TWENTY THREE

My new oncologist was in Las Vegas, which meant more frequent trips there, something I didn’t mind at all. My step-daughter and her four kids are there, two of my old friends lived there, and I probably don’t have to tell you about the great food. I’m not much for gambling as I always lose, so it’s not much fun. On the other hand, my sin nature can be fulfilled if I allow it. On my first visit to the good doctor, I stayed at the newly remodeled Planet Hollywood, where there were beautiful dancing girls right there in the casino. I would only stare for a few seconds at a time; after all I’m a Christian, right? Then I’d go up to my room and pray for them. So here I am praying that G-d will heal my latest dread disease, that few live more than a year once they’re diagnosed, and I’m already into it a year, and then praying for a dancer’s salvation that I’ve sinned with through the lust of my eyes. It was only a few seconds of lust, I’d tell myself. I’d go to bed early every night and not seek any further thrills, but I knew I was still stuck in a lifelong sexual addiction, however many seconds transpired. Who will deliver me from this body of sin?

The pills actually worked at first; the ascites liquid in my abdomen diminished somewhat. But I found that I had just about every side effect you can have in the small print, so I couldn’t say I felt any better, just different. I took them for ten months until a new ct-scan showed that the cancer had grown and I was taken off the sorafenib. I was now given several options, of which I chose standard chemotherapy. I dutifully reported this news to one of the mesothelioma boards on the internet, half hoping that someone would suggest an alternative. And that’s what happened; I was told of a doctor in Baltimore I hadn’t previously heard of, that does the equivalent of that six-month ordeal in only ten days. Was it too good to be true? Nastassia and I were swiftly off to the east coast to check into it. I only hoped I hadn’t waited too long to qualify. My stomach was now swelled up to the size of a maybe 7-month pregnancy.

My daughter’s class had visited our nation’s capitol shortly after 9-11, but I was still queasy about the idea of flying then, and convinced her that I’d take her to Washington someday if she stayed home. I’d also promised her a trip to New York. Who’d imagine that I would fulfill both these promises by contracting a deadly cancer? Does G-d work in mysterious ways?

The weather in Washington was horrendous, intense rain and freezing cold; it was January after all. We had a fabulous time, though, traveling on the seemingly excellent and clean subway system (weeks before a deadly accident occurred), eating great Thai & Indian food, and of course visiting the museums and sights. As it turned out, unbeknownst to us one of my cousins lived in nearby Arlington. I was close with his two older brothers while growing up, and hadn’t seen their sibling since he was about nine years old. He graciously let us crash with him, which not only saved us a lot of cash, but was a terrific reunion. On the medical side of things our first stop was the National Cancer Institute to inquire about an experimental program there, but it was only for pleural (lung) mesothelioma, not for my type. They recommended the operation with Dr. Alexander, whom we had an appointment with two days later.

After asking me a few questions, the doctor said that he thought I would definitely profit from the debulking procedure, provided that I returned there within two months at the latest. He explained that after opening my abdomen, he would actually peel the tumors off, then finish off with a chemo 'wash'. He said he believed this would possibly add ten years to my life. I agreed to return within the appointed time, true to form waiting almost the entire two months. This time I flew into Baltimore alone via three planes and almost a day of traveling. The operation was scheduled for February 25^th. I prayed that I would make it alive for my sixty-first birthday, which was the following day.

My dad and sister met me in Baltimore for moral support and who knows, maybe they thought it might be the last time they’d see me alive? I had tried to dissuade them from coming, thinking they should put it off until I got out of the hospital instead. My sister-in-law Judy even wanted to fly there with me. I couldn’t see what the fuss was; I’d had operations before; this was just another one. Diana and Nastassia were coming to pick me up when I was discharged, and cousin Alan from Arlington was even going to visit me. I didn’t want to trouble anyone unnecessarily. I would do my 10 days, watch a lot of TV, eat a lot of Jell-o ® and just have a nice vacation from work.

I checked out of my hotel and walked the two blocks to the hospital early on the morning of the operation. As they were preparing me, two aides asked how I’d arrived there. I replied that I walked; it was only two blocks. They looked at each other funny and said, “you don’t know Baltimore”! A few moments later, but actually eight hours, I regained consciousness. They’d tried to revive me earlier, but I don’t remember it except for a voice saying “leave him his belly-button”.

