Gentle Giant

My husband was diagnosed with colorectal cancer last year. Let me start off by saying after he went through chemo-and-radiation hell and back plus endured an obscene amount of complications and hospitalizations, he is cancer free and fine. Well, as fine as he’ll ever be. (Love you, honey!)

Our journey began with a G.I. doctor who at first was a bit brusque and all business. He soon turned into the gentle giant we needed. This imposing man with a deep booming voice came into the recovery room after Phillip’s colonoscopy, sat down, and looked him directly in the eye. “It’s not good news. It’s cancer.” Phillip was visibly upset, and this huge doctor took Phillip’s hands into his own and continued to console. “I know it’s not what you want to hear. I know. I know. Listen. You’re going to be all right, man. We’re going to do this step by step. That way we won’t miss anything. We’ve got this, man. One step at a time.”

Call Me Dr. Stephen

Our next next step was meeting the oncologist, a Dr. Stephen Schlicker, Schileker, Schleisher. We didn’t know. Something like that. Worries about pronouncing his last name disappeared when in walked a tall, blonde, relaxed California-type guy. He introduced himself by saying, “Hi. Call me Dr. Stephen.”

A good beginning.

He chatted with us about everything except the cancer. He wanted to know what Phillip did before he retired, after he retired, his hobbies, his children, his grandchildren, and more. Sweet guy. He exhibited energy and compassion, and later, during the weeks of chemo, it was great entertainment to watch him relate to the nurses and his patients.

He asked us what we understood and knew regarding treatment. We didn’t know much more than what we had gleaned from Dr. Google, and Dr. Stephen answered plenty of our questions. We had made an appointment with the surgeon recommended by our G.I., and Dr. Stephen agreed this surgeon was the best.

THE SURGEON!!!

Our next step was meeting the surgeon. Actually we heard the surgeon before we actually met the surgeon. We were sitting in our little room and could hear him down the hall LOUDLY telling a patient “Look at this x-ray. You see that? The cancer’s spread here. You see that? You’ll have to have surgery, and you really have no choice.”

Such a super sweet guy! I could just imagine the patient’s face.

When it was our turn, the surgeon quickly, imposingly, and loudly came into our room. I later noticed he had a hearing aid, so that explained his loud voice. The joke I’ll tell you in a bit explained the rest of his behavior.

He gave my husband a rude abrupt exam, told him the tumor was in the worst possible place, and said after Phillip completes the chemo and radiation regimen, he’ll see us for surgery. He explained there was a small percentage of people who don’t need surgery, but he knows he’ll see us for surgery.

He also told my husband he WILL go through the treatment plan because without it, “Your cancer is the most painful way to leave this earth.”

Most. Painful.

Leave. This. Earth.

Thanks, doc.

After months of enduring a horrid chemo and radiation journey, we were back meeting with Dr. Sunshine Surgeon. The operation date was set, and he planned to take out as much of the cancer as he could and also perform a permanent colostomy. He wanted to do the procedure robotically but had to settle for the old-fashioned way, an open surgery, because the transplanted kidney Phillip received 9 years ago was in his way.

The life-saving kidney was in his way? So sorry about the inconvenience and disappointment. Our bad. 

As he started to leave the room, he put his hand on the doorknob and said over his shoulder, “The tumor’s in the worst place possible, you know.”

Got it.

At our last pre-op appointment, Dr. Sunshine started to explain to us how the robotic surgery worked. I said, “But you’re not going to do the robotic because of”

The surgeon quickly looked at me, shot his hand in the air, and said, “Oh! The transplant!”

Great.

On the way home, Phillip joked he was going to bring a Sharpie with him and write “transplanted kidney” across his forehead before they started to operate.

All went well until the night after surgery when Phillip started bleeding at the site. The nurses said the dressing wasn’t saturated enough to worry. His blood pressure dropped in the night, but the nurse leader felt there was no need to call the doctor.

When the surgeon came in the next morning and saw what had happened overnight, he was livid. He sternly dressed down the nurses for their judgment call, but to his credit he did it in the hallway instead of in front of us in the room. Before he came back in he had assembled a team consisting of another surgeon, a tech, an RN, a PA, and a partridge in a pear tree. They gathered their supplies and started working on Phillip’s incision to try and stop the bleeding. Right there in the room. Slightly scary, but very cool.

Watching him work with this team was like watching ballet. It was flawless. He and the other surgeon worked seamlessly, and she handed him instruments silently as if they had ESP. Whenever the surgeon talked to or asked for anything from anyone he was  polite, calm, and said thank you every single time.

He was redeemed in my eyes. Bedside manner? Not so much. Performing surgery? Spot on. The calm, polite, assured talent he exhibited is what I want in an operating room.

Or in my husband’s hospital room, as it were.

He said to the PA, “I’ve done 30,000 of these and have had problems in only a handful. Only a handful.” I realized he took any complication personally. I realized surgery is his art.

After they got the bleeding under control, the PA looked at me and said, “I can’t believe you stood there and watched all this. My mom would be flat on the ground passed out.”

I told him I thought it was fascinating. Then I thought to myself, Thanks so much for reminding me I’m old enough to be your mom, Doogie. 

And now the joke.

St. Peter was standing at the Pearly Gates welcoming people into heaven. A man kept cutting in and out of the long line. He eventually made his way to the front, and St. Peter waved him on in. When a man who had patiently waited his turn got to the head of the line, he asked St. Peter why he let that guy in.

“Which guy?”

“The one over there in the white lab coat.”

“Oh, him? That’s God; he thinks he’s a surgeon.”