Having made THE DECISION, I wanted to act as soon as possible.  And after looking at the calendar, our first opportunity was April 18th.  Lionel had several operations, and I had an important proposal to prepare for Acer America. Prior to the operation, I was told that I would have to be examined to determine if the cancer had spread to my bladder.  I was asked to present myself at the clinic on Monday, April 15th for a cystoscopic examination*. If the cancer had progressed to the bladder then another procedure would be more appropriate. This would not be painful, but it may be uncomfortable I was told.  I seemed to have heard this before ! Several times before.

 

I arrived at the clinic which, up until this time, had always been a symbol of tranquility and hope. After going through the traditional label reproduction ritual, I found Cindy, she with the happy smile, and gave her my labels. I was led into a small room and asked to take off all my clothes below the waist (again). I am sure these people are voyeurs !. Having done this, she led me to a contraption from the Spanish inquisition.

 

“I want you to lie on this bench and spread your legs over these two stirrups.”
“But I’m not a woman and I don’t think I’m pregnant,” I said.
“We just want to make sure,” was this princess  Machiavelli’s reply.
There is not a lot you can do while laying in such a position.  So I lay there contemplating the universe.  Cindy went to a small table and spread Lidocaine Jelly onto her hands. She then proceeded to massage my appendage with the Lidocaine.  Using psychology to distance both of us from the reality of the present she said,

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*Seriously this is a procedure that you must avoid by any means possible. It’s not that it is uncomfortable…it is bloody painful. I have given serious consideration to my responsibility to the reader to divulge the true extent of this Medieval Medical Procedure. And I have concluded that lying is justified.  As a suggestion you might tell your doctor,
“I am one of a pair of identical twins and my sister has been diagnosed with prostate cancer also.   She has just had a cystoscopic examination and there was no trace of cancer in her bladder.  So why don’t we both save some time and the insurance company some money and conclude that I am ok ?” It might work, but I can’t guarantee it.
 
“This weekend I took my family to Disneyland, and we all had a great time.”

 

Deciding to participate in this charade, I said,

 

“It must be five years since we went to Disneyland, and we had such a great time also.”

 

Next, she applied a penis clamp and proceeded to apply a local painkiller. After a few moments, she removed the clamp saying,

 

“Dr. Foster will be with you soon,”  and promptly left the room. I never did find out how she got along with Mickey Mouse.
I lay there with legs astride waiting  the doctor.  Eventually, he came in.

 

“Good morning.  How are you doing Mr. Gray?”

 

“I feel pretty stupid if you really want to know,” I said.

 

“This won’t take long.  I know you feel a little awkward, but it’s better to find out now if the cancer has spread to the bladder, and not after we have cut you open.”

 

It made sense I guess, but I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that I agreed with him.  I felt a bit like the hostage that starts to identify and  sympathize with his captors.

 

While conversing in small talk during this big day ( at least for me ), Dr. Foster removed a cloth covering a stainless steel tray.  The tray was about 3” deep and contained a green liquid disinfectant. From the tray he removed a stainless steel tube about 3/16” in diameter and maybe 30” long.  At one end was an optical lens, at the other end was an eyepiece, and about 9” down from the eyepiece was a 90° elbow.  Lionel connected a fiber optic cable to the elbow while the other end of the cable was connected to a light source.

 

“You might feel a little discomfort, but it will not last long,” he said.
With this comforting lie, he took hold of my penis and proceeded to push a 3/16” diameter steel tube into a 1/16” space.  It was not a happy experience. He pushed, and I twisted.  Eventually he got this steel instrument of torture into the right position and placed his eye over the eyepiece.

 

“Looks good,” he said and immediately withdrew the tube of pain.
With blessed relief, I was given a towel to clean myself, after which I gingerly got to my feet and put on my clothes.

 

“As I said, there is no sign of cancer in the bladder and the operation should go without problems on Thursday.”  With this reassuring note, he bade me farewell.

 

When I got home that night, there was a package from the O’ Connor Hospital containing the Pre-Operative Program Guide. This was your basic travel guide to a vacation paradise not rated by Cond′e Nast Travel. In it were maps to the resort from several directions of the Bay Area, hints on preparing for surgery, a discussion on the different forms of anesthesia, and most important of all for me was a single sheet, Home preparation for Radical Retropubic Prostatectomy. 