I was now in a waiting area as a room and bed were being prepared for me, supposedly. The nurses and aides in this area were wonderful and making quite a fuss over me. I was extremely thirsty and was given some sticks with which to wet my lips. But I was not allowed to actually drink or even swallow any water. This was a rule I found absolutely impossible to follow to the letter. I swallowed a drop here and there. I can’t remember ever feeling that thirsty ever. On the other side of a makeshift 'wall' was a visitor’s area, and I could clearly hear every conversation. Some of it was quite annoying, fighting, cursing and so forth. But any minute I imagined I’d be moving upstairs to a large private room. About twelve hours later I was finally on the move.

My room was indeed large, and had a really nice view according to my visitors. I would get to see it myself in a couple of days. The first night in there was horrendous, however. It was still the night shift when I arrived, and the care given me was certainly 'of the night'. The techs could not wire me up to the equipment correctly and just gave up. I tried to sleep but electronic sounds and warning lights emanating from whatever I was attached to precluded any possibility of rest. The opium based pain drug was causing paranoia, and I began to 'remember' weird things that had no basis in reality. There was no response when I pushed my emergency button. The door to the room being open, I could hear plenty of activity going on amongst the employees, mainly laughing and flirting. I thought I heard eating and drinking as well, perhaps I was intruding on their coffee break time. I pushed the button again. A voice answered from the gadget, “what’s wrong”. I replied that emergency signals were going off and making a lot of noise. No help arrived.

I was strongly beginning to think that they were not only ignoring me but actually trying to kill me. I know that doesn’t make sense, but at this point my sense was gone and I began yelling for help. This too was ignored, even though hospital employees continued to walk past my room. I continued to yell as loud as I could to no avail. I guess I managed to sleep a bit, but my dreams were absolutely insane. Eventually morning arrived and with it a change to the day shift and a bit of normalcy.

My new nurse arrived with a nurse in training, a clumsy young man more suited for football than medicine I thought, and he proceeded to correct the mistakes of the past evening, thankfully under his teacher’s watchful eye. This was after all a teaching hospital, but this fellow was either a rank beginner or as my sister observed, a person with no faculty whatsoever for this work. “Look, you’ve left some stitches in his neck”, the nurse corrected. Apparently I’d had an IV in my neck that was not completely removed. He couldn’t see any stitches. She pointed them out and he attempted to remove one with the grace of an auto mechanic. I was certainly relieved when she lost patience and removed them herself. She only stopped in once more towards the end of her shift and the trainee likewise made himself scarce.

There were plenty of other folks checking on me throughout the day, however. Every hour or so I’d get a poke in my finger to check my blood sugar. My temperature was likewise checked often. A person would empty the garbage every couple of hours, replacing the bag even if it was still unused. Early each day a team of doctors would come in for a brief chat. I couldn’t wait to rat out the first night’s team. They listened attentively to my complaint, looked at each other and kind of chuckled, one saying that the night shift can sometimes be like that. Some people, he said, even took that job in order to have somewhere to sleep! I was assured that I wouldn’t be assigned that same nurse again. This first team of doctors and their assistants were presumably present at my operation. They were helpful and positive although their visits were brief.

A second team of doctor-types would check on me afterwards. These were more serious, unsmiling and unfriendly. They looked to be of middle-eastern origin which only increased my drug-induced paranoia. If the first team told me that one or another tube would be removed from me that day, this second team would say no it was too soon. When I was hoping to be discharged on my final day they shook their heads in dismay and told me not to count on it. Was this because I’m Jewish? When they asked to see my wound, they freaked when it looked like I might expose my whosis. I never heard of doctors that can’t look at a naked patient.

I only saw my actual surgeon once or twice before the final day, so even with all these doctors looking in, I really could only guess how I was doing. Unlike my doctors back home that always give me a straight answer, everything here was rather vague. Most of the time it was the techs, the employees that handled most of the chores, attending to my needs. My first challenge on the day after the operation, my birthday, was to get out of the bed and sit in a chair for a couple of hours. What a fuss they made that I was actually able to do this! When the pain expert showed up late that first afternoon, I complained that I was being given too much of that opium stuff and she reduced my dose slightly. This didn’t affect my dreams at all, however.

I had one dream that I was a British agent investigating the Beatles, another one that I was abducted by a flying saucer. When I awoke from the latter, I found myself in a strange room very similar to the hospital room yet different in subtle ways. For one thing, the clock on the wall had enigmatic numbers on it. I tried for the longest time to figure out if I was really in the hospital after all, but for the life of me I could not figure out what time it was. It turned out that I was still in the hospital after all, just loaded on that opium. The clocks there really were just weird; in fact when I was moved into my next room a few days later, the clock had cardboard taped over it by the request of the last patient! I had them remove it, however; I’d figured out by then how to read the darn things.

