The Coming Attraction

As I had mentioned previously, my appointment to have an upper body MRI had me arriving at Baylor Hospital in McKinney at six-thirty on a Tuesday morning. I arrived to find there were two other parties in line before me. One was a woman with an entourage waiting for surgery, the other was a pregnant woman about to burst and her husband. The person at the front desk called out a last name and both parties stirred. Both had last names that were quite similar.

While that situation played out to a conclusion, another woman came in, looking as tired as I was. In the meantime, the sole woman at the front desk was trying her best to do her job.

A second operative finally came to the front desk. She and I went through the paperwork, ran the card for the deductible, and proceeded to the empty radiology waiting room.

The show for me was supposed to start at 6:45.

There was no one able to get me going on the machine until a little before 7:00.

I knew the drill and the tech knew me. He was a little puzzled, having seen me a little less than three weeks earlier. When the situation was explained, we were able to work on getting the session done while having short bursts of conversation before and after we did the deed. When we were done, it was back home to wait until my appointment with the surgeon the following Monday.

*****

To this point, my struggles with doctors were confined to my Primary Care Physician in Allen (about 7 miles away) and to the other doctors, the hospital and the cancer clinic ten miles away in McKinney. The surgeon’s office is in Plano – a good 15–20-mile drive from my home in Princeton.

Carol and I were quite aware of where the surgeon had set up shop in an office building adjacent to Baylor Scott and White’s Plano location. We spent our first anniversary at that hospital – Carol had a double mastectomy ridding her of some suspicious lumps that kept popping up. Adding to the irony, the surgeon who performed the mastectomy on Carol shared an office with the surgeon who was going to work on me.

I was impressed with the man. His overview of what I was to expect was quite thorough. He laid out several scenarios before telling us (Carol was with me) what would be the best scenario for everyone involved. The sample needed by the surgeon was too small to attempt a “Needle Biopsy”, so instead, he proposed a bit of laparoscopic surgery instead.

Been there, done that. Have the T-Shirt.

I remember waking up early, like 4:00am on a Sunday morning early, to intense abdominal pain, thinking I was about to have a heart attack. A trip to the ER eventually revealed that I had gallstones in a gall bladder that needed to be taken out.

The following Friday, May 8,1992, I was in the hands of a surgeon who successfully removed my gall bladder, assisted by one of the local OB/Gyns working the camera. The reason I am specific on the date was that on May 9^th, Bruce Springsteen made his first appearance on Saturday Night Live. I was on meds, zonked out of my gourd, but I was sure as sin not going to miss The Boss on SNL!

Two takeaways from that experience were relayed to the surgeon thirty-one years later. When my gall bladder was taken out, the surgeon complained after the fact that was a lot of scar tissue from a previous bit of surgery. Fair warning for the upcoming surgery. The other was my having to pay an Ob/Gyn for his part in the surgery. I was amused at the time and am still amused to this day about “My Gynecologist.”

The surgeon was similarly amused.

With the chit-chat out of the way, we determined to arrange for surgery at Baylor Scott White in McKinney as soon as arrangements could be made.

That left me time to think about a few other things, like scars. While making out an entry for my personal blog, I got to thinking about the other scars I’ve had on my body over the years and got to thinking about those scars.

First and foremost was the scar on the right side of my belly gained when an unknown doctor cut into one-month-old me to relieve my pyloric stenosis. That scar was the one creating the scar tissue the surgeon going in after my gall bladder (with the assistance of my OB/GYN) complained about when he ran a video of his work afterwards. The pyloric stenosis scar grew with me. I learned later on, that cuts for pyloric stenosis were moved from a prominent place on the abdomen to just under the rib cage where the scar would be a lot less noticeable. When I worked in the oil patch[1], one of my co-workers came to work his two-week stretch worried about his newborn son’s diagnosis of pyloric stenosis. I showed him my scar, told him about the newer way surgeons would make a cut, and assured him that since I survived 28 years with the affliction, his son would surely do the same.

