Almost Over

It's funny how your focus changes with time and circumstance. I've now had the last of three procedures to extract and discard a cancerous growth on the right hand side of the bridge of my nose. Looking back, it's interesting to me to be able to identify and isolate the various feelings and emotions that came to the fore as this process evolved.

When this whole cancer thing started, the doctors weren't able to identify the type, nor the extent of the problem and for a period of about three weeks while waiting for test results the overriding feeling that I experienced was one of fatalism, mixed in with a heavy dose of frustration. But then, through this period, when I woke up each morning, I would think about the worst case scenarios and then work my way through variations until I ended up with a positive outcome. This wasn't something I did intentionally, it just seemed to me to be a natural progression of my thoughts as I lay in bed each morning. I think this process must have became somewhat embedded over this period as I remember at the time the test results were revealed it took me a few days to actually come to the realisation that I no longer had to consider life altering outcomes.

For my loved ones I think it was quite different. I don't presume to know how others were thinking, but there were a number of times through this period when I am absolutely positive that those around me were finding it more difficult to cope than I was, and I don't think I helped. Quite often there seemed to be an expectation that I should be feeling depressed and generally hard done by, and I think that, while some of my family and friends were trying to offer support and understanding, I was responding with flipant and light hearted comments, and making it difficult for all concerned. It's only now, after the fact, that I can appreciate how this must have made others feel and to those of you who felt slighted by my off-hand manner, I apologise. It was never my intention to belittle your expressions of concern and sympathy, so... maybe you can just put it down to a character flaw in my makeup.

When you arrive at the airport, and you're flying business class, you walk down the aisle at Departures and your chin is a little higher than normal 'cause you know you can bypass the queues and head straight into the business class Departure Lounge. From there it's through customs and straight up to the lounges. It seemed a little like that when we arrived at the Surgery Suite at the hospital. We had only just sat down, in a very crouded waiting room, when we were called through to the pre-op ward, and it seemed that we jumped the queue. Anyway, a nice looking armchair was sitting in  cubicle with my name on it so I did the clothes to gown thing and settled in to wait. Despite the activity and crowd in the waiting room, there wasn't much going on in the pre-op ward. Various nurses came by and checked to make sure I knew what my name was and to offer various snippets of information. The crux of it seemed to be that we were in for quite a wait as Dr G was in the middle of a procedure that had already taken way longer than expected. But the wait was OK 'cause the entertainment arrived pretty quickly.

This took the form of a husband and wife team, who - to be quite un-PC - both appeared to be a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic. He had an unfortunate type of voice that just carried and resonated despite him turning his volume switch way down. It seemed that she was the patient and was in for some sort of procedure that required her to remove all her clothing and to fit herself into an adult diaper. The nurse gave her all the gear, gave her instructions and then scarpered. So, Betty Lou then had a discussion with Bobby Joe about how you get yourself into an adult diaper. Bobby Joe appeared to be a very self-assured individual who obviously knew all about such things and proceeded to give Betty Lou instructions from the other side of the bed. As we were separated from them by a standard hospital ward curtain, which had the sound proofing properties of a megaphone, it wasn't hard to form a mental image of the activity going on next door.

After awhile it became obvious that Betty Lou failed in her attempts to follow Bobby Joe's instructions, because the volume of the conversation just ramped up and up. Finally Betty Lou pleaded with Bobby Joe for him to come around to her side of the bed to offer physical assistance combined with the verbal instruction. So, being the kind-hearted individual that he appeared to be, he stood up out of his chair, walked around the end of the bed - outside the curtain - and appeared in our cubicle with a very surprised and confused look on his face. Realizing his error, he backtracked at a great rate of knots and eventually found his way to Betty Lou's side. It seemed then that between them, they sussed out the problem  as not long after, Betty Lou was seen making her way to the toilet... where, presumably, the diaper was removed and refitted without Bobby Joe's assistance. 

So back to me. Did you know that there's a test they can do to find out if the blood supply at the business end of a graft is coming from where the graft is fitted, or from where the graft was taken from?

No! you say in surprise.

Well, there is. To do the test they have to find a voodoo doctor, a sadist, or a poor unfortunate junior doctor, who has to stick a series of needles into the area between the two sites and inject a freezing cold fluid into the patient - me - while ignoring the patients flinches, groans and protestations - again, me - and watching for the graft to turn an unhealthy shade of pale. If it does, it means the blood supply is coming from the wrong place and the whole plan's a washout and everyone can go home and we'll try again next week. Fortunately, I was a good little patient with a well trained blood supply so off we went to the operating room.

The team from the last op were on the case and we all greeted each other with smiles and expressions of "good to see you again" and "great to be here". The only newbie seemed to be the anaethetist who introduced himself as Dr Pearlywhite Teeth while sprouting positive expressions of hope for a successful outcome. Nurse Roseson Herhat was again in charge and asked me if I'd like to wander into the operating room and have a lie down on the bed? So, off I went and assumed the position and they all went to work with the needles and tubes. Dr Pearlywhite Teeth seemed determined to keep stabbing the back of my right-hand, despite me telling him a few times in an increasingly loud voice that he wasn't going to find any blood there. Eventually Nurse Roseson Herhat suggested he try for a vein in my elbow, which he did, and after that I lost interest.