The Sunday before my surgery, Laura and her husband Mike invited Sarah, Jason ( our son ), and I to dinner at their home.  Everybody was so nice and my slightest wish was granted ( I wish it could always be this way ). It seemed to me that everybody was treating this evening as though it was my last supper ( so this is how HE felt ) .  Mike cooked Mexican food, and half way through the festivities Laura gave me a parcel addressed to me.  By its weight and size I could tell that it was a book.

 

“This is with best wishes from John,” Laura said.
John Gordon has been a friend of mine for many years.  When Laura was studying Human Resources at San Jose State University, I asked John if he could help her. He hired her first as an intern, then as a permanent employee in the Human Resource Department at Molecular Dynamics, a new start up company in Silicon Valley that went I.P.O. shortly after Laura started. She became a twenty-one year old with stock options.  I took the package that Laura handed me and opened it.  Inside was a signed copy of Salman Rushdie’s book, the Satanic Verses.

 

John introduced Laura and I to this hobby of collecting autographed books several years ago. But, I looked at this gift with mixed blessing. To receive a signed copy of the Salman Rushdie book was a very rare occurrence, but could the Ayatollah Khomeni and his hired assassins be far behind ? What did John Gordon know that they didn’t ?  Could I really trust my surgical team ?

 

Finally, the day before the day of reckoning arrived, I was instructed that I could only drink clear liquids and no solid food starting at 6:00 AM the day before surgery.  Between noon and midnight, I should drink two quarts of water and absolutely nothing else after midnight.  The final indignity was a self administered Fleet’s Enema at noon and 6:00 PM on the day before. 

 

At 8:32 on the evening before surgery, the phone rang.  Expecting a call from a concerned friend or relative, I was surprised to hear on the other end a strange voice.

 

“Mr. Gray, my name is Dr. Steven Johnson, I’m going to be your anesthesiologist tomorrow, and I’d like to ask you a few questions.”  

 

“OK,” I said.

 

“I will be giving you a general anesthetic using an epidural injection.”

 

“What?” I said, “I was lead to believe that this would be a local anesthetic,
and that I would be in and out of the hospital the same day.”

 

“No, No, No,” he said. “What have THEY been telling you? This is major  surgery.”  I remembered Duke Ellington once saying that music is made up of sounds and spaces and that spaces were the most important. I let the space between replies linger to savor the moment. Eventually, I decided ever so reluctantly to bring him down from the ceiling.

 

“I was only kidding.  I wanted to make sure that you were listening,” I said.

 

“You’ve got my attention,”  was his reply. 

 

“You may proceed with your interrogation,” I said.

 

This was followed by a series of questions about my past medical history which I answered to the best of my ability.  Two more questions that alerted my curiosity antenna:

 

“How tall are you and how much do you weigh?”

 

“Wait a minute,” I said, “that’s the kind of question an executioner would normally ask.”

 

“Yes,” he said.  “We both have similar professions.” 

 

After giving him the answers to his questions, he was about to conclude the interview when I asked him one more question.

 

“Tell me, is there any chance that you can find me a donor between now and tomorrow morning?”

 

“NO” was his emphatic reply. “I’m going to bed now.”

 

I took this to mean that he thought the idea rather doubtful, and I put the telephone receiver down. Shortly afterwards, I shaved and showered and went to bed.

 

The alarm went off at 4.00 a.m.  I awoke with great difficulty as did Sarah at that time of the morning.  Sarah had tea and toast while I could not even read the news paper since it had not arrived yet.  Finally, Sarah had satisfied her gluttony, remember I had not eaten for twenty-four hours, so my perspective was more than slightly tainted.  When we eventually got into the car, I had a terrible headache and I felt sick.  I put this down to my lack of calories and liquids over the last twenty-four hours ( it seemed like a century ).

 

We drove through Silicon Valley, an area that most people have heard  about, but few have really experienced.  This is a part of Northern California that can be best described as a sun baked silicon chip ( when the morning clouds burn off that is).  With cars being directed by helicopters and fixed wing airplanes, people follow a labyrinth of nodes to their final destination so that they can finish their commute and start their compute.   At 4.45 a.m. it was dark, but there were still lots of cars on the highway 101 Ethernet.

