Straight Tripping in the ICU

Trippy. That’s a word I can safely say I’ve never used before. Until now.

Trippy is the perfect word to describe my first cognizant moments waking up and finding myself in the ICU after my 14-hour surgery. Coming off heavy sedation, I am a warm and damp log covered in blankets with a head like a frozen pineapple teetering on the edge of my neck.

I can lift my hands and open and close my mouth – relatively pain-free – not so for most other movements.

From what I can make of my new location – it is a dim and darkened room or ward. Masked individuals come and go within my sightline, walking briskly on soft-soled shoes, talking in hushed voices. I feel like I am the only patient here – though I will eventually learn I am one of six.

A nurse – well – what I assume is a nurse – looms above asking me if I know my name, where I am. I do. A small cylinder is placed into my hand – a call button in case I need anything – and then I am told to rest.

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Every time I close my eyes, the whispering hisses of the machines at my bedside align beautifully with the kaleidoscope occurring in my mind. Hiss – and here’s a colourful forest filled with semi-hidden woodland creatures; hiss – the forest morphs into a factory filled with cogs and wheels; hiss  – the factory swirls into oblivion and is now the interior of a pub filled with all of my friends.

While this sort of thing is enjoyable for a while – it soon grows tiresome. I simply want to close my eyes and see darkened nothingness so I can drift off.

Nurses come and go – checking my vitals and cleaning my wounds. When they touch the right side of my face, my head moves though I have no sensation.

“You okay?” they ask.

“Hmmph”, I answer.

“Okay – hon – get some rest.”

Then they are gone.

I close my eyes and see a type-written note in the midst of the psychedelic scape as it rolls and moves – though the note remains steady and certain in the centre. It is a message I received from my nephew – alongside so many similar messages of kindness sent to me the night before my surgery.

I had read them all – collected by a friend and put together in something called a Kudoboard which is sort of like an online bulletin board. All these messages – sent to me by friends and family – wanting me to know what I mean to them before I am in hospital undergoing major surgery.

For whatever reason, this one particular note is the one I see whenever I close my eyes: “Auntie – a lot of people love you and think you are hilarious. I am one of those people.” It is this one note that helps me get through the next few hours.

As boredom sets in, I pass some time recounting all of my birthday parties – beginning in elementary school; from there I move on to Halloween costumes of the past – once upon a time I was a gypsy and a geisha (mental note: never run for Prime Minister) and Mini Mouse and a grandfather clock. Then I think of each of my friends – I recollect how we met and wonder what they are doing right at this very moment. As for me at this very moment? I’m prostrate (not prostate!) in a bed with my pee being auto-directed into an awaiting bag.

All this going down memory lane and thinking has tired me out – time for a nap. If only I could get past this never-ending churn of tableaux. Suddenly I remember that I have just gone through a hellish 14-hour surgery and Aunt Pat has not made a single appearance. I had patiently waited for her while sleeping upright on my family room couch – hoping she’d pop into my dreams as she has done before – just to let me know that she’s here.

In my mind, I form questions: “Where are you, Aunt Pat? Why aren’t you here?”

And just like that, there she is – early 50s, trim and tanned, her hair arranged in a short and dark style – Sally Jessy Raphael-esque with her large glasses – wearing a white braided knit sweater over top white capri pants. She is sitting on a wicker chair on a sun porch somewhere tropical (Barbados, probably) and behind her, over her shoulder I can see a sandy beach and gently rolling ocean as well as miles and miles of blue sky. She doesn’t say anything to me – but she doesn’t have to. She simply sits on that wicker chair watching me, a hint of a smile on her face.

The hissing machines whir and sigh and with each sound, I worry Aunt Pat will disappear in a kaleidoscopic swirl. But she doesn’t. She remains – for what feels like an hour – maybe longer – keeping me company – holding vigil for me, with me – reminding me that I’m not alone because she is here after all.

Just as in life, the two of us would often sit – exhausted of all conversation – enjoying her garden or her family room, appreciating each other’s company.

Then – just as suddenly as she has appeared, time is up and the kaleidoscope takes over once again – twirling Aunt Pat and her white ensemble into oblivion.

I awake to the sound of an annoyed nurse talking on the phone at a desk not far from my bedside: “Listen, Sir – we’ve already explained – there’s no visitors allowed. Yes, I realize that the rules have changed – thank you for pointing that out – but nothing changes in terms of the ICU – there are no visitors allowed.” After she disconnects, I hear her say to a fellow nurse: “Wow. That is one insistent husband.”

I smile to myself.

An hour later, another phone call. This time, I hear the nurse say: “Sir – I’m sorry you drove all that way but like we already told you – there are no visitors allowed in the ICU. When she’s moved to her room later this evening, you can organize a visit then.”

This time, instead of disconnecting from the call, the nurse pads over to me and places the phone at my left ear – my only good ear and I hear Brennan’s voice.

“Tanya? Tanya? Are you there?”

Me: “Hmmph.”

Brennan: “Oh my God – your surgery was 14 hours. Everyone was so worried. But we’re just so thankful it went well.”

Me: “Hmmph.”

Brennan: “They saved your jaw. They saved your fu**ing jaw!”

Over the next 12 hours, I’m moved to a chair where I manage to eat some jello though there is no feeling on the right side of my mouth. A nurse removes my catheter and wheels me to the bathroom where I deliberately avoid looking in the mirror as I pee. I have to ask the nurse to wipe – as my arms just aren’t working the way they used to. Again, I remind myself – there’s no room for shame in a hospital.

Dr. Anne Hathaway and another one – Dr. Peters – check on me, have me do some facial exercises. They ask me how I feel and I tell them relieved – just so relieved – to have this monster gone, out of me.

At 10pm, I’m informed that I’ve been there 24 hours and can continue my road to recovery elsewhere – on the 6^th floor.

The kind nurse drapes a hospital mask gently over my mouth and nose and bids me adieu as the orderly wheels my bed onward and upward – to my next stop toward healing and recovery.

On Monday April 26, 2021, my life changed forever when I heard the words: “You have cancer.” This blog post is the sixth in a series entitled: Cancer Culture and revolves around my personal experience surrounding this devastating diagnosis.

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