When I woke up in recovery I felt very second-hand. This was the only one of the three procedures where I didn't wake up feeling I'd had a good night's sleep. A few times while I was lying there drifting in and out, I remember the nurse sitting beside me, telling me to remember to breathe. After a few such admonitions I got the pump going properly and was able to sort myself out. When I learnt how to construct a comprehensible sentence again, they decided I was fit to join the mainstream of humanity and moved me up into the ward.

The next morning I’m feeling very sorry for myself and interestingly the most pain is coming from the area where they did the blood supply test. Dr G sticks his head in, takes one look at me and tells me I’m not going home yet as I look like crap. He issues some instructions to Nurse Bossof Theward and next thing I’m given a happy pill that makes everything alright.

After a few more pills through the rest of the day and the next night, morning rolls round again and I’m feeling great. I look in the mirror, see a weird protuberance staring back at me and notice that they missed the Elvis look-alike mark by a fair margin. Anyway, it’s time to pack up, say my farewells and wander off. I spent the next few days complaining to my wife about pain, but eventually it all went away and I’m feeling good. Maybe back to the hospital for a bit of re-shaping in a few weeks and to have an ultrasound scan of my neck, but apart from that the whole sorry saga seems to be over.

A reality check.

I was walking down the main street the other day and I ran into a guy I used to work with. This is a young guy – maybe mid-thirties – who has a very pregnant wife, one young child, and a mortgage. Mr Average Kiwi. We start to do a catch-up ‘cause we haven’t seen each other for quite awhile and, of course, he notices the scars on my face. He asks me what’s going on and I tell him the story. When I’ve finished, he looks at me with a bit of a wistful smile and tells me that in May of this year he was found to have a brain tumour. They operated on him and removed what they could, stitched him back together and started him on an aggressive regime of chemotherapy and radiotherapy. When he asked them if this was going to cure the cancer, they told him; "No. This was just to prolong his life a little bit – maybe up to two years."

Kinda puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?    

Round 2

Well... The bell sounded and it was the start of round two. I got a fair bit of a hiding in round one and was still trying to get over it when it was time to start again. So off we went to spend a bit more quality time at the hospital. While we watched our youngest daughter play wire squiggles in the waiting room, a constant stream of people kept coming and going. It seemed to be a big day for surgery. I was still half expecting to be sent home, 'cause we still didn't know anything about the histology and there seemed to be a lot going on. But then it was my turn... so down the corridor we go, round the corner and there's a bed with my name on it.






Before I can start wondering where the chair from the last round went, I'm under instructions to change my clothes to something more appropriate and to get under the covers. So I rush to it before the nurses spot me and get all excited.










After awhile Student Nurse Smiley Face, who just finished her ESOL course, comes along with a folder and starts the inquisition phase. After I've proved my parentage to her satisfaction she runs some tests and then wanders off and we're left to wonder about all the other patients, some of whom are being spoken to in very loud voices by some very harassed staff. It's interesting that the mood in the ward is so much different from last week, and as the staff are all different people, we're not sure if this is the reason or if it's just the level of activity that makes it so different. Anyway, Dr Slumdog's Brother comes along and tells me he's going to be the one putting me to sleep later on. I wonder what happened to Ms Eurasia 2005?

Dr G pokes his head in and tells us that the histology is back and shows that they caught all the bad guys, so now they're going to start putting me back together. He's still not sure if I'm going to be Iron Man's distant cousin or not, but he'll work that out after he has a look up my snout. Then Nurse Smiley Face comes back and gives me the obligatory panadol and mouthwash and we're set to go. It seems this time I'm to be chauffeured to the Operating Room and the orderly - who doesn't introduce himself but I know his name is Nothappy Tobehere - comes along and starts to push me and the bed down the hallway, Nurse Smiley Face tags along 'cause she's under instructions to see that I'm delivered intact to the correct address.

After a short tour of the back alleys of the hospital we arrive in the lobby of the operating room and all these people, who seem to be very happy to see me, gather 'round and start talking at me. Dr Slumdog's Brother starts sticking a harpoon into my arm and then Dr McJolly sticks his head in front of me and tells me that he's really the anaesthestist and that he'll be keeping a close eye on Dr Slumdog's Brother and for me not to worry. So while I'm wondering about all this, Nurse Roseson Herhat - who seems to be more in charge than anyone else - dismisses Nurse Smiley Face and then asks: "Would you like to walk to the operating table?"...........

"Huh??"

(So; last week, I walked from the prep room to the lobby, stood around while they found me a bed, got wired and tubed up in the lobby, pushed into the operating room and then struggled from the bed to the operating table. This week, I'm pushed in a bed from the prep room to the lobby, then I get out of the bed and walk into the operating room and climb onto the operating table, then they wire and tube me up.......... mmmmmmm?)

This is getting all too much for me. Think I'll take a little nap.  zzzzzzzzzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZZZ.

Surprise - bright lights, noise and lots of activity. I think I'll get up and see what's going on...

Oops! Maybe not.... Maybe I'll just lie here for a bit - 'till the merry-go-round stops.

Ok, I'm bored now. Lets go up to the ward. So they wheel me round the hospital for awhile and when we reach the ward my cellmates gasp in shock and horror and start asking questions about motorbikes. They seem to be a bit disappointed when I tell them it's only rust. Anyway, I get settled in and then it's time for the first photo shoot.

