It's All Happening At The ER

I ended up going. To the ER. I always said that I would die first. 

Turns out the human spirit is just that strong. 

I got my new brand of chemo on September 26. The next evening, I started having trouble swallowing. Well, I could swallow. But, then whatever I tried to eat or drink seemed to get stuck halfway down and then come right back up. 

I toughed it out through the night until Saturday morning. Finally, I consented to go to the ER. I was weak to the point of barely being able to walk. 

I had been hoping that if there was food stuck in my esophagus, it would dislodge itself. One of the rare side effects of this new chemo was "difficulty swallowing" and I did not want to have this. This chemo is my last chance. I've gone through everything else on the list. If I couldn't tolerate this or if it didn't work, it would mean moving on to palliative care. 

I needed this to work. 

ERs are very workmanlike. Since, I was basically choking on my own saliva, I was moved into a room very quickly and given a handy dandy do dad thing to spit into, sort of like the slurper thing at the dentist's office. It sure beat the cup I was spitting into. 

One of the big complaints in any ER is that everything takes forever and this was true for me as well. Once, I was laying on a cart, spitting into my tube and it was proven that my vitals weren't terrible, I was left to wait for a doctor. 

2 1/2 hours. T worked on her dissertation and corrected papers for school. I spit into a tube morosely. I was salivating like a crazy person. Our nurse, Linni, kept coming in to assure us that Dr. Q would be in shortly. 

He finally showed up, looking like all ER doctors. Overworked. Exhausted. He told me that I needed to see the GI team, but that they had just left and would have to be called back in from the parking lot or on their way home. 

Great. Good moods all around, I surmised. 

Another hour passed. Then a GI PA came in and told us that her name was Nan and that there were orders in to get me an ex-ray, some lab work, and that I would need to pee in a cup and then I would get an endoscopy. 

All of these procedures were done by separate people. I had now moved from merely regurgitating my own spit to actively vomiting whatever the hell was still inside of me. Not much, it seemed. 

I had the tests before the endoscopy. Then, Nan came in to tell me that an emergency had come up and that the team was now working on another guy. A bleeder. 

Okay. Blood beats vomit. I get it. 

Another hour and a half. 

At last, I was taken to the operating room. Greeted by two very jolly nurses, considering that they had been making their escape this morning only to be called back in before they made it to their cars. They told me that this happens all the time. One nurse, D, said that when she was on call on Christmas, she sat down to dinner 3 times and was called in three times. 

"Finally, I just grabbed a piece of pie and ate it in the car at stop lights." 

She also told me not to worry about it. That they had all came back into the building and decided to eat lunch in the cafeteria before they tended to me since I was not considered to be an emergency. 

I liked her less after that. She didn't need to tell me that. I'm sure it happens all the time, but I didn't need to know that while I was sitting in that bed spitting into a tube and worrying to myself that I now had cancer growing on my esophagus, they were having a tasty lunch. 

"Well, and then we had that guy come in who was bleeding, so we had to push you back even further," she said. "I think we'll be here all day." 

My heart is bleeding all over for you here, lady. 

As she leaned over me to hook up my oxygen, I could smell onions on her breath. I tried not to gag. 

I have learned a secret that all cancer patients know. It helps if the people who are taking care of you like you. I always ask about children, etc. And whereas I never used to remember names, now I make a strong mental note of anyone's name and I use it. I ask Nurse Misty how her back is doing today, if those exercises are working. I ask Nurse Mandy how her pumpkin garden is doing. I ask the techie who takes my blood pressure, temperature and weighs me every time I visit the doctor (which is usually weekly), how her wedding plans are coming along. 

So, I knew that Nurse D really liked game shows. We talked about funny questions and answers on Family Feud. I detest Family Feud. Yet, now I know that 48% of people polled believe that if Martha Stewart found lint in her belly button, she would use it to cook with. I am not kidding. 

I finally met Dr. M, who would perform my surgery. He looked bored out of his mind. He said, "Since you say that you haven't eaten much since chemo, I am inclined to believe that we might find some lesions or growths on your esophagus. I will get a biopsy and you will probably have a few days hospital stay. But, we won't know anything until we get in there. You haven't been eating jewelry or any coins lately, have you?"

We all had a good laugh over that one. Mine was probably not as hearty as the rest of them. Because I was the one who might have cancer growing on my esophagus. This made me think. I take over 30 pills a day. How would I ingest those pills if I had no workable esophagus? A feeding tube? How lovely. How long a hospital stay would that involve? What more could go wrong? Or was this a side effect of the new chemo? Would I be taken off of it and then what? 

