I'm back! Yes, I'm out of the hospital and back "on the blog."
First and foremost, THANK YOU to everyone who has thought, prayed, blogged, and communicated with us over the past week or two. The outpouring of support from friends, family, and bloggers has just overwhelmed us, and we never expected to have such an incredible support structure here. Thank you!
I'm back at the hotel, and out of the hospital. As you know from Pooh's blogs, I was discharged from the hospital a day early (yesterday), and I'm doing just fine. So, now you get to hear the story first-hand -- from the guy who actually went through this whole ordeal:
Wednesday, 10 December, 8:00pm. The whole surgery process actually begins the night before, when you're placed on a restricted diet. So, basically nothing to eat or drink after midnight the night before surgery -- not a simple feat for someone who normally eats 4,000+ calories per day. Anyway, I complied...and only complained a few times. In addition to the restricted diet, I have to wash my hair with a wonderful solution called, "Endure 400 Scrub-Stat 4," a 4% solution of "Chlorahexidine Gluconate" used for "surgical hand scrubbing." So, it's not Garnier Fructis, but I've never been very picky anyway, and honestly don't have enough hair for it to matter too much. So, after having one last meal and taking one last shower (does this sound at all like "The Green Mile?"), I headed to bed. Sleeping the night before surgery is always an adventure...I usually don't do much of it, and spend most of the night tossing, thinking, praying, and occasionally nodding off. With a 4:30am wakeup, it's not like I'm sleeping in anyway.
Thursday, 11 December, 5:00am: Check-in time! With a 7:15 surgery time, check-in is two hours prior. We check in at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center South Tower, and are escorted up to the surgery floor (the 8th) by an orderly. Once checked in on the surgery floor, it's really just a couple hours of waiting...along with about eight other patients, all scheduled for surgery that morning. I was the only brain surgery patient, but there was also one there for back surgery, another for neck surgery, one for intestinal surgery, and a few others. About 6:45am, I'm called back by an attendant, and say my somewhat tearful good-byes to my parents and my wife, all of whom had accompanied me to the OR floor. This is often the toughest part of the whole procedure for me -- what I call "The Walk" (again, reminiscent of The Green Mile"). The walk from the waiting room back to the prep room is actually quite a long one, down a sterile, narrow hallway. The urge to look back over your shoulder is tremendous, and just about everyone around you is crying and walking backwards, catching final glimpses of loved ones. I usually refrain, but this time I did give a brief "thumbs up" to my wife. Thankfully, my buddy LDO (a co-worker and good friend) gave me a coin engraved with the "Put on the full armor of God" verses from Ephesians, which was the only thing I actually took with me on the walk...even my wedding ring stayed with my wife. Back in the prep room, I make a bathroom stop, then strip naked and put on one of the beautiful, multicolored, "fully ventilated" gowns, and get on my gurney. A lengthy interview by the pre-op nurse follows (medical history, allergies, etc), then the anesthesiologist arrives. The anesthesiologist hooks up a regular IV, and starts with a saline flush, then some of the same questions. The anesthesiologist, Dr. Xiang, told me she'd be adding some "good stuff" to the IV now, and I would soon "care a lot less" about what they were doing. Well, that's pretty much the last thing I remember.
Thursday, 11 December, 1230pm: Recovery! After that, the next thing I remember is waking up in the recovery room. This is not a pleasant experience. The complete rush of sensations is totally overwhelming -- from completely comatose to completely aware in a matter of minutes is a big shock to the system. As they slowly bring you back to consciousness, especially after a procedure like mine, I was in a complete rush of seeing if I could feel my feet, move my hands, speak, see, understand, remember, all those things. Still, you're not entirely capable of any of those things, largely due to medications, and anesthesia, but I can't tell...I can't see a thing, but don't know if that's because I don't have my contacts in or because I've lost my vision. I can't move entirely, but I'm also strapped onto the gurney. I can't remember the last eight hours, but I was under general anesthesia...you get the idea. The mental games that go on during this hour or so are pretty bizarre. Slowly, I get possession of my senses, they remove the straps or whatever, I get my glasses, my thoughts clear, and then -- after what seems like forever -- my wife pulls the curtain back. That moment is the one we've both been waiting for for weeks now. I made it -- I'm alive, I'm healthy, I can see/speak/hear/move/remember, and the cancer is gone. At that point, I relax quite a bit, and it becomes a day of alternating between frenzied activity and endless waiting/boredom.