Wait a minute!!!!!

That can't be me!!!!

I'm not smiling!!!!.

What a mess... This can't be right. How about we leave the photos for now and try again tomorrow?

Next morning, Dr G comes in wearing a big, big smile, followed by a group of teenagers with folders clutched to their chests. We have a chat and he strips off the bandages and has a close-up inspection of the mess that used to be my face. He makes a lot of satisfied noises and his smile gets even bigger. Then he tells me that he was planning to bin the titanium but when he had a look he discovered that my skin had already grown over it and so he decided to just leave it where it was.

So my new Secret Agent name is "Tin Man" and my new superpower is that I can smell anything rotten from five hundred metres.

Looking forward to my first encounter with airport security.

Now this is better. Dr G 's been to see me and striped all the crap off my face. Now I look a lot better...

See that glazed look?

"Feelin reallly fine".

Man, this is boring. The next op's not for another three weeks. Sitting around at home is a pain in the arse... hang on - I mean it's a pain in the other end. Yeah, that's right; it's my face that's sore.

Today's Monday, so it's back to the clinic tomorrow to get some of the stitches out. Dr G said the next part of the reconstruction 's not going to happen for about three weeks so we're tentatively counting on the 30th for Phase 3. If it all goes to plan that will be the end of the hospital visits, and as there's been no mention of chemo or radiotherapy so far, here's hoping it's the end of the whole sorry saga. Anyway, I'll keep you posted if I hit any bumps on the road ahead. Hopefully after the 30th I'll be able to start focusing on making sure our passports are up to date.

A nice sleepover.

Now, do you remember the other day, I did a quiz at the hospital and won an overnight stay? So I used it on Tuesday night. It was a bit different from the usual overnight accommodation, 'cause I had to check in at 8am. I thought we were going to get a nice breakfast 'cause I wasn't allowed to eat for eight hours before. But no, turns out I had to play a game with some doctors and nurses before I was allowed to even see where I was staying. We were met by Nurse Young Tallboy who explained all sorts of things about the rules of the game, but 'cause he had only been on the job for three weeks wasn't really up to speed on some of the stuff. So I started off with the hospital gown on over my shirt and track pants - as instructed.





















After awhile he decided that wasn't really the right look for the game we were about to play so he wandered off to find out what the correct dress code was. While he was gone we made an executive decision and lost the shirt and pants. When he came back he had a present for me - some nice bright green and white socks. Seems that these are a mandatory part of the uniform. After waiting round for awhile Doctor G arrives dressed in his nice blue uniform and gives me lots of smiles and says lots of nice words and then starts to draw some pictures on my face. When he's finished Nurse Young Tallboy decides that it's time to wander down to the operating room. So off we go. As we turn the corner we run into two orderly dudes and the conversation goes like this...

Orderly 1: "I've got to escort the patient to the operating room."
Nurse Young Tallboy: "Oh...ok come with us."
Orderly 2 to orderly 1: "No. We're going to get his bed."

So, off they go round the corner while Nurse Young Tallboy and I look at each other and wonder how they're going to turn my chair into a bed. Next thing they come back round the corner and ask Nurse Young Tallboy where the bed is? "There is no bed, only a chair" is the reply. We then continue on our way to the operating room leaving two very confused looking orderlies in our wake. We find the right room and go into this little lobby type area - where there's supposed to be a bed... So while we're waiting I get a discourse on how a lot of the staff are new and it's not his fault that no one is quite sure of the process, etc,etc..... Thankfully before he destroys all my confidence in the Hawkes Bay District Health Board the two orderlies arrive with a bed.

We step out of the way as they push it into this little lobby area and immediately Nurse Blue Scrubs come out of the operating room and tells them they've got it in backwards. So under supervision we sort ourselves out and I get to lie down. Ms Eurasia 2005 (the anaesthetist) appears with her apprentice and they start sticking needles in me while Nurse Blue Scrubs starts strangling me with tubes. Nurse Blue Scrubs' twin sister appears and starts demanding to know who I am and why I'm there. After deciding that we're all who we're supposed to be they wheel me into the operating room, and place me and the bed right beside the operating table. I'm now instructed to get off the bed and onto the table.... Say what!! Why didn't I just walk straight to the operating table? Anyway, being the good little patient that I am I move over and the apprentice anaesthetist starts pumping some stuff into me while assuring me that it's just to help me relax a bit....

ZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Whoa!! Bright lights!! What time is it? I sit up and have a look around and Nurse Blue Scrubs other twin sister tells me to lie back down as I'm still supposed to be asleep. Turns out I'm in Recovery and I've missed all the game action. I have a bit of a feel around my face and find a shape about the size of my nose is covered with a bandage. Everything seems to be fine and I'm feeling very fine so I lie back and relax.

After a bit Orderly 1 turns up and starts to wheel me away. Then we stop for a bit while he goes to find out where he's supposed to take me - that sorted, off we go again. So we arrive in the ward feeling all bright and chipper and my roommates and I do a meet and greet. Nurse Thisis Myward turns up and I get fussed over for a bit, then something else grabs her attention and she's gone. So I decide that as it's only just after lunch time I should get up and get dressed. While all this is going on the hospital grapevine has been working and before you can say: "I'm hungry" Denise and Chelle turn up to see how the patient is. I immediately start to whinge about starvation so off they go to find the cafe. So here's me around 2:00pm after operation 1.






