Laughing at Cancer. Ros Ben-Moshe
hand and comfort me. Why did they have to keep disappearing? All I could see were empty beds.
Finally my mask was removed, but still I was sinking deeper. Words once again failed me. My heart rate was over 128 beats per minute, at times faster. I faintly overheard discussions about the need to page my anaesthetist and another nurse saying it was nearly 3am. 3am? How could it be? My operation was at 2pm. Simultaneously I wanted to throw up and pass out. Thankfully I must have surrendered to sleep because when I next opened my eyes I was in a different room with 5 or so other people—one of them scream-ing to get the nurses’ attention. The beeping of machines filled the room; that and the loud cries of the woman opposite me. Why was she so inconsiderate? Couldn’t she see she was not the only one here? I needed peace and quiet. My heart still seemed to be beating extraneously from my body. I felt like death warmed up yet mustered a smile when a kindly nurse asked if I wanted an oxygen mask. No way did I want that suffocating apparel anywhere near me again. Instead I opted for more morphine.
At least I knew I was alive! I just couldn’t move more than a millimetre without pain gripping every part of my body neck down.
What a mammoth operation, to put it mildly! No one could have prepared me for its enormity. And I don’t blame them; how could they? Thankfully with no live experience of operations (save for wisdom teeth extraction) my only point of reference in terms of non-worldly pain was childbirth, and what a doddle that was!
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for delivering me to the other side. I am filled with boundless gratitude for all the love and support I have received. Let the healing and recovery begin!
Xoxoxoxoxoxo
20 June 2011
Time in Hospital
Seconds feel like minutes, minutes like hours, hours like days. Time passes agonisingly slowly. Willing it to go quicker is counterproductive; the clock ticks even slower. The hands on my watch are my enemy. A cheap Thai special, the hour hand does not fall on the hour and in the dim and darkened night light. I can never be sure of the exact time. I have been tricked into thinking it was a full hour later only to downheartedly realise on closer inspection it is a full hour earlier. Can’t it be morning yet?
I am slowly becoming accustomed to a different rhythm. At home, mornings begin anytime from the first bird song to the rude awakenings of the neighbour’s courier vans revving into action. Obnoxious noise pollution, together with real pollution, infiltrates and permeates our slumber and bedroom. Here I drift in and out of consciousness marred by the sounds of beeping drip machines, alarms ringing and the shuffling of nurses’ footsteps bypassing my room. The closest thing to a 6.45am alarm call is the clanging of the water trolley, getting louder and louder as it approaches my bedroom door. I want it to go away. Please leave me alone.
I strain to utter ‘no ice’ as my raspy first words of the day, belated-ly followed by a guilty ‘thank you’. Every morning I wonder how people can begin their day by imbibing an icy cold fluid that jolts their inner system in a manner more akin to shock therapy than hydration therapy. Surely the best and kindest thing for your body is to drink beverages at room temperature or even warmer?
Please can’t time pass quicker? Can’t I be well enough to go home already? I don’t know what’s worse at times, the physical pain or the pain of time passing so slowly. I lie around waiting. In theory I’d love to have visitors but am in no way up to it. I’m not used to ‘being visited’ as a passive patient. Revealing a part of myself that should only be shared with the closest of family or friends is just not something I’m comfortable with. I’m not on exhibition.
Let’s face it, I feel lousy. Yet, I am fully aware that I am the lucky one. I think of all those patients whose stays in hospitals are so long that the familiarity of home fades into something from the past—unattainable and removed—a distant memory, and perhaps one that will stay as just that.
I continue staring at the hands of my watch as they slowly tick over. On the one hand I relax into the moment and count my blessings; whilst on the other I conjure up images of my body being able to heal in fast-forward motion, like time-lapse photography.
Recount a time when time has moved agonisingly slowly.
What, if anything, did you do to speed up the passage of time? Did it help?
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21 June 2011
Regrowth…Reborn
Today a lady bearing a folder and friendly disposition came into my room enquiring if I would be happy to be part of a National Colorectal Cancer Audit—a database administered by the hospital with patient information to inform best-practice and research. As a public health practitioner I did not need any convincing. Feeling useful and with a renewed sense of purpose, unhesitatingly I signed up. She stayed a few moments before leaving an information sheet for me to read.
Her footsteps petered out into the room next door as I glanced at the sheet. On it was an explanation of the operation I had just had, and would you believe it, the name for this procedure derives from the Ancient Greek word neoplasia meaning ‘new growth’. Just another confirmation that perhaps—at an existen-tial or unconscious level—I chose this procedure to allow myself to grow. Indeed, what better way to enable growth than surgery? You can’t be more clear-cut than that. Out with the old!
I’m constantly amazed at the array of positive things that have occurred these past weeks. I feel so supported, and it’s not just because of earthly love. Honestly I feel like a band of genies magically appeared when the rug was rudely ripped from under my feet, some grasping its four corners whilst others shuffled around supporting any sagging areas. Then rather than succumb to the harsh disorienting fall I feared, I landed on a pile of life-sized marshmallow, not slap bang and out of control. For this I am eternally grateful.
Since my decision to have the ‘peace of mind’ operation, I feel as though I’ve been given an opportunity to metamorphose, to be reborn. Reinforcing this feeling is the fact that the operation somehow rebooted my personal calendar. The day after became ‘Day one post-op’, followed by ‘Day two post-op’ akin to a baby being born. Today I am nine days old!
As with babies, after a bowel resection food is introduced gradually and slowly with notes taken on any reaction or allergy. Some assimilate and digest well, while others leave me with chronic diarrhoea, pain and bloating. There’s no other way of putting it, this wind and inexplicable pain feels like colic!
Babies are loved unconditionally; everyone showers them in love—same with me. I have been bathed in so much love, which has been absolutely remarkable and extremely comforting.
I delight in minor achievements; taking my first step post-op, also lauded by staff, which in time has resulted in more adventur-ous ward walks that were marvelled and praised. So much love, so much encouragement.
At some level, perhaps, this shows me what it is like to be born, once again: being helpless, dependent and desirous of unconditional love and support. I’ve had people washing me, wiping me down and cleaning away my poo. I even have deodorised nappy sacks and