I'll be honest -- Recovery is a miserable place. Two of the other patients in the room with me got sick from the general anesthesia, and were vomiting regularly...an unpleasant experience even when you're feeling your best. I've got two IVs in -- a regular up by my elbow, and an arterial in my wrist. I've also got a Foley catheter, which is tremendously uncomfortable. My head is wrapped tightly in a pressure bandage to keep swelling down, and I've got 50+ staples along the incision in my scalp from ear to ear. I also have those cursed leg compressors on, which inflate every minute or two, and a blood pressure cuff on one arm that takes my blood pressure every five minutes, along with a blood-oxygen monitor on one finger, and EKG leads taped to my chest at about ten different locations. This point, and the next 12 hours, are the hardest parts of the entire ordeal for me. I actually felt surprisingly good -- the headache was worse that I remembered it being, but other than that, I felt fine.
Thursday, 11 December 6:00pm: ICU! The move from Recovery to ICU is a big step for one reason only -- privacy. The Recovery bay is shared with seven other patients, and Cedars' brand-new ICU tower has individual patient rooms. Other than that, it's not too different -- the move to ICU doesn't mean they can remove any leads, monitors, IVs, or anything else, but I've got a room to myself. Visitors still can't stay for more than a few minutes, but it's still a big step up, and it's the first big step to getting classified as a "floor patient" -- one in a regular patient room! I remember the move from Recovery to ICU, across a glass skybridge over Santa Monica Boulevard, looking out over Hollywood Hills and Beverly Hills. It was my first glimpse of the outside world since surgery (there are no windows in Recovery), and it was beautiful.
In all but the most exceptional cases, brain surgery patients must spend at least one night in ICU. This is the part I had been dreading since knowing I'd be going back into surgery -- while the surgery itself is certainly the longest and most miserable part for my family, the one night in ICU is the longest and most miserable part of the entire process for me, the patient. It is impossible to get comfortable -- you have tubes and leads stuck to every part of your body (including some VERY sensitive ones), and the nurses are required to check in on you every hours for a full neuro exam. Checking pupil response, sensory perception, memory, and cognition every hour -- basically, they wake you up, tickle your feet, shine a flashlight in your eyes, make you wave your arms and legs, then take your temperature and blood pressure, then tell you to go back to sleep...and just when you start to nod off...they're back again. Within a few hours, the Foley catheter starts to burn and itch pretty badly -- I'm not sure if that happens to everyone, but when I mentioned it to the nurses, they said it was "completely normal," so I can't be the only one to suffer. Last time, an orderly tripped over it, which was decidedly uncomfortable, so this time, they taped it to my leg...and I'm not sure if that was much better. Fur and tape don't seem to get along well. My headache hadn't subsided much, so I took three Tylenol which brought it down to a comfortable level. Shortly before bed, I took two more just to take the edge off so I could sleep, and tried to get a few minutes of rest in between interruptions. After a long, miserable night, morning arrived, with check-ins from my neurosurgeron and internist, and (thank God) approval to remove the arterial IV, the catheter, and the leg compressors. I still had the blood pressure cuff, regular IV, and EKG leads, but freedom was that much closer!
Friday, 12 December, 7:00pm: A "floor patient!" Okay, Cedars does this right. I don't know if I scored the "frequent customer" card here or what, but somehow I ended up in one of two VIP suites on the patient floor. This room had basically a luxury bed and bathroom, with a whole separate area for friends and family -- dinner table, sofa, and extra bed for anyone who would like to stay. After Recovery and ICU, this was heaven! A "floor patient" is also spared the hourly interruptions, which means sleep is an actual reality...which, by this time, is all I wanted to do anyway. By Friday evening, I was off all pain meds, and only taking those that were required -- a lengthy list of anti-everything, from anti-inflammatories and anti-convulsants to anti-biotics and anti-nausea meds. My diet was still restricted to fluids and clear liquids, although I got a regular lunch of chicken and mashed potatoes shortly after moving to the regular room. By the way, the hospital food at Cedars is quite good...and they also have both a Tully's and a Starbucks, so coffee was abundant -- as soon as it was approved! The whole family joined me in the patient room for the evening, and we had a great time just chatting, breathing a collective sigh of relief that we all may have actually made it through this thing completely unscathed.
Saturday, 13 December, 1200pm: Discharge! Originally scheduled for discharge on Sunday, Dr. Chu mentioned on Friday night that if I had a good night and my vitals were still strong on Saturday morning, there was no reason I couldn't go home on Saturday. This would make me "three-for-three" on early discharges -- all three brain surgeries at Cedars have been followed by discharge a day early. Guess I'm an "old pro" at this stuff! Anyway, Dr. Chu came by with a few of his residents in the morning, removed the wraps and steri-strips, and exposed my beautiful scar...50+ staples, but only some minor swelling over the primary resection site (the right frontal area) and a good shiner to show off. One last neuro exam, and I had the green light! My family showed up shortly thereafter, and we signed official discharge papers an hour or so later.