All in all I'm a bit amazed at how good I feel, and even now, thirty odd hours after the operation, and having not slept a wink, I still feel good.... And a bit guilty.












One of my roommates was a 70 something year old guy who has been in hospital for the majority of the past two years. It all started with a stroke, followed by a blood circulation problem, followed by kidney failure. He had just had a shunt put in his chest and a dialysis tube put in his stomach.

The other roommate had come up from ICU and was an early twenties dude who had a ruptured tumor on one of his kidneys. The second tumor that had done the same thing. He was the reason for no sleep as his monitors kept going off through the night 'cause he was supposed to be self-injecting his meds and kept falling asleep.

So as sorry as I feel for myself at times, I guess when you think about it, I've been pretty lucky in a lot of respects. I wonder how much of this is due to the positive approach I've been able to maintain because of all the help and support from my family and friends?

Here's hoping the next episode is as uneventful as this one. But just to gross you out, here's a couple of photos of the real thing.






















Not much to see is there? They filled the hole up with titanium mesh and stitched it to the skin to make the nose stay in shape. Clever or what? Dr G hasn't decided yet if the titanium is there for good. It'll depend on the histology of the lump apparently.

If I do keep the persona of the "Man of Steel" it could make airport transitions interesting. I wonder if you can use smell as a superpower? The mind boggles.

I'll let you know how operation 2 goes.

By the way, I know some of you are having trouble commenting on the blog. If you are reading this as an e-mail you have to reply as you would to any e-mail. To make a comment on the blog itself you have to be on the website which is: "www.chrisflaherty.blogspot.co.nz"

A bit of knowledge can be a scary thing.

I took myself off to a "pre-admission" appointment at the hospital yesterday (Thursday) and found out all sorts of stuff. Some of it was even to do with having surgery. After the obligatory wait in the standard pink walled, blue floored waiting room, I was called into the inner sanctum by Nurse Energiser Bunny who told me all about how she's doing two jobs 'cause they're short staffed and she's sorry that she has to answer the phone while she's sorting me out.

So we communicate using hyroglyphics and sign language for awhile as she's talking to another patient on the phone, and she establishes that I'm the guy that's described in the file she has open on the desk. Then she takes my blood pressure and tells me that it's one level above perfect but we still have to do an ECG. She explains what it is and how and why it's done while I nod as if I've got a clue. Then before I can scratch my head while looking confused, I'm lying on the bed  with electrodes all over me. I'm waiting for something to happen - while she's having a chat on the phone - but next thing Nurse Energiser Bunny is ripping the electrodes off and telling me to get off the bed.

So I resume my place in the visitor's chair and she shows me this computer printout with wavy lines on it. She explains what it all means while I nod; she tells me my heart's in great shape and then she starts to take me back to the waiting room to wait for the House Surgeon... What??? Why am I waiting for the House Surgeon? Nobody's told me!! I thought I was going to see the anaesthetist!!

While we're wandering the corridor looking for the waiting room we come upon a dishevelled twenty-something dude who looks like he hasn't slept since puberty kicked in. Turns out this is the House Surgeon. He has a conversation with Nurse Energiser Bunny - it's one of those "third person" conversations people who know more than you do sometimes have about you,where you're standing right there listening, but you're totally excluded - then Dr Needs Awash takes all the paperwork off Nurse Energiser Bunny and leads me off to another room about the size of the bedroom cupboard.

We play musical chairs for a bit until I land in the "old person's chair" and he ends up in the chair guarding the door. He flicks through the paperwork while asking me the same questions that everyone else has. (I must remember to carry a packet of Tic Tacs with me.) Then he asks me if I remember what my blood pressure was? When I say "no" he looks very disappointed and starts flicking through the paperwork again, mumbling that it must be here somewhere.

After a bit he gives up trying to find it and pulls out his stethoscope. He gets up close and personal and listens to my heart and lungs for a bit (really need to remember those Tic Tacs) and then sits down to write up another piece of paper. When he's finished he tells me he's really not the House Surgeon, he's just filling in. The real House Surgeon is on holiday and will be back next week, and he'll go over this again with me on Tuesday before the surgery...??? Hmmmm... Ok.

Then I'm excused, so I wander back into the waiting room, which is now full of old people, (shut up, you kids!) and settle in to wait for the anaesthetist. A couple of days later I hear someone calling out: "Chris Flat... Flaty... Fluty...??"

"Is Chris here?"

So I wander 'round the corner and see Miss Eurasia 2005 holding a clipboard and looking at me expectantly. Her first question's an original: "How do I say your name?" After a couple of attempts we agree to disagree on how it's pronounced and she leads me away to another little room. Turns out that she's the anaesthetist. We go through another round of personal questions, just to make sure that she asks all the same ones as everyone else. Then she tells me how she's going to stick needles in me and shove tubes down my throat, but it's all going to be fine 'cause I'm apparently in pretty good shape - for my age! We talk about how many flights of stairs I can climb without passing out, and I must have come up with the right answer 'cause I get a smile and reassurance that she has no concerns at all about me having anaesthesia.... uummm!! I guess it's good that one of us isn't concerned.