Oh, I could nitpick all day, having to lie in a soaking wet bed for hours, being awakened every hour or two during the night just to take my blood sugar even though I don’t have diabetes, etc. but I suppose these things are routine in every hospital when one has an overnight stay. On the other hand, there were some great employees in this hospital whose names I’ve forgotten so they’ll be unsung heroes. For example an impossibly friendly young lady in her late 20’s that helped me to walk, that was assigned to me several nights in a row. Night shift took on a whole new life.

One of the contraptions attached to my body was called a Foley tube or more accurately a 'thingy' tube (use your imagination). Had I been Dr. Foley I certainly would not have wanted this to be named after me. I also had a tube lodged down my throat. Both of these would have to be removed before I could move to the next room. I asked my sister if she’d please stay in Baltimore a few more days, admitting that I was not an island, could not make it alone, and was scared stiff in that hospital. The two of us really bonded during those days, even if I mostly napped and she mostly did Sudoku puzzles.

Everything did not proceed exactly smoothly. Although the ascites liquid was drained during the operation, I still had a little tum afterwards and was taken to the building’s basement for an emergency CT-scan. The CT scan is a procedure that exposes the patient to up to 500 times the amount of radiation than a typical x-ray. They can be given as often as every three months to people in my condition, but this was now my second one in only a few weeks. And true to form, the techs hooked me up to the machine incorrectly (“oops, looks like they used the other kind of plug”) and had to repeat it! The report, when I finally got to hear about it, was that I had new ascites caused by the operation, but there was no sign of cancer. I was told the ascites would eventually be absorbed by my body and disappear.

My breathing was another area of concern. Again I was taken downstairs for an emergency x-ray, and it was determined that I had fluid in both lungs, another by-product of the operation. Yet another contraption was affixed to my body, to drain one of the lungs, one more thing that could prolong my stay there. I had every intention of keeping to that 10-day program, although I was never promised an exact number of days. The x-rays continued daily right through my final morning there. My heart rate was double my usual, only coming down to earth after my return home. I was on oxygen during most of my stay there as well. Would I ever get home?

I didn’t keep any notes, so forgive me if I don’t remember everything exactly, but on about the fourth day I was moved to another room where I was finally fed some food, liquidy soft things like applesauce, hot cereal and ice cream. The next challenge looming would be to graduate to solid food, which could only happen when I had my first BM. There used to be a product that was heavily advertised on AM radio in the fifties called Haley’s MO. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but my grandma Rose always used to ask me, “did you MO today?”. Did I what, I asked the first time. “Eh, eh” she said. I knew what she meant after that. Now, fifty years later, this was my objective, my goal, my quest.

My sister was back home now, having held my hand so to speak during the initial difficult days. But I was not alone. Before being admitted to the hospital I had read an article by Charles Stanley, handily part of my Businessman’s Bible, about laying all one’s problems and fears at the feet of Jesus. Of course I was aware of this basic precept of Christianity for nearly twenty years. But actually doing it is different than just being aware of it. I didn’t know for sure that I would ever get out of that hospital. And even if the cancer was gone, would one of my other ailments kill me straight-away? Would I ever see my family again? And on this particular day I wondered, would I ever 'MO' again?

I was elated, but not exactly surprised, when I first attempted to lay my fears at Christ’s feet. It was when I awoke from that dream when I didn’t know where I was, in the hospital or circling the earth somewhere. I just told Him, I can’t deal with all this, I’m yours to do with as you please. Take me home with you if you like, or begin my healing process, but You be in charge and leave me out of it. At once I felt profound peace. It was so great to stop worrying about everything for a while. Of course worries return and this procedure must be repeated often. Really it’s just speaking to G-d, and while I would never again attempt anything crazy like trying to hear His actual voice, He’s G-d and has no problem speaking to our hearts and consciences. Yes, He speaks through His Word, the Holy Bible, but He’s not limited solely to that.

Alone in the bathroom of all places, trying as hard as I could to achieve my immediate goal but having no luck, I thought about praying. Now, I almost never pray in the bathroom; it just doesn’t seem to be an appropriate place. I don’t read the Bible in there either. I read somewhere that Muslims don’t place Quran’s in hotel rooms because someone might bring it in the bathroom which would be disrespectful. On the other hand, I do believe that G-d can be prayed to everywhere and anywhere.