So, that's pretty much the whole story. Now, Sunday evening, I'm basically back to my old self -- I took another Tylenol last night to help me sleep, but other than that, I haven't needed any pain meds of any kind. They had morphine, vicodin, and codeine all available, but all I took was Tylenol, and I feel just fine. I'm a little unsteady on my feet, and can't turn too quickly, but I'm otherwise completely normal. We have to stick around town for another week or so to get through the "danger zone" of potential bleeding or swelling in the brain or stroke, but once we're through those woods, I'll get the staples out on Monday (the 22nd) and we have flights home scheduled for the 23rd. We should be back with Monkey and home for Christmas!
Again, thanks to everyone for all the prayers and support...and for those who have been wondering, YES, I still plan to come back to full strength in time to run Rock-and-Roll Seattle in June. See you there!
First and foremost, THANK YOU to everyone who has thought, prayed, blogged, and communicated with us over the past week or two. The outpouring of support from friends, family, and bloggers has just overwhelmed us, and we never expected to have such an incredible support structure here. Thank you!
I'm back at the hotel, and out of the hospital. As you know from Pooh's blogs, I was discharged from the hospital a day early (yesterday), and I'm doing just fine. So, now you get to hear the story first-hand -- from the guy who actually went through this whole ordeal:
Wednesday, 10 December, 8:00pm. The whole surgery process actually begins the night before, when you're placed on a restricted diet. So, basically nothing to eat or drink after midnight the night before surgery -- not a simple feat for someone who normally eats 4,000+ calories per day. Anyway, I complied...and only complained a few times. In addition to the restricted diet, I have to wash my hair with a wonderful solution called, "Endure 400 Scrub-Stat 4," a 4% solution of "Chlorahexidine Gluconate" used for "surgical hand scrubbing." So, it's not Garnier Fructis, but I've never been very picky anyway, and honestly don't have enough hair for it to matter too much. So, after having one last meal and taking one last shower (does this sound at all like "The Green Mile?"), I headed to bed. Sleeping the night before surgery is always an adventure...I usually don't do much of it, and spend most of the night tossing, thinking, praying, and occasionally nodding off. With a 4:30am wakeup, it's not like I'm sleeping in anyway.
Thursday, 11 December, 5:00am: Check-in time! With a 7:15 surgery time, check-in is two hours prior. We check in at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center South Tower, and are escorted up to the surgery floor (the 8th) by an orderly. Once checked in on the surgery floor, it's really just a couple hours of waiting...along with about eight other patients, all scheduled for surgery that morning. I was the only brain surgery patient, but there was also one there for back surgery, another for neck surgery, one for intestinal surgery, and a few others. About 6:45am, I'm called back by an attendant, and say my somewhat tearful good-byes to my parents and my wife, all of whom had accompanied me to the OR floor. This is often the toughest part of the whole procedure for me -- what I call "The Walk" (again, reminiscent of The Green Mile"). The walk from the waiting room back to the prep room is actually quite a long one, down a sterile, narrow hallway. The urge to look back over your shoulder is tremendous, and just about everyone around you is crying and walking backwards, catching final glimpses of loved ones. I usually refrain, but this time I did give a brief "thumbs up" to my wife. Thankfully, my buddy LDO (a co-worker and good friend) gave me a coin engraved with the "Put on the full armor of God" verses from Ephesians, which was the only thing I actually took with me on the walk...even my wedding ring stayed with my wife. Back in the prep room, I make a bathroom stop, then strip naked and put on one of the beautiful, multicolored, "fully ventilated" gowns, and get on my gurney. A lengthy interview by the pre-op nurse follows (medical history, allergies, etc), then the anesthesiologist arrives. The anesthesiologist hooks up a regular IV, and starts with a saline flush, then some of the same questions. The anesthesiologist, Dr. Xiang, told me she'd be adding some "good stuff" to the IV now, and I would soon "care a lot less" about what they were doing. Well, that's pretty much the last thing I remember.