Then it's disclaimer time and the tone of the conversation changes somewhat. Now she's, sort of, apologizing to me - but it's more a commentary on the sad state of society - and talking about how it's unfair and this is why I have to sign a disclaimer. It seems she's done all she can to make sure I understand the risks of anaesthesia and if I want more information I'll have to go to medical school. So I do a Bob Marley on her and tell her "everytings gonna be awright". I'm then told I can't have McDonalds on my way to the hospital - like some other patients do - cause it might cause me to throw up while I'm knocked out and the "stuff" would end up in my lungs. We agree that this would'nt be a good thing, and then I'm chucked out while being  told that everyone's looking forward to seeing me on Tuesday.

Awhile later I'm sitting at home having a cuppa and wondering what I'm going to spend my Lotto winnings on when the phone rings. It's the admissions lady from the hospital who tells me that I have a pre-admission appointment that morning  and that I'm booked for surgery next Tuesday. "Yes" says I, knowingly.
"No" says she - "I mean your second surgery. Dr G has booked it for Tuesday 9th."
"Oh - ok". The lady then tells me she'll send me out a letter of confirmation and that will explain everything.

So, now we're up to date. First surgery on Tuesday and second the following Tuesday. Let's hope that's all 'cause I don't want to miss out on too much TV.

A weekend away.

Denise and I have been telling each other that we should have a weekend away soon, 'cause it's been ages since we've been anywhere. What better choice than to go to Auckland so we can spend some quality time with the A-Team at the hospital. I'll bet none of you can think of a better getaway. Anyway, Denise sneaks a couple more days off - she has the most amazingly caring and thoughtful boss - and off we go. This is Thursday, 'cause it's a six hour drive and the appointment at the clinic is at 08:00 Friday morning.

We arrive at the clinic about 15 minutes early, fill in the compulsory form to make sure I'm not some imposter who just wandered up off the street. Then Nurse Smilealot takes us for a tour and we get to see the interrogation room. This is just two offices with a sliding portion that's open and a few chairs facing what looks like a cheap version of a reclining armchair and a flat screen TV. Then they teach us a new version of the waiting game. This time we get to play in our own little room, and every so often Nurse Smilealot pops her head in to see that we're playing nicely. After about an hour and a half she threatens us with the promise of a cup of tea and we think we might be able to escape to the coffee shop, but no.... we have to finish the waiting game first.

Then Dr Mumble Something comes in to warn us about what's in store for us when they take us into the interrogation room, and off we go. Of course I'm the centre of attention - well, my nose is really but we normally hang out together - and I get the reclining chair. Dr Mumble Something then explains to a group of teenagers that are staring at me, why my nose is worthy of serious consideration and mentions to the room that I'm from Australia and have worked in the Islands. Everyone looks at one another, nod in a sage manner and then turn their attention back to me. Dr Mumble Something then arms himself with a fishing rod, tells me he's going to shove it up my nose, and seems to be surprised that this is not my first experience doing an imitation of a fish. Everyone then shifts their attention to the TV screen to watch the latest episode of "Snott - a boogie's real life adventure". Thankfully for all my TV career is short lived, so then a few guys with reassuring smiles and very white teeth line up to poke and prod for awhile. A couple of them wave tissues over various parts of my face to see if I'm ticklish while repeating the words; "can you feel that? can you feel that?". I keep repeating "yes" while trying not to slap their hands away, and then suddenly I'm dismissed.

We're told we can now make the long awaited trip to the coffee shop if we promise to be back within three quarters of an hour. We have a coffee and spend a bit of time watching the denizens of the coffee shop, then go back to our room and start a new game of Waiting Around.

After awhile Dr. I'mthe Bossdude (who looks like Adam's twin brother - but better looking) comes in to have a chat. He tells us everything we already know, then tells us the margins on the BCC from my ear are too small and they'll have to do it again. To top that he then tells me I have another BCC on my right temple. So, not to be outdone, I show him a lump on my right arm and he tells me that that's another one that'll have to come out. He then explains to us that all the exciting stuff will happen in Hastings, except the pathology, that will be done in Auckland, and then races off to answer his pager. (All a bit Grey's Anatomy, but that's OK.) On the way out, Nurse Smilealot meets us in the corridor and gives us each a packed lunch, so we're all set and off we go.

All in all not something I'd give five stars to on Trip Advisor, but we did play tourist for a bit. We visited a real shopping mall, spent a bit of time at the museum and a bit more time with Serena and Adam. The trip up and back was uneventful except that my wife pinched all the nice lollies... again!!

Today (Monday) I've had so many phone calls from the hospital that I've decided to divert the phone to a call centre in India. The end result of the calls is that the surgery has been confirmed to happen on the 2nd July. (I think I'm busy that day). But the next step is to go and meet my new best friend, the anaesthetist. This happens on Thursday after I finish as a contestant on a quiz show at the hospital called; "All About Chris". If I answer enough questions correctly I win an overnight stay in Hawkes Bay Hospital.

It's all getting a bit real now so it'd be good if you guys could all keep your smiley faces in place and keep posting all the good stuff that's happening in your lives. I'll let you know if I win the quiz.

Good News Wednesday!!!

The cancer's confined to the side of my nose. This is actually really good news, even though it means I'll still need about three operations.