Other scars included (not counting my circumcision) included one where a cyst was taken out of my backside, one of the four incisions made for the removal of my gall bladder, one for a hernia repair, and the inside my rectum cut for the resection of said body part.

I made the choice to count however many cuts made for my upcoming surgical appointment as part of a larger collection… making what for some would be considered some sort of life altering experience. What’s one more cut to a pro, eh? For that matter, how many men can honestly say that they had work that included the services of an OB/GYN?

*****

A week and a half later, I got the call.

I was scheduled for pre-admission testing on the 24^th of August, followed by surgery early in the morning on the 28^th.

[1] Between 1980 and 1984 I worked as a roustabout on offshore oil rigs run by Keydril. Two weeks on and two weeks off. It was quite the adventure. The incident mentioned here occurred on Keydril’s Aleutian Key.

This week’s installment is shorter.

Shorter is not intentional – rather, it just turned out that way. This past week (11/21-28/2023) straddled the Thanksgiving Holiday, posing a challenge that will be covered later. Another challenge that came up was in the form of a book sent to me by my sister and her husband. Reading it last night, there was something came up that caused me to do a quick re-edit… having to do with the privacy of the patient and doctor(s). Instead of naming the names of the professionals involved in my care, I will be referring to them in terms of the care they are giving me. I may change the edits later.

Starting Out

The second round started on the 19th of July 2023.

As I mentioned before, I was upbeat about my appointment with the Oncologist. After all, my appointment with my Primary Care Physician the previous Wednesday went well, and there was no news from the surgeon who did the resection from the MRI she had ordered less than a week earlier. My presumption was that no news was good news, so, my visit with the Oncologist would provide me with a medical “Trifecta” that would make me feel really good about myself and my long-term prognosis.

It had been a little over two years since the initial colonoscopy and follow-up surgery. The Oncologist kept me “under observation” with visits every quarter, sliding to visits every six months after a year of quarterly visits. Six months prior to my July visit, I was handed off to a Nurse Practitioner with the promise that my visits would alternate with the good Doctor and the Nurse Practitioner for the remainder of the five-year observation period.

Fine by me.

Just after my visit with my PCP on the 12^th, I went to the cancer clinic for a CAT scan at the Oncologist’s request. It was a simple visit. The tech and I had met on several previous occasions. We both knew what needed to be done and the visit was over almost as soon as it started. The only problem I had was with what is called the contrast. There was a newer tech being trained and she had some problem finding a vein. She managed to get me my first bruise from either giving or taking blood. I excused the tech trainee on the basis of lack of experience.

The week between my visit with my PCP and my appointment with the Oncologist went well. Nothing unusual. Took care of some bills, coped with the heat, went shopping, you know, the usual. No word from the surgeon from the MRI she ordered for me, so I presumed that when I went to see the Oncologist on the morning of the 19^th at 9:40am that we would have a pleasant visit and I would walk out with a Trifecta.

Missed it by that much.

The Oncologist told me that when looking at the CAT scan, she and the tech had noted a 3cm growth on the edge of my liver.

Now, three centimeters isn’t very much. Just a little over an inch. But those three centimeters are enough to cause concern. We’re talking in terms of a vital organ. While the Oncologist spoke of possible treatment options, my head was trying to wrap around the fact that the cancer I thought I was rid of had made an encore performance.

The good news that morning was that the offending cancer was small and likely excised with little or no problem. The not as good news was that there would definitely be some additional treatment involved. Radiation was mentioned. Chemotherapy was mentioned. There would have to be a biopsy and the involvement of another surgeon. The Oncologist mentioned several choices of surgeon. I asked her which surgeon she would trust. She told me. I told her that if she trusted the surgeon she recommended, I would trust her judgement.

The choice was made. Orders were sent.

All I had to do was to wait for the call to see when I would see the surgeon.

If you are following or thinking of following this thread, good news. I have decided to publish chapters on Tuesdays. Hopefully without fail.

