Of Time, Love and Angels
Friday, January 4th, 2019
Seventeen days ago I was going about my day, a Tuesday no different from other Tuesdays. My cell phone rang; the caller ID was for my doctor’s office. A stern male voice told me that he was covering for Dr. Dianne Z., my PCP. I chose Dr. Z because her reputation for kindness, competence and caring felt like a good match for my complicated medical history. This male voice then read from a radiology report for a CT scan I had for persistent gut pain. All I remember clearly was that he said I had a 4.2 CM mass on my only kidney, that it likely was malignant and that he was referring to me to specialists that he worked with and that one of them would reach out to me within the next day. He told me not to draw any conclusions and to not panic.
A few hours later my phone rang again. Dr. Z’s caller id once more. Expecting the same stern voice, I was a bit flustered to hear a soothing voice. She identified herself as Mary, one of Dr. Z’s nurses. She said that plans had changed and that a Dr. H. would be calling me later. I did not make much of this. In the war zone that was my preoccupation with random thoughts, what was another new name?
I made some phone calls to loved ones, desperately wanting someone to tell me it was just a dream. Another stranger, this one named Amy, from Dr. H’s office, called and asked me to visit the doctor the next day.
The thoughts that ricocheted that night were dark. I should not have researched the basics of my condition. I woke up at 4 AM with an adrenaline rush. My Pug, Kiddo, continued to cuddle me. Her deep, rhythmic breathing somehow calmed me. I petted her head and choked back tears. All I could think was how I let her down when I promised her a forever home. I thought of my wife, my friends, and my family. Then the inner questions started. What did my life mean? Had I been a good person? What did my life amount to? Does anything really matter? I absorbed another object lesson that, yes, time is indeed relative.
As dawn dragged me awake, I prepared for what I knew would be an intense day. Keeping my routine was hard. Why take unpleasant pills for autoimmune problems, or for blood pressure or for anything else? Why bother? My drive to work was different - I wasn’t aggravated by the inbound traffic of Greentree Hill. I wished the traffic could be even slower. The Ft. Pitt Tunnels gave me a sense of comfort, a feeling of being wrapped in something familiar. As I walked from my leased parking spot on the North Shore, I noticed the glazed blocks that adorned the edifice of the Andy Warhol Museum. I’m sure I noticed them before. Didn’t I? Many of the old buildings on the North Shore exude an elegance that I first learned to appreciate in the architecture of older neighborhoods in New York City. How long did I live in NYC?
I surrendered to the rhythm of the workday. Yes, staying busy is a good idea. But who do I tell? How do I tell them? I looked out the windows along the east side of the building. The ashen light of an overcast Pittsburgh morning is really quite beautiful. The fifth-floor vantage revealed a slow, distant crawl of cars along the bridges and main roads. The banal can be poetic.
Time is fluid, warped and often battered by certain events and feelings. I was not sure of the timeline of events. Even in hindsight, I am still not. I left work to make my appointment with Dr. H. I don’t remember the trip or where I parked or how I found his office. After completing paperwork and waiting in a room full of indistinct voices, a slightly familiar voice called my name. It was Amy. She asked me some questions as she led me to an examination room. Again, time played its tricks. How long did I wait?
A confident, middle-aged man entered. He smiled broadly, shook my hand and introduced himself. How could his hand be so warm? Why was he smiling broadly? With a quick rush of words, he told me that I had a good-sized tumor that was likely malignant and that he could save my solitary kidney and that I was very probably going to be okay. How can someone convey multiple facts in a way that creates a simultaneous comprehension of those facts? Was it relative time, again? I suspect that certain healers have this ability. A bedside manner that comes from who-knows-where and develops at who-knows-what cost. We clicked instantly. He zeroed right in on my level of understanding and was patient when he tested that understanding. He said there was a 95% chance that my tumor was malignant but to not worry since it was so well encapsulated that I would likely not need chemo or radiation. He explained that regardless of the nature of the tumor, it should come out as soon as possible. He asked what I would like to do. I smiled and asked when his first opening was. He smiled again and said something to the effect of “I like that”. Normally, I’m cautious about all things medical. But I had already done my homework. I knew that he was widely respected.
Before I fast forward, let me say that I believe that Love is the purpose of life. That’s Love with a capital L. We all know what it is. Some of us don’t express it as often as we should. It’s the kind of love my sister Dianne expresses freely and often. She volunteered to get me to the hospital at the requisite time, a matter that required her to get up at 3:30 AM on the day of surgery. Dianne is a loving, giving person and I won’t embarrass her with a catalog of the things she does to give back to the world. I always liked her husband, Jimmy. But about 18 years ago, after Dianne began her own battle with a dreaded cancer diagnosis, he called me to talk. “Rob”, he said, “We have cancer”. He didn’t say “Dianne has cancer”. He said, “WE have cancer”. That’s when I truly Loved Jimmy for the first time. And that’s the kind of Love that gives purpose to life.
OK, so there I was, gutted like a fish with at least six tubes in my body but feeling no pain. Twelve hours post-op under my belt. However, it seemed as though days were passing. Time was surely playing tricks again. How can days pass without me seeing daylight outside the window to my left? And just how is it that someone can go days without having to pee? Really? When my catheter backed up, I had the answer to that question! Only the clock on the wall facing my bed gave me the footing to comprehend the slow agony of open surgeries once the medication begins to wear off. Hours can seem like days. I faded in and out as nurses whose names, despite being on twelve-hour shifts for continuity, I couldn’t remember. I later learned that Mister Morphine or one of his siblings had something to do with that.
I don’t believe in literal Angels. But I do believe in the metaphorical kind. These angels dressed my wounds, tended to intimate matters and guided me to a rapid recovery. If a nurse ever tells you to get up and move, you had better get up and move!
I recovered quickly but I still faced the matter of a certain pathology report. I was told that it could take a couple of weeks to complete because of all the testing that needed to be done. Sequencing the tumor wasn’t something to be rushed. And now I come to the point of this missive.
Yesterday I kept my post-surgical appointment with Dr. Z. She was sisterly, motherly, nurturing and happy. She told me that the pathology report was done and the reason it was completed so quickly was that the tumor was a rare kind called an Oncocytoma. I instantly knew what that meant. The tumor was benign. I suddenly realized that happiness has a powerful anesthetic effect. It’s also one of those forces that makes time so relative. She told me that she was not happy with how my situation was first communicated to me. Her backup doctor had tried to steer me to a practice that he had a financial interest in. I have since done some research on these folks. They are B team players, people who one day might be as qualified as Dr. H but for now, had nowhere near the skill and experience of Dr. H. My mind was still a bit cloudy yesterday. Still is today. And when I left the exam room Dr. Z. introduced me to Mary. Mary was smiling ear to ear and I got the feeling that I was missing the significance of our introduction. Time was at it again. On the way home, roughly halfway between Dr. Z’s office in Cranberry and my home in Robinson, it hit me. Mary was the one who intervened and made sure that doctors with a commercial motivation had nothing to do with my case. She took the initiative to contact the absolute best surgeon, one with a reputation for the best outcomes in spite of taking high risk cases. Mary was my angel, my guide.
I tried to call Mary today but only the answering machine picked up. I don’t know what to say to her. If you’ve read this far, I’d like your suggestions.