We went off to see the specialist today where I found out a few interesting facts, like; do you want to know how many pamphlets there are in the waiting room? Or how many chair legs there are? I can even tell you how long the nurses from the other wing have for their lunch break. I was busy working out how many floor tiles were in the room when I was rudely interrupted by Doctor G coming out to get us. He had to come out himself 'cause he was running so late that all the nurses had taken off.

He took us into his room to show us these "really interesting" photos of the inside of my head and chest. My wife seemed to be a little bit fascinated by it all, but it seemed a bit gross to me. Anyway, the upshot of all this was that the cancer is confined to my nose. So, one operation to cut out the rust and another two to do the panel beating, filling and spray painting. The first op is tentatively booked for the 2nd of July. I think this is going to depend on someone else getting bumped. Sorry someone. 

So, next? It seems Auckland City Hospital has a team of people that meet every Friday to assess "special" cases and advise the best course of treatment. As I've been booked to front up to the meeting this Friday this now confirms a fact I've been aware of for some time. I'm "special".

Apparently this team - of about 20 people of all different disciplines - go through the scans and medical history, then talk to you while doing a bit of prodding and poking. They then tell your specialist wether they agree with his proposed course of action, or if they think he's lost the plot. So it might be that they recommend that I have the ops in Auckland. If so, it might also mean that every thing will be done in one hit. I think they must use super glue and quick drying paint.

So, do I feel any differently now, after getting a lot more information? I've been trying to work this out, but the truth is, I don't really know. I don't think I do. Since this whole thing started I've been able to focus on the good stuff and I think this might be because I've always been aware of two indisputable facts. One is; I'm married to a wonderful, loving woman who is the strongest and most practical person I know; and the other is; there is one thing better than loving someone. That is; knowing, without any shadow of doubt, that you are loved by others. 

The level of support and encouragement shown to me by my family, friends, my family's friends and complete strangers has left me feeling both indestructible and humble. A simple expression of gratitude to you all is totally inadequate, but please believe that it is heartfelt and genuine. Knowing that you are all out there dealing with your own life issues while still offering me your support strengthens my will and keeps me focused on the positive... Thank you.

I'll let you know how I get on with the A-team.

An astronaut...? Me...?

MRI day today, so we take ourselves off to the Radiology Department at the hospital and settle down in the waiting area. Along comes Nurse Lilmiss I'mincharge and proceeds to lead me off into the bowels of Radiology. After bypassing the change rooms, 'cause they're just going to shoot these rays though my head, we end up in the control room of the space shuttle where I meet Nurse Beenhere Toolong,

I'm told to divest myself of all my worldly possessions, including a partial dental plate I've been chewing on for a few years, and to make myself comfortable on this plastic slab that's got a fruit bowl shaped indent for my head. These two ladies take up position on each side of me and shove earplugs in my ears, then place thick foam pads against the earplugs that wedge my head into place in the fruit bowl. After taking great pains to ensure I can't hear anything, they then proceed to start giving me instructions and offering reassurances while fitting a helmet type thingy over my head that's got a mirror in it so I can see my feet. (Not sure what that's about?) After I've asked them what they've said a couple of times I then decide just to nod for a bit and after awhile they go away. Seems now I'm almost ready for launch. The slab moves me into position and a voice from nowhere mumbles something about three and a half minutes.

Here's another new learning experience for Chris. I always thought that Dwarfs lived at the bottom of the garden and when they wanted a change of scenery they pretended to be Gnomes and spent their holidays on your neighbour's front lawn. Turns out, some of them actually live in MRI machines, and they spend their time using little jackhammers and chainsaws and other random bits of machinery to make as much noise as possible while someone's in the machine. I figure it's a plot to stop people falling asleep. So the voice from nowhere mumbles on a few more times during the silences while the Dwarfs are changing shifts, and after awhile the slab spits me out of the machine.


One of the nice ladies comes and takes my helmet off and I sit up and look around in wonder expecting to see ET or a Transformer or some other alien life form. But no - all I see are pink, yellow and blue teddies placed in strategic places around the room and I realise that this is something some little kids have to go through. It must be a really scary experience for them. It's lucky I'm a big kid, and I'm brave too. I didn't even cry once.

Then they shuffled me out the door, with what I thought was undue haste, while they mumbled something about morning tea. I turned on my homing device and after a few twists and turns found myself back in the waiting room.

So now I'm sitting up writing this at some stupid hour of the night instead of sleeping and wondering what tomorrow's going to bring when I go off to see Doctor G. I'll let you know.

It's not me, it's them!!

Last week I went in to the place I used to work to pick up the paperwork associated with my redundancy. When I met with the boss, he gave me lots of smiles and made - what I'm sure he thought were - appropriate noises of sympathy followed by the comment, "You're moving very stiffly, are you sure you're alright?" After assuring him that I could probably last through the course of the meeting before collapsing, he then proceeded to pay close attention to his computer while he printed out the paperwork. I was expecting to receive a formal letter outlining the reasons for the redundancy, the terms of the redundancy, and some form of expression of regret - or to put it another way, words trying to justify their actions. Silly me..!!