While I was thinking about whether or not to pray, suddenly a flood of memories filled my head. These were real memories, not drug-induced, of times I had sinned the sin of lust while a Christian. They were not unconfessed sins, but they amounted to a pattern of sin that weighed heavily on my conscience. I loved to flirt and fantasize. Even though I knew that as a Christian I could never have a girlfriend 'on the side', I still loved the idea of it. In an Italian movie I once saw, a deceased guy’s wife and mistress are both at his funeral. I thought that was so cool. I knew what Jesus taught in the Sermon on the Mount, and that thoughts of adultery easily lead to committing the act, so much so that we are guilty of adultery if we’ve ever imagined it. I prided my self-control that since I’d been saved I’ve been faithful to my wife. According to Jesus, however, I was just fooling myself; I’d committed adultery seven times seventy times.

Who was it reminding me of my despicable acts? It might have been the Devil; he often does things like that. But whether the Devil or my conscience, it became obvious that the things of the world, flesh and Devil were compromising my walk with the L-rd. I finally began to understand the verse that says we cannot serve two masters. I bowed my head and prayed. I believed that G-d removed my desire and ability to enjoy sexual sin that day. This doesn’t mean that I now live a life free of temptation. But when I can abide in Jesus, why would I want to partner with Satan? Why would I think that I can do what no one has ever done, serve two masters. It’s all especially crazy when I consider that my wife is truly all the woman I could ever need. Although she’s a scant few years my younger, she’s still trim, slim, beautiful, and has the appearance of someone half her age. What am I, crazy? Dear reader, you know.

Having my attention, G-d wasn’t finished with me. I felt a strong urge to place a display ad in the local paper back home, apologizing to any of my customers who I’d wronged in any way over the years, even offering cash refunds where necessary. Oh no, G-d was teaching me to love my neighbor and hold him/her in higher esteem than myself! Have your way L-rd.

Eventually every roadblock to the ten-day plan was removed. On the last day fifty metal staples were removed from my wound, the lung device and every other tube, wire and hookup were removed. A dietician spoke to me urging a high protein diet. The surgeon himself pulled some strings to get me released; urging me to eat anything I wanted (loved that advice). He advised that after studying my cancer cells under the microscope that they were a type that grows back the slowest. He said that I might need further chemotherapy at some point. He prescribed a few drugs to take home, and there was still some last minute tension over whether the pharmacy could fill the prescriptions quickly enough so that we didn’t miss our flight. But we made it with plenty of time to spare. Diana and Nastassia had flown in a few days earlier and were staying in an upscale B&B that I’d found online. Diana always laments that it typically rains on her birthday. I hoped her birthday this year would at least be somewhat sweet even if she had to be 3000 miles from home picking up her sickly old man. One of her sister’s sent chocolates, her other sister flowers (although sadly she checked out before they arrived), and the B&B provided champagne.

Another reason that some at the hospital hesitated to let me out was the long plane ride home. Most of their mesothelioma patients did not come from so far away. But after all, we had to fly coast-to-coast whichever day, so it really didn’t make any sense to keep me there for that reason. The second leg of the trip home was rather tough. About 40 minutes into Medford I had to ask the stewardess for some oxygen. Even Diana complained that it was difficult to breathe on the plane. An oxygen tank was quickly provided and was certainly a boon. When the plane landed, however, the pilot announced that no one would be able to leave the plane until I was attended to! A Mercy Flights plane moved towards us and two men came aboard to see if I was breathing OK. I was embarrassed, breathing fine, glad to be home and profusely apologized to everyone for delaying them!

I was sure that I’d dream I was still in the hospital. While that never manifested, night times were difficult. The first week I woke up drenched from night sweats. Some nights I could hardly sleep at all. But I was home! I was alive! While I was gone and even before I left, people had been praying for me not only at both churches we attend but at a variety of our customer’s churches as well. Why did I worry at all? I know that everyone dies of their last illness, and I may yet succumb to this one. I don’t believe that G-d always heals. If He did there wouldn’t be anywhere to sit at church! But I know that prayer works when it is according to G-d’s will. I think that prayer can even change G-d’s mind about some things. I always asked G-d to heal me for my family’s sake. I knew He loved them; what’s not to love? But now I believe He loves me too.