Here’s the second installment:

Allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Bruce, although I have had several monikers attached to me by myself and others.

For instance, someone on my high school yearbook took a picture of me playing my cello with the legend, “It’s Harpo! It’s Chico! It’s Groucho! No, it’s Bruco!”[1] I adopted the moniker a couple of years later when I was on the radio as “Bruco in the Nighttime.”[2] Radio was one of several career stops along the way. We’ll get there in just a bit.

When asked where I am from, I tell people that I was born in Maryland, weaned in Pittsburgh, went to elementary school in the Cleveland Ohio area, and to high school in Chillicothe Ohio. As this story unfolds, I have been living in what I refer to as my little corner of the DFW Metromess since 1998. This current location marks the second time I’ve lived in Texas – I lived in a corner of Houston back in the early ‘80s.

I am the oldest of six and the furthest flung. Three of my siblings live in Ohio, the other two are in Indiana and Maine.

My parents were the younger siblings of their respective families. Dad had an older sister living in Houston. Mom’s sister lived in West Virginia, less than fifteen miles from where she and my mother were raised.

Mom, her sister, Dad’s sister, and one of my own sisters were nurses. When it came to my health, they pulled no punches. That’s why I appreciate my care team. I can ask questions and get direct answers.

As you probably guessed from the previous entry, I am married to a woman named Carol. She’s a nurse, too.

Carol is my second wife (and I am her second husband). My first wife, the mother of my two children, is seldom mentioned by me. There’s a certain amount of enmity between us that isn’t helped any by my referring to her as “The Previous Regime.”

My second wife is nicer.

Like many “Baby Boomers,” I’ve had more than one “career” in my lifetime. Radio, for instance, was something that I was sort of born into. Robust, distinctive voice, and a penchant for trivia helped me to maintain my own in the medium. To this day, I encounter people who remark about my voice, asking if I’ve ever been on the radio. I admitted so to a couple I was in the process of selling at a well-known home improvement store here in the Metromess[3] that indeed I had been on the radio in southern Ohio. The woman immediately told me what radio station I worked in Ohio (much to my surprise), revealing herself to be the older sister of one of my running buddies.

Small world.

While performing on the radio may seem attractive, the downside is that wages suck. I’ve borrowed the term, “Minimum wage and all the records you can eat.” With the current state of the art, there are no longer records to eat – only what’s blowing around in this ether called the internet.

I had a six-year hiatus from radio in the eighties. Three years each working as a roustabout on an offshore oil rig, three years attempting to run a business I had purchased. I lost he money I saved working offshore running the business.

When I went back into radio for the next six years, the way radio did business was starting to change. I managed to make more money than I did previously, but still not enough to support a family.

There was a short time when I worked in the circulation department of a local newspaper, followed by what I consider to be my second real career selling major appliances for three “Big Box” stores.

Enough of my work history.

I believe I covered my personal history, too.

After “retirement,” I took up writing for fun and losing money. When this second round of cancer came about, I put aside some of what I was writing, to write about this new phase of my life.

Can’t wait to see how this all works out!

******

Two things should be noted here.

For one, this book, or guide, or whatever this turns out to be, follows notes I made on my Facebook page and on my WordPress site – bdharrellauthor.com

For the other, not everyone’s journey is the same. These are my impressions and may not be what you would expect if you are on this journey yourself.

Let’s hope you don’t have to go on that journey. If you do, let others know. You won’t believe the amount of support you’ll get.

[1] Pronounced – Brew-So, following the Marx Brothers’ theme.

[2] Not to be confused with “Cousin Brucie” AKA “Cousin Bruce Morrow” or with Don Imus’ “Imus in the Morning” which was being broadcast at the same time.

[3] A friend of mine used the term “DFW Metromess” a couple of years ago. I decided to appropriate (steal) the term to use as my own. After all, “Plagiarism isn’t stealing, it’s merely recycling!” – Professor Peter Schickele

Be Seeing You!