What I received was a single piece of paper with four separate, one sentence paragraphs, telling me I had agreed to their proposal of the 27th May 2013, and that my last day of work was to be 7th June 2013. One of the paragraphs explained to me, in one sentence, that even though the 3rd of June was a public holiday the company was being magnanimous and paying me sick leave for this particular day. This piece of paper wasn't on letterhead, nor was it dated; but it did have a place for signatories with my name printed as one of them. When I told the manager I would take it away with me unsigned, I got a look. Knowing what I know now, it was probably a look of fear - where this guy sees himself being reprimanded, and being held accountable for his words and actions in an Employment Relations mediation meeting.

Hang on, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I then ask if he might possibly be able to give me a copy of the Employment Contract I had signed in April. "Don't you already have a copy?" is the response.
"No!" say I.
What follows is something in the manner of a dance around the office, where this guy is looking in filing cabinets, desk drawers, his briefcase and under various stacks of paper hoping that my copy of the Employment Contract will magically appear. When this doesn't happen he assures me that he will arrange for a copy for me straight away. So I wander off happy in the knowledge that everybody has my best interests at heart.

A couple of days later, I've received, read and re-read my Employment Contract - compared their redundancy offerings with the contract requirements and come to the realisation that they are shortchanging me two weeks worth of wages. So I put my superpower to good use and write them a very professional looking letter, where I explain the error they've made, and kindly ask them to reconsider their redundancy offer. This letter was sent to them on Monday afternoon.

Tuesday night - ten minutes past eight - the phone rings. It's for me...! It's never for me. This time of night it's got to be one of my wife's mates. Anyway, I say hello and some guy then tells me his name and starts apologising for the error he's made and that the company will make sure it's corrected and I will definitely receive my full redundancy entitlement, and on and on he goes. After listening to this guy apologise over and over for a couple of hours (... well it felt like it) I interrupt - quite rudely - and ask him who he is. Turns out, this guy is a contractor who provides HR advice and documentation to this company and he was the person who wrote the four sentence, four paragraph piece of paper in the first place.

So. Thinking this through, and using my cynic's glasses to get an overview of this whole affair, it now seems that this company has gone to some lengths to contract themselves out of Human Resource responsibilities and accountability. Looking back, it is very doubtful that this HR contractor was ever told of the circumstances of my redundancy, bit simply instructed to put the process in motion based on the subsequent changes to my duties at work.

So now I've got another decision to make. Should I go and have a chat with a Department of Labour dude?

Who's responsible? The company or the contractor?

Should I care? Am I focused in the wrong direction? I've got an MRI and a specialist's appointment next week.

I know what some of you think but I'd be interested in your feedback.

It's not you, it's me!

I had a weird experience today that shook me up a bit and got me thinking. I still haven't quite sorted this out in my mind so this might end up in the bin. But we'll see where we get to.

I had to go out to the place that made me redundant today to pick up a piece of paper. When I walked into the office, I straight away detected a level of discomfort and it was quite unexpected. Thinking about this after, I realized that these people didn't know how to interact with me. These are people I've worked with for the past four years and over that time I've heard some very personal and intimate details of their lives, and in some cases I consider these people to be friends, so it came as a real surprise to see them so "standoffish" and reluctant to talk.

It's a few days later now and I've been dwelling on this off and on, and also taking more note of other interactions I've had with people over the past few days. In a lot of cases, when I told people I was going in for an operation, their first response was to tell me, either about their own firsthand experience with cancer, or, about a family member who has fought cancer and either won or lost. I think this is the way most people are able to feel comfortable with this subject while still offering a degree of personal interaction. Funnily enough, it seems to be quite different when people are in a group. They then seem to be more reluctant to talk about themselves and in most cases start to ask questions about whatever it is you're going through.

So I think the answer is to tell people, but then to get off the subject as quickly as possible and focus on something they are more comfortable with. I don't think there is an issue here of right or wrong... I think it's more that that's just the way it is.

On a personal level, if I turn the coin over, I notice that the view is quite different. For instance: The young boy who died in Auckland the other day after football practice. My first inclination when this comes to mind is to feel a level of sympathy for the family - which I now realize is quite superficial. But when I compare this to my feelings about this cancer and the upcoming operation I realize that I really haven't got a clue. Try as I might, I can't even begin to understand how this boys' parents must feel, and I think it shows an unpleasant degree of egotism and arrogance on my part to even pretend that I do.

So now I've now come to a realization... Why should it be any different for other people? So my thinking has changed and I'm going to take some advice from my youngest daughter, and just...

Suck it up, princess.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=y6YNtM9lvpM 

Follow By Email

Hi all, Chris' super tech savvy daughter here... I've just added a Follow By Email tab to the blog so whenever Dad writes a new post you'll get an email letting you know :)

Just enter your email address, push the buttons it tells you to, then check your email and click on the verify that you want to receive emails part and you should be all set to go :)

Mum I've already signed up your email, you just need to check it and verify x

x Serena x

Are you talking to me?

I guess the experts will have all sorts of comments to make on the range and extent of emotions that people go through when faced with life and all its hurdles. When this all started and the doctor first told me I had cancer, I felt pretty detached. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that the doctor was fixated on telling me things in doctorspeak, but then, even afterwards I still felt as though this was just another thing I would have to deal with. Even now - still not knowing the extent of the problem - I feel that this is something we'll get past and in a few months be able to move on with our lives.