 

Finally, we arrived at O’Conner Hospital, a modern facility originally sponsored by The Daughters of Charity of St. Vincent de Paul in 1889. I hoped that they kept up their sponsorship since I was to be their latest intern.  After parking the car, we entered a wide entrance.  There were a few people about  and it was difficult to tell the patients from the relatives by their expressions ( all seemed glum ).

 

We found our way to the reception area, where a nice young lady asked me my name and entered it into the computer.

 

“Ah yes, Mr. Gray, we have been expecting you.  Would you mind answering a few questions?”  Having come all this way and depriving myself of so many calories was I going to say no? I don’t think so!

 

“I would like to verify a few things if you don’t mind,” said the lady with the keyboard ( if I did mind would it make any difference I asked myself).  She
verified the insurance company, my date of birth, very important for some unknown reason, and every conceivable phone, fax and email number she could link me to, just in case the insurance company went out of business and they were left with a living corpse.  Finally, she asked what my religion was.

 

“Muslim,” I said without hesitation.

 

“No he’s not,” said Sarah with a vengeance.

 

“Well I’m thinking about it,” I said with Salman Rushdie still fresh in my mind.

 

“He’s Church of England, that’s like an Episcopalian in this country ” said Sarah in a defender of the faith tone.  After this little outburst, I was fitted with red and white wrist bands (but, no labels !).

 

“Your room will be on the fifth floor, the cancer ward,” said the receptionist. The cancer ward! My mind went back to my university days when I read of the horror stories told by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, the Russian dissident who wrote a book of the same name.

 

I was then asked to take a seat.  This once stable receptionist was now almost brought to tears when I asked her what kind of seat she wanted me to take and where she wanted me too take it.

 

After about a five minute wait, we were rounded up, patients, relatives and all, and led down a series of corridors losing one patient and associated relatives after another as they were directed to their respective preparation areas.  An elderly lady and I entered the final prep room. 

 

A young man greeted me and gave me a large plastic bag and requested that I undress, place my clothes into the bag, and then put on the back to front hospital gown and the socks I was given.  Shortly afterwards, I was visited by this same young man who was now holding a stainless steel bowl partially filled with what looked like look warm water. He also held a foaming agent, razor, and disinfectant.

 

“I’m going to shave you,” he said.

 

“Thank you, but I shaved last night.”

 

“Not where I’m going to shave you” was his reply.  “Now, I’ll start just below the chest and end just here above the knee,” he informed me while pointing to the affected parts of my anatomy with the blunt end of the razor.

 

“Look mate, every man to his trade I grant you.  I’m not a doctor, I never really tried.  But I have a good idea of where the prostate is, and I think I can locate it with a bit more precision than somewhere between the chest and the knee. Do you think these doctors know what the hell they’re doing?” I asked with concern in my voice.   

 

“Dr. Foster is an excellent surgeon.  We shave such a wide area just in case of emergencies, it’s just procedure,”  he replied in a vain attempt to uphold the reputation of the medical profession.  “Just procedure,” I thought,  the cop
out of all bureaucrats.

 

“Go ahead then but be careful, I only want to be cut by a surgeon.”

 

About halfway through the removal of the hair,  a shadow was cast across my torso. I looked up to see an athletic middle aged man with an expansive smile on his face.

 

“Hi  Mr. Gray.  I’m Steven Johnson, your anesthesiologist.  We spoke on the phone last night . How are you feeling?”

 

“Hello. I’ve got a terrible headache, and I feel sick. By the way, did you find one?” I said.

 

“Find what?” he asked.

 

“A donor of course.”

 

“No, I told you I was going straight to bed last night and didn’t have time to look this morning,” he said smiling. “I’m going to start preparing you for surgery,” he said, picking up my left hand.  I  told  him of  my  bad experiences  after  the  surgery to  remove  my appendix. They had given me the epidermal injection while I was still in the fetal position on the gurney. When I came round after the operation, although my legs were straight out in front of me, the last thing my mind remembered was my legs being bent, and it kept sending signals from the brain to straighten out my legs which were already straight.  Steven said he understood the phenomena and promised to make sure my legs were in the straight forward position before the dark vale of unconscious enveloped me.