Thursday, 11 December, 1230pm: Recovery! After that, the next thing I remember is waking up in the recovery room. This is not a pleasant experience. The complete rush of sensations is totally overwhelming -- from completely comatose to completely aware in a matter of minutes is a big shock to the system. As they slowly bring you back to consciousness, especially after a procedure like mine, I was in a complete rush of seeing if I could feel my feet, move my hands, speak, see, understand, remember, all those things. Still, you're not entirely capable of any of those things, largely due to medications, and anesthesia, but I can't tell...I can't see a thing, but don't know if that's because I don't have my contacts in or because I've lost my vision. I can't move entirely, but I'm also strapped onto the gurney. I can't remember the last eight hours, but I was under general anesthesia...you get the idea. The mental games that go on during this hour or so are pretty bizarre. Slowly, I get possession of my senses, they remove the straps or whatever, I get my glasses, my thoughts clear, and then -- after what seems like forever -- my wife pulls the curtain back. That moment is the one we've both been waiting for for weeks now. I made it -- I'm alive, I'm healthy, I can see/speak/hear/move/remember, and the cancer is gone. At that point, I relax quite a bit, and it becomes a day of alternating between frenzied activity and endless waiting/boredom.
I'll be honest -- Recovery is a miserable place. Two of the other patients in the room with me got sick from the general anesthesia, and were vomiting regularly...an unpleasant experience even when you're feeling your best. I've got two IVs in -- a regular up by my elbow, and an arterial in my wrist. I've also got a Foley catheter, which is tremendously uncomfortable. My head is wrapped tightly in a pressure bandage to keep swelling down, and I've got 50+ staples along the incision in my scalp from ear to ear. I also have those cursed leg compressors on, which inflate every minute or two, and a blood pressure cuff on one arm that takes my blood pressure every five minutes, along with a blood-oxygen monitor on one finger, and EKG leads taped to my chest at about ten different locations. This point, and the next 12 hours, are the hardest parts of the entire ordeal for me. I actually felt surprisingly good -- the headache was worse that I remembered it being, but other than that, I felt fine.
Thursday, 11 December 6:00pm: ICU! The move from Recovery to ICU is a big step for one reason only -- privacy. The Recovery bay is shared with seven other patients, and Cedars' brand-new ICU tower has individual patient rooms. Other than that, it's not too different -- the move to ICU doesn't mean they can remove any leads, monitors, IVs, or anything else, but I've got a room to myself. Visitors still can't stay for more than a few minutes, but it's still a big step up, and it's the first big step to getting classified as a "floor patient" -- one in a regular patient room! I remember the move from Recovery to ICU, across a glass skybridge over Santa Monica Boulevard, looking out over Hollywood Hills and Beverly Hills. It was my first glimpse of the outside world since surgery (there are no windows in Recovery), and it was beautiful.
In all but the most exceptional cases, brain surgery patients must spend at least one night in ICU. This is the part I had been dreading since knowing I'd be going back into surgery -- while the surgery itself is certainly the longest and most miserable part for my family, the one night in ICU is the longest and most miserable part of the entire process for me, the patient. It is impossible to get comfortable -- you have tubes and leads stuck to every part of your body (including some VERY sensitive ones), and the nurses are required to check in on you every hours for a full neuro exam. Checking pupil response, sensory perception, memory, and cognition every hour -- basically, they wake you up, tickle your feet, shine a flashlight in your eyes, make you wave your arms and legs, then take your temperature and blood pressure, then tell you to go back to sleep...and just when you start to nod off...they're back again. Within a few hours, the Foley catheter starts to burn and itch pretty badly -- I'm not sure if that happens to everyone, but when I mentioned it to the nurses, they said it was "completely normal," so I can't be the only one to suffer. Last time, an orderly tripped over it, which was decidedly uncomfortable, so this time, they taped it to my leg...and I'm not sure if that was much better. Fur and tape don't seem to get along well. My headache hadn't subsided much, so I took three Tylenol which brought it down to a comfortable level. Shortly before bed, I took two more just to take the edge off so I could sleep, and tried to get a few minutes of rest in between interruptions. After a long, miserable night, morning arrived, with check-ins from my neurosurgeron and internist, and (thank God) approval to remove the arterial IV, the catheter, and the leg compressors. I still had the blood pressure cuff, regular IV, and EKG leads, but freedom was that much closer!
Friday, 12 December, 7:00pm: A "floor patient!" Okay, Cedars does this right. I don't know if I scored the "frequent customer" card here or what, but somehow I ended up in one of two VIP suites on the patient floor. This room had basically a luxury bed and bathroom, with a whole separate area for friends and family -- dinner table, sofa, and extra bed for anyone who would like to stay. After Recovery and ICU, this was heaven! A "floor patient" is also spared the hourly interruptions, which means sleep is an actual reality...which, by this time, is all I wanted to do anyway. By Friday evening, I was off all pain meds, and only taking those that were required -- a lengthy list of anti-everything, from anti-inflammatories and anti-convulsants to anti-biotics and anti-nausea meds. My diet was still restricted to fluids and clear liquids, although I got a regular lunch of chicken and mashed potatoes shortly after moving to the regular room. By the way, the hospital food at Cedars is quite good...and they also have both a Tully's and a Starbucks, so coffee was abundant -- as soon as it was approved! The whole family joined me in the patient room for the evening, and we had a great time just chatting, breathing a collective sigh of relief that we all may have actually made it through this thing completely unscathed.
