective for the good things in life. The nurse who hovered previously walked past and said "I see smiles, it must have been good news." I also hear that sentiment and others like "Fluid from a bump" and "Not cancerous" travel down the hallway to the various staff connected to the surgery.
A nurse steps behind the bed and prepares to push it away, said, "Now's the time for hugs and kisses." Dad looks at us and gives a quick wave. "Later."
We go back to the waiting room, almost giddy, so relieved and ready for the wait ahead, because the hard part was over.
Of course that wait was another five or six hours. Nothing like spending 12 hours of one day at the hospital.
Plus another 16 over the next two days ...
I'm so, so tired. I forgot just how much it takes out of you. So emotionally drained and overwhelmed at the same time.
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