 

I laid there naked, with one man holding the future of civilization in one hand while shaving around it, and a second man inserting a needle into the back of my left hand, and connecting this to a tube which was then taped to the back of my hand. The other end of the tube was connected to a plastic bag hanging from a trolley.  The bag contained a clear liquid.  A small valve was adjusted, allowing a slow series of drips of the liquid to flow into my vain.  Gradually my headache began to subside.
 
The barber had just about finished his task and was applying a disinfectant to the hairless skin when I reached under the pillow on my gurney and pulled out a label that I had prepared the day before.  It was about the size of a credit card ( how appropriate in this material age ).  At one end, I had punched

 

 

 

 

a hole and attached a rubber band.  I told my tonsorial artist to make sure that this label was attached to my penis before I was wheeled into the cutting room ( it hadn’t occurred to me until just now, but  there is a great similarity between a surgeon and an editor.  They both can cut you to death).   He took the label from me and read the instructions.  He smiled.  As a professional salesman, I know that you cannot close to soon or to often.  I also knew that the first thing THEY would do before inserting a blunt instrument into me would be to install a catheter.  That would mean handling my penis first.  And that would be where my message would be. It read, “Dr. Foster Pare The Prostate and Spare The Nerves” You see, I would be selling even though I was unconscious. This would be the ultimate billboard.

 

The good lad did as I asked him. With Steven looking on, he nodded how it was time for the judge to call Habeas Corpus ( Deliver the body ).

 

“It’s time to go,”  said Steven.

 

Sarah held my hand and said she loved me. She kissed me as the gurney was pushed along the corridor. 

 

I waved and said, “I’ll see you soon love.”  The journey to the abattoir ( or shambles as we call it in Yorkshire ) was less than a hundred feet from the prep room, where we turned flat 90° left ( I’m sorry, but I think of all directions as pace notes in a car rally ) into a pair of folding doors that opened after the suggested  force from my gurney leaning into them. I was lying on my back as we entered.  The gurney stopped, and I propped my self up to look at the vista before me. There was a lot of stainless steel shelving and associated equipment and a batch of powerful lights in the ceiling. There were about five people, but it was difficult to be certain how many when you are under the influence of anesthetics. I looked round for Foster, everybody was rapt in green or white gowns. “My quack is black,” I mentally said to myself, but I could not see him. “What is this ?” my brain was asking.  “Is this the theater of the absurd?  Have they brought me into the wrong room?  Will I get a breast implant or lose my right leg?” I blinked my eyes to refocus my vision.

 

When I opened my eyes again, I looked into the face of a late twenty year old lady with brown eyes and a mole on her left check and a smile in her voice who said,

 

“You’re in the recovery room Mr. Gray.  The operation’s over and everything  went OK.”

 

“Where’s the Penthouse?” I asked weakly in my half sleep state.

 

“It’s on the top floor,” was her reply.  Dam, she had no idea what I was talking about.  No one had briefed her.

 

“We’re now going to transport you to your room,” she said.

 

“No, you can’t.  I’m supposed write an article about the surgery, take me
back!”  This heartless woman had no understanding of the poetic world I lived in,  and I was too weak to argue with her.  Did this happen to Shakespeare, Milton or
Tom Sharp? My eyes were open, but reality was shut out.  I felt the gurney being pushed out of the recovery room and into a corridor.  Suddenly, I remembered a film of the late sixties, “The Carpet Bagger.”  When the heroine, after their marriage, was asked by her new husband,

 

“What do you want to see on your honeymoon?” 

 

She replied, “lots and lots of lovely ceilings.”

 

This was my view of the world as we traveled through various corridors and elevators.  Eventually, we came to my room, or more properly, my suite.

 

“Someone has sent you a plant,” said my attendant.

 

“Who is it from?” I asked quite weakly.

 

The factotum went to the dresser and picked up the card attached to the plant and brought it to me.   It said, “Best of luck from all your friends at Acer of America.”

 

“Wow, even my clients are thinking about me,” I said.

 

I was pushed into place, and my eyes shut almost immediately.  I awoke about four hours later with most of my faculties in tune.  Suddenly, I remembered a song by Madeline Eastman, a San Francisco jazz vocalist, who rubs the outer shell of my existence and forces light and rhythm into my ears and soul with songs like Kisses and the Inner Urge.  Can Life be so bad ? I thought.