Saturday, 13 December, 1200pm: Discharge! Originally scheduled for discharge on Sunday, Dr. Chu mentioned on Friday night that if I had a good night and my vitals were still strong on Saturday morning, there was no reason I couldn't go home on Saturday. This would make me "three-for-three" on early discharges -- all three brain surgeries at Cedars have been followed by discharge a day early. Guess I'm an "old pro" at this stuff! Anyway, Dr. Chu came by with a few of his residents in the morning, removed the wraps and steri-strips, and exposed my beautiful scar...50+ staples, but only some minor swelling over the primary resection site (the right frontal area) and a good shiner to show off. One last neuro exam, and I had the green light! My family showed up shortly thereafter, and we signed official discharge papers an hour or so later.
So, that's pretty much the whole story. Now, Sunday evening, I'm basically back to my old self -- I took another Tylenol last night to help me sleep, but other than that, I haven't needed any pain meds of any kind. They had morphine, vicodin, and codeine all available, but all I took was Tylenol, and I feel just fine. I'm a little unsteady on my feet, and can't turn too quickly, but I'm otherwise completely normal. We have to stick around town for another week or so to get through the "danger zone" of potential bleeding or swelling in the brain or stroke, but once we're through those woods, I'll get the staples out on Monday (the 22nd) and we have flights home scheduled for the 23rd. We should be back with Monkey and home for Christmas!
Again, thanks to everyone for all the prayers and support...and for those who have been wondering, YES, I still plan to come back to full strength in time to run Rock-and-Roll Seattle in June. See you there!
13 comments:
I have been reading daily while out of town. Went to the Jr Olympics Cross Country National Meet in Virginia to watch my daughter race (she is 12). She has also been reading your blog for a daily inspiration to do what she loves and that is run...You are an inspiration and thanks for being that to our little family in North Idaho...
Sue
You rock. Really and truly. Reading through this whole experience I am in awe of your positivity. I may need to head out to Seattle just to see if the good mood rubs off. So glad you're recovering well. :)
Hooray! I think we're all sighing a collective sigh of relief! I'm so happy to read how well you're doing! And super-yays for being home for Christmas!
Keep resting and recovering!
Praise the Lord! It was amazing to read your post this morning! The picture is classic! Praying for continued, speedy recovery.
"Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good,
for his steadfast love endures for ever."
Ps 136:1
Hmmm...Seattle in June sounds really wonderful. Time to start saving money for a family vacation! We will continue praying all goes as well as it has so far. Praise God for another triumph!
this is totally incredible - i have tears of happiness for you and angie as i read this. i'm so happy that you came through and that you're feeling so great AND especially that you get to spend christmas with that sweet little monkey of yours.
merry, merry christmas, my friend!
Whooo hoo Michael!!! Thank you for the full report, that was very interesting to read. I am so glad to hear your toughed out the uncomfortable parts and made it through to the "Penthouse Suite" of hospital rooms. You deserve VIP status my friend!!
Here's to a quick and strong recovery! Keep us posted. :)
Michael, good to see and hear that you are on your way to recovery. You and Angie are still in our prayers. Wishing you all a very Merry Christmas. God Bless!
Wow. So glad to hear that you came through everything OK. You've been an inspiration to lots of people who have followed along, so thank you for sharing your story with us. Get some rest and enjoy your holidays!
P.S. That's one impressive incision, dude.
Mike, you should write a BOOK:)! Your writing is truly remarkable and inspiring! We are thrilled you will be home for Christmas with Monkey and greet the New Year with strong energy -- like you need anymore of that! We love you all and will check in with you over the holidays!
XOXO
Peace and love,
Cherie, David and the kiddos
Just came along your blog, what a story! It is inspiring and encouraging. Merry Christmas!
Mike- My name is Pam - my sister Lynn lives in Leavenworth and I was lucky enough to meet your parents this past summer for a special wine tasting get together at their home. Lynn invited me to visit your website after finding out what you and your family have been going through. What an amazing story! I am going through some personal stuff myself, but it is in no way compared to what you have been going through. I promise I will count my blessings everytime I think of you and your family. If is obvious by the many comments that you have touched many lives - thank you!
Merry Christmas! Hadn't seen a post in a while and hoping all went as wonderfully as planned! :)
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