I guess die. 

But, hey, I was dying anyway, right? Just in slow motion. These thoughts wandered through my mind while Dr. M was probably wondering if he had time for a golf game and Nurse D was thinking about Martha Stewart's lint. While T was sitting in the waiting room, working on her dissertation and trying not to worry about me dying during anesthesia.

A mask was placed over my face and I was told to take three deep breaths. I took two and was out. When I came awake again, the other nurse, Nurse Merritt, was speaking to me in a loud voice. 

"Mrs. L? Do you plan to sleep all day? C'mon. Time to come out of it. Wake up." 

I groggily reached up to touch my face, to see if I was still there. I was. I tried to talk, was unable to get a sound out. 

"Don't try to talk. You've had a breathing tube down your throat. You were pretty beat up in there! Took us all by surprise. You didn't seem to be in THAT much pain. Doctor? She's finally awake."

She said this like I'd been out on a bender and was just coming back. I saw Dr. M's face looming over me. 

"Well, you had quite a plug up in the bottom of your esophagus. It looked like mostly pills, maybe a little bread?"

At that moment, I remembered it. T handing me a half slice of a bagel, coaxing me to eat. This is what she does after every chemo. She tries to get me to eat anything. Lately, bagels had been staying down. I was tired. I was sick to death of her trying to get me to eat. I had taken a big bite of that bagel, barely chewed it and swallowed it just to make her be quiet. And it had gotten stuck. 

Dr. M continued. "I was able to push almost everything into your stomach, but your esophagus is pretty ripped up and raw. It is also nearly swollen shut. Think of a hollowed out pencil. That is about how much room you have to get food down. So, a soft diet for a few days to allow it to heal. And chew, chew, chew before you swallow. Also? I didn't see any growths in your esophagus, so once you come out of your stupor, we can send you home. We also gave you a bag of sodium and nutrients. You are very dehydrated."

A wash of relief went over me so deeply that I nearly cried. 

No growths. No growths. Thank you. 

I dozed off again and when I woke up, T was there. I grabbed her hand, made her reiterate what Dr. M had told me. Had I been dreaming? I had not. 

We had arrived at the ER around 9 a.m. When we got home, it was nearly dark. Just time enough for me to sip some milk and eat a bite of jello. 

And take all of my pills. Torture. One by one. I felt each one slide down my aching esophagus. I sipped about a half cup of water with each one. Then, a hot shower and bed. I woozily laid back, holding T's hand, listening to her talk. Listening to her say that she had willed that she would not have let them admit me, that she would have brought me home to sleep in our own bed, no matter what. 

"I know how much you fear hospital stays. If push came to shove and they had made you stay, I would have slept in the chair next to you all night long. I would NEVER leave you alone. I know how that scares you." 

The lump in my throat was huge. We talked about how thankful we were that there were no growths. Me in my new froggy whisper and she in her new false bravado. We talked about how we knew that those days were coming. 

But, not yet. Please not yet. 

I fell asleep with my hand in hers and woke up a few hours later thinking that I was having a heart attack. I realized that, for the first time in my life, I was experiencing heartburn. Me, the one with the cast iron stomach. The one who could eat anything, no matter how hot it was.

The doctor had told me to expect it for a long time. 


"Your esophagus is not a happy organ right now. It will complain in a big voice. Plus, cancer weakens all of your organs. Your esophagus may not be able to muscle food through to your stomach as it once did. This may be your new normal." 

He had given me a scrip for intensive Prilosec and advised supplementing it with Tums until the pain subsided. 

It's been over a week now. I have had my second dose of chemo. Slowly, my esophagus seems to be healing. Since my white blood cell count is low, this will take time. I know this. I've been living on Atkins shakes, pudding, yogurt, and jello. 

I still feel the pills go down. 

But, for now....there are no cancerous growths on my esophagus. I am thankful for this. 

It is strange what you are thankful for when you have cancer. You are grateful that you can dress yourself. Drive. Read a new book. (Try Augusten Burroughs' new offering, "Toil and Trouble".) Watch the season premiere of Goliath. 

Eat a cracker. Just a few small bites, well chewed. Open a text from your sister and see new videos of her new great granddaughter. Sip a pumpkin latte and feel the warm smoothness trickling down your throat. Your throat which has no new growths. 

See the first gold leaf of the Autumn. 

Fall asleep every night with your hand in your wife's ever understanding, ever devoted hand. 

This is life. It is not what I hoped for, but it is what I received. And it will do just fine.