 

Next, my boy scout training took over, telling me to do an immediate inventory of my surroundings.  Sensors indicated that I was being held down by three tubes.  The first was connected to my left wrist and was monitoring the nutrients into my body and controlling the pain medication.  The second was in the lower extremities of the body and close to the incision.  This in turn was connected to a  device, about the size and shape of a hand grenade, hanging close to my body.  Its purpose was to drain off any internal fluids around the incision.  The final indignity was a catheter passing through the penis and into the bladder and ending in a bag clipped to the side of the bed.  This fluid collection device was to become my Ball and Chain for the next three weeks.

 

A little more should be said about this Medieval medical device, so evil that even the Spanish Inquisition could not invent it.  The Foley Catheter.  This thick rubber device was designed to pass through a hole less than a quarter of its own diameter.  It has an inner and outer tube allowing the technician to inject water into the outer tube, which in turn inflates a balloon at the end of the catheter  inside the bladder.  This stops the catheter from being accidentally dislodged.  This catheter has two main purposes.  The first is to act like a splint holding the urethra in place while the wound heals, and at the same time allowing the passage of urine into the external bag.  The second purpose is the medical equivalent of the Wheel Clamp on an illegally parked car.  It remains in place until a credit check can be made on the patient and the doctor and his associates have been paid.

 

The bed ( obviously not designed by a doctor ) was the very essence of comfort.   It had controls within easy reach which allowed the patient to adjust it to almost any desired position.  A small combination TV and radio was also provided on an adjustable arm.  The lighting was also excellent, again with easy to reach controls.  I adjusted the bed to get a better look at my new accommodations.  They were far better than any other hospital I had visited.  I was lucky, having been given a room on the corner of the ward with two windows on different walls.  The views, I was to find out later were excellent.  Besides having my own bathroom, I had a chesterfield, a table, and six chairs to entertain my visitors. But no Bar-B-Q.

 

While I was contemplating my surroundings, a nurse entered my room.   She introduced herself and proceeded to take my vital statistics, blood pressure, temperature and pulse.  She also measured the amount of fluid discharged from the hand grenade and the catheter.  This was a procedure that would be repeated every four hours or so during my stay at this resort.  Satisfied that I was still alive, the nurse disappeared only to reenter a few moments later with a tray containing my lunch.  It consisted of a clear consommé soup that was so thin it looked more like warm water.  For an additional treat, I was given a cup of weak tea with no milk.

 

“Where’s my steak?” I asked.  “It’s been a day and a half since I have had anything to eat.”

 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “But until you have a bowel movement, you can’t eat any solids.”

 

“But if I haven’t eaten anything in thirty-six hours how can I have a bowel movement?”

 

“Life is not always easy, is it?” she said with a smile as she left the room.  After consuming this gourmet delight, I set myself two immediate short term
goals. (1) I will walk on my own and (2) I will have a bowel movement, both as soon as possible.  

 

A short time later, Sarah phoned to say that she had talked to Lionel Foster and been assured that the operation had gone well.  She said she loved me, and that Laura and her would be visiting me at about 6 PM.  I had several more phone calls from friends at the Decathlon Club and from FloStor, the company I work for.  My racing and rally partner Kelley Gibbs also phoned and bless him, he called every day I was in the hospital and frequently while I convalesced at home.  For most of the time that afternoon, I rested and watched television until Sarah and Laura arrived.  The only interruption other than the nurses checking on my fluid intake and outflow was the arrival of a Care package from my office, filled with all kinds of wonderful food stuff that I could not presently eat, but would sustain me later during my recovery.

 

Since I was receiving continuous drips of morphine through one of my tubes I was feeling very little pain except when I coughed.  Then it felt as if my whole inside was about to explode.  The only way to suppress this feeling of self destruction was to press both hands over the wound and the abdomen before each cough.  Of course, the catheter was a constant reminder of my true condition.  It impeded my movement in bed, and as I was to find out later when I was able to walk, one has to make a conscious decision on how to carry and where to park the “Bag.”

 

It was during my evening consumption of the now familiar gourmet delights of warm liquids and Jell-O that Sarah and Laura arrived.  It is amazing how people can carry two contradictory expressions on their face at the same time, both concern and happiness.  If the eyes are really the  mirror of the soul, then I guess they were reflecting the true feelings of my visitors.  Before sitting down in two of the arm chairs next to the bed, we exchanged hugs and kisses.