To be quite frank about it, even if these scans show some inoperable problem and I'm told to get my shit together so I can die without inconveniencing anyone, I'll still feel pretty much the same way. After all, I've lived for 60 years in relatively good circumstances, haven't wanted for anything, and have generally enjoyed my life.When I think of the little girl somewhere in Africa who has dysentery and has never had a square meal, or I think of the young mother who has to take her child to the hospital every month for treatment, I realise how truly fortunate I have been.

Maybe I should feel guilty? Nah... I'm not that altruistic. Anyway, there have been a few times when the tears have overflowed - like in the doctor's office when I was trying to understand what was being said so I could let the kids know. But mainly it's been when other people put on their sad face and talk to me as if I'm on my deathbed.

So here's the new rule. All tears are to remain unshed until my funeral - which, as far as I know is going to be in about another 25 years. Anyone who breaks this rule has to live with the knowledge that they made a grown man cry. Ok, I know that down the track there will be a few exceptions to this rule, but I'm really, really hoping they are going to be few and far between.

I was going to say sorry for this diatribe, but I'm not 'cause writing this crap down helps me in some way that I don't really understand (No! I'm not looking for someone to explain it to me.) So, you guys, as my family and friends will just have to put up with it - or hit delete.

So, that's me for now. I'll let you know how fast the MRI goes.

The CT Scan - a doddle.

CT Scan day today. So Denise and I took ourselves off to the hospital to see what it's all about. I was a bit disappointed when we arrived - I thought I would be the star of the show - turns out the waiting room was full and it was sit down and behave yourself time. I thought we'd be there for quite awhile but after a few minutes a nurse (I wonder if that's politically correct? She was probably some sort of expert technician in the field of CT Scans) came out with the obligatory form to be filled out. So that was all good and then they marched us down a corridor to a change room where I got to model the latest in Hawkes Bay Hospital formalwear

  

  You can tell we're taking this whole thing very seriously can't you?

So anyway, after they found the misplaced form and decided it was really me in the chair, they then proceeded to stick a baynot in my arm on the pretext of adding some dye into my blood. I thought that I might be able to make a land claim after this but it turns out the dye is the same colour as vodka - well yes; you do get a head rush but it only lasts for a few minutes.

Then it was into a room where I got to lie down on a two inch wide, rough sawn plank with a brick under my head. They asked my my date of birth - to make sure I was still the same guy that walked through from the other room - and  then everybody rushed out the door and hid while this robot voice told me to hold my breath...  and now breathe... hold my breath... and now breathe... hold my breath and now breathe. (Stupid robot couldn't make up it's mind.) This went on for a bit and then everyone came back inside, told me I was a good little patient and led me back to the change room. Bit of a non-event really. No word yet on the MRI. Not sure what it is. I'm hoping for some kind of race car, but I guess we'll find out soon enough.

An aside

About four years - I think that's how long I've worked for this company… it’s now Thursday 23rd May 2013 and I’m at work. I’d been mulling this over and decided I should do the right thing and let everyone at work know that I've got cancer, what’s happening now, and and that I’m going to need some time off going forward. So I stand in the middle of the office and tell everyone - including the boss - what’s going on, and then the questions start. Turns out I’m not good with questions about this stuff so I bolt outside and get back to work.

The boss comes out and assures me that there won’t be any issues, that he will arrange cover for me while I’m away and that I should make up an appointment schedule for him so he's kept in the loop. So off I go, happy with the knowledge that I’ve done the right thing and that all will be good in the end.

The following Monday as I’m getting ready to leave on my run, the boss comes out and asks to have a catch up before I leave. OK says I. Later on I wander into his office where his first words are, “close the door”. He then proceeds to tell me that they are going to “can” my run and contract it out and that I now have two options. Either I can resign so I’m not bothered by the pressures of work, or they can make me redundant so I’m not bothered by the pressures of work. He recommends that I go for the redundancy ‘cause I’ll get an extra two weeks pay. So,now I don't have a job. But, I do get an extra two weeks redundancy pay. Thanks for the four years of effort, Chris.

More on this to come later.

The trip so far

So, Wednesday 15th May 2013. I'm in a skin specialist's rooms having some Basal Cell Carcinomas cut out. (I didn't even have to look that up!) and we have a "discussion" about a lump on my nose. My side of the discussion was, "there's a lump on my nose"; and he then commenced to poke and stare from a distance where a breath mint would have been good, and discussed likely scenarios with the nurse. I think he assumed that I would know what he was talking about, but anyway..

The end result was that he biopsied (is that a real word?) the lump, and sent it off to be tested.

A week later and Denise and I are back in the same rooms listening while he explains to us in doctorspeak what's wrong. The end result of that "discussion" is that we come away knowing I have cancer and he refers me to a different specialist (sigh of relief), and starts the ball rolling for me to have a CT scan and an MRI.

Yesterday (Wednesday 29th May 2013) and Denise and I meet the other specialist. Talk about chalk and cheese. This guy is great. Speaks to you like you're a fellow human being and in words that, for the most part, are part of the English language. He has a poke around and a stare (no breath mint required) and then proceeds to stick a fishing rod up my nose - it felt like he forgot to take the hook off - so he can see what's going on inside.

So, end result is, I'm off to have a CT scan and hopefully an MRI tomorrow, back to see him in two weeks time and then off to Auckland to be poked and stared at by a whole team of specialists. Sometime after that - possibly the following week -it will be into the operating room where I get a nose job.

So now we're up to date.