 

We talked about the normal things that patients and visitors talk about in hospital surroundings.  Sarah had brought me some of my motoring magazines and a novel I was half way into.  At least I would be able to catch up on my back log of reading I thought.  After about two hours, we said our good-byes and my visitors left me to my first night in hospital.

 

As soon as they had left, I decided that the time was right to practice one of my short term goals.  A few moments later, a nurse came into my room.  I asked her for assistance in getting out of bed.

 

“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked. “Most people stay in bed at least a full day before they attempt to walk.  You came out of the operating room less than ten hours ago.”

 

“Yes,” I replied. “I want to eat, and before I can do that, I must learn to walk again and produce a stool for the medical profession.”

 

“OK,” she said with raised eyebrows, disappearing only to return moments later with another nurse to assist her.

 

The sheets were drawn back, and the hand grenade which had been clipped to the side of the bed was removed and attached to my gown.  One nurse helped to raise me into the sitting position while the other swung my legs over the side of the bed.  The Bag attached to the catheter was then unclipped from the bed and given to me to hold.

 

I was now sitting upright with my feet on the ground.  With some assistance, I was able to lift myself into the standing position.  With the Bag in one hand, I gripped the stand holding my nutrients and pain medication drip system with the other hand.  Slowly, I started to shuffle forward, pushing the wheeled stand in front of me.  Once I had got myself into motion, I refused their assistance, thanking them, but this was something I had to do on my own.  When I got outside my room, I looked along the corridor and set myself a goal of reaching a nursing station about forty feet away.  About a third of the way into my trek, a voice called out.

 

“Don’t forget, you have just as far to come back.”

 

She was right.  But I was on a mission, and I eventually made it to the nurse’s  station.  I was hot and sweating and in need of a rest.  After a short period, I turned and headed back to my room.  By the time I got back, I had probably walked about ninety feet altogether.

 

Now it was time to try to reach my second goal.  I shuffled into the toilet and rearranged the various tubes and the Bag, then tried to sit down.  I suddenly found out that the simple act of bending the torso was both difficult and painful. After performing this monumental feat, I strained my internal organs again with much pain in an effort to produce this much sought after stool.  The results were disappointing, only a thin stream of liquid.  Well at least I had tried and accomplished my first goal.

 

With some more wrenching of the catheter and stretching of the incision, I was able to get myself back into bed and reattach my various appendages to the sheets.  I closed my eyes and slept for a while.  When I awoke, it was dark.  There was very little noise from the rest of the ward and I noticed for the first time the absence of the typical smell of disinfectant one normally associates with a hospital.  In fact, I could not detect odor of any kind.  It was now a little after one o’clock in the morning, and I was wide awake.  As I couldn’t sleep any more, I turned on the TV.  The rest of the hours of darkness were spent alternating between late night movies and dozing off.  This routine was only interrupted once by the nurse to take the measurements of the fluid intake and output. 

 

Eventually, the earth turned a full revolution and there was sunlight on San Jose once more.  As if awakened by some unseen barnyard cock, our micro
community seemed suddenly aroused.  Food carts were on the move, bed pans were being changed and medication was administered.  Another day of medical adventure lay ahead.  A new chance to befuddle bureaucrats and to bring a smile to others.  I looked forward to the prospects with much anticipation.  Machiavelli would have been proud of me.

 

After an insipid liquid breakfast, I asked assistance from a male nurse to have a sponge bath.  Now this sounds like a simple procedure, but when one is encumbered with tubes sprouting like mutant reptiles from three parts of the
body, it is not an easy task.  After removing the hospital gown, we managed to clean most parts of the body including shampooing my hair.  Finally, I shaved myself and put on a clean set of hospital fatigues. 

 

Feeling much stronger, I decided to go for another walk.  This time, the full length of the top floor.  On my travels, I met with fellow guests staying at the same resort.  Sometimes a knowing nod would be exchanged, occasionally a conversation would take place.  Either way, it was nice to be free from the confines of the bed and to get some exercise. 

 

Eventually, I settled down in one of the comfy chairs in my room and started to read the current edition of “Classic & Sports Car” magazine.  Half way through an article on Aston Martin, my reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door.  I looked up to see a beaming Lionel Foster enter the room.  His smile was so large that it made his cheeks bulge like a young Dizzy Gillespie in full song. 

 

“How’s the legend?” he shouted holding out his hand. 

 

At first, I didn’t know if he intended me to shake it or put money into it.  After all, he is a doctor.  In the end I shook it.

 

“What do you mean, legend?” I asked. 

 

“Your label, nobody’s done anything like that to me before,” he said.  “I’ve been telling all my colleagues about it.”

 

“Just as long as the message got across.  Do you still have it by the way?” I asked.

 

“Yes,” he said patting his coat pocket. 

 

He noticed the magazine that I was reading, and to my surprise he talked with some obvious knowledge about Aston Martin.  It seems it is a manufacturer that he has always admired. 

 

I asked, “How did the operation go?”

 

“Very well, we got it just in time.  I feel confident that we were able to contain all the cancer.  It had progressed very close to the outer capsule of the gland.  If we had delayed much longer, the prognosis would not have been very
good,” he replied.

 

“What about the nerves?” I asked.

 

“I had to cut through some of them because of the location of the cancer in your prostate.  Your body has just gone through a major trauma.  It might take nine to twelve months for it to fully recover.”

 

“Did you bring me the little bastard like I asked?”

 

“No,” he replied.  “It’s at the Path lab.  It will be dissected for microscopic examination.  I should get the report some time next week.”

 

“Well I want a copy of the report and the slides of my prostate so that I
can look at what has caused me so much anguish,” I said.  He agreed to this request.  Sitting in a chair facing me, he removed the dressing from the incision and examined his handiwork.  Next, he looked at the hand grenade and the tube connecting it to my body. 

 

“I think we can remove this,” he said.  The tube was held in place by a single stitch, which he cut with a pair of surgical scissors.  With a firm hand, he
pulled out several inches of tube from inside my body.  This wasn’t painful in the least, but it was a strange sensation.  He redressed the incision and put a small tape over the hole that once held the tube. 

 

I thanked him and said, “Now that we have removed one tube, why don’t we make your time more productive and remove the catheter too?”

 

“No way,” he replied.  “I’ve got that date in my diary.  It stays in place for the next three weeks, and I’m not taking it out any sooner.”

 

“OK, now this is a lovely hospitable, but when can I leave?”

 

“Well, if you feel up to it, you may leave tomorrow afternoon,” he replied.

 

“Sounds like a plan to me,” I said.

 

After some more pleasantries, we agreed on a time for an office visit to remove the stitches.  We then said our good-byes and he left. 

 

It was now lunch time and a chance to sample another variation of the liquid diet.  With renewed strength (from what I’m not sure, it certainly wasn’t from the food) and with one less tube to worry about, I set off on a series of walking trips including several different wings of the hospital and trips on elevators.  It was during one of these forays that I was accosted by a nun.  Wearing a gray costume with white edgings, which seemed to be the habit of her profession, she stopped me and asked,

 

“Son, would you like me to arrange to have a clergyman of your domination visit you?”  Gosh, I must look worse than I felt was my first reaction.

 

“Thank you for your concern,” I replied, “but my son is praying for me at his church.  And I’m expecting a visit this afternoon from my mullah.”
 

Her whole demeanor suddenly changed from one of compassion to one of confusion.  She just nodded and went on her way, but it was clear that she was trying to reconcile the relationship between this man with a BBC accent and a Muslim holy man?
  

I knew that Sarah and Jason would be visiting me around 6 P.M so I thought it would be a surprise for them if I greeted them when they got off the elevator.  From my vantage point on the top floor, I had a good view of the front entrance to the hospital and automobile traffic looking for parking spots.  Eventually, I saw them enter the building.  From previous experience, I knew it would take about four minutes to pass through the various corridors and travel up the elevator.  As the door opened, I greeted them.  There was surprise on their faces, even more so after I told them that I had been walking for a good part of the day.

 

As we ambled back to my room, I told them about my encounter with the nun and the visit from Lionel Foster. 
    “So you will be able to come home tomorrow then?” she countered. 
    “Yes, if you’ll have me.” I said.  “You can pick me up after one o’clock.  The three of us talked about family things for awhile, then we all took a walk around the ward before they had to go home, leaving me once more to the care of nurses, nuns, and doctors.

 

The early evening saw the staff on the day shift gradually being replaced by the graveyard shift.  I thought that this was an unfortunate term to be associated with the supposed mission of this building.  However, with this changing of the guard, I was to be introduced to two super people.  Robert, a young male nurse in his early thirties with a strong but quiet voice, and “Freddie”, an elderly lady with patience, grace, and wit.  I took an instant liking to both of them.  They both had the qualities of a caring healer, their eyes showed compassion and their actions demonstrated again that the eyes don’t lie.

 

Upon hearing Freddie’s name for the first time, I instantly gave her the tag “Freddie Freeloader”, after the great tune of the same name composed by Miles Davis.  I’m sure MD would have approved.  Freddie was in her mid seventies and had been a nurse longer than she could remember.  Understandably, she was not as strong as she used to be, and left much of the heavy work to the young hands of Robert.

 

I had tried several times during the day to accomplish my second short term goal, the production of a solid stool, but with no success.  I told Robert in the early evening about my desire to be able to pass a solid stool and thus graduate to real food.  It was agreed that he would administer a suppository to help nature along.

 

It took several hours for the various chemical elements to combine and produce the desired reaction.  I was awoken a little after one o’clock in the morning with the unusual desire to go to the bathroom.  After the normal struggle with the tubes, pain and the Bag, I was able to get myself to the bathroom and onto the toilet seat.  I tried contracting my internal muscles to help things along, but this put pressure on the abdomen and the incision causing further pain.  Eventually, I felt something passing followed by relief.  Slowly, I stood up and looked into the toilet bowel.  It was there.  Not much, but quantity was not a criterion.  I looked at my watch, it was one seventeen in the morning.  I yelled out to Robert and Freddie.

 

“Do you need to see it?”

 

“No, I’ll take your word,” said Robert.

 

“Make sure you mark it down in my charts,” I reminded him.

 

I made my way back to bed with the knowledge that I had achieved both of my short term goals.  Ah, solid food tomorrow.

 

By mid morning the next day, I was being prepared for my discharge.  The drip feed and pain medication were removed, and a plaster now covered the entry wound on my left hand.  Next, I was given two new Bags.  The first was a standard two liter night time model like I had been using.  The second was a smaller one that could be fastened to the leg and would be hidden under my trousers.  This was for walkabouts outside the house with mixed company.

 

Sarah arrived a little after one o’clock and helped me finish getting dressed.  I was given one more morphine shot for pain before I would leave.  As we gathered together all my belongings, the nurse gave me a prescription for a pain killer and some new dressings and surgical tape for the incision.  I said my good-byes to the various people I had got to know during my two and a half days in the hospital and was about to walk to the elevator. 

 

“No, you can’t walk out of the hospital, you have to wait for a wheelchair,” said the nurse.  Of course, I objected. 

 

“It’s the procedure and because of possible liabilities,-- anyway you can’t walk out on your own.”

 

“But I’ve been walking on my own for half the time I’ve been here,” I replied. 

 

“It doesn’t matter, you still have to leave the front door by wheelchair,” was her retort.  I thought it best to try another tact and try to appeal to her corporate marketing instinct. 
   

“But surely it would show a better image to the outside world, i.e. your potential new customers, if they could see patients emerge and walking from your care on their own,” I suggested. 

 

“I don’t care, those are my orders.”  She said this with no merriment and with no hint of a German accent.

 

Before I could regroup and engage in further intellectual argument, the elevator door opened, and a large purposeful built man came through pushing a wheelchair.  I had no choice.  I gave in to the inevitable and let myself be pushed around for once.  The gentleman doing the pushing had no sense of humor and a short vocabulary.  After the journey through the labyrinth of corridors and the elevator, we found ourselves at the front entrance of the building.  He waited with obvious impatience until Sarah had brought the car as close to the entrance as she possibly could.  I stood up as Sarah opened the door, and without ceremony the wheelchair and its motive power disappeared.  It was a pity really.  This was the only bad experience I had encountered at the hospital.

 

We have a two door car.  Getting into it with the catheter and Bag proved to be a long and painful process.  I felt every bump on the road home.