A few days ago, and barely a few hours before the medical consultation from Hell described in James' post (where is my daughter who knows everyting about apostrophes when I need her?), Pam and Greg and I were sitting in the hospital scene pictured near this post. I'd been downstairs and brought back a couple of lattes and muffins, and we had settled in with the newspaper, quietly determined to superimpose a normal day on top of what is after all a pretty surreal scene. Greg and Pam were doing a math puzzle and I was interrupting them by reading aloud favorite turns of phrase from Times auto Critic Dan Niel's column.
Somehow the subject turned to Marie Curie and Herr Doktor Roentgen (our minds are much taken up with radiation these days), and how they absolutely had to do science. Next, Spanish poet Garcia Lorca popped up, and from him other artists who were simply compelled to do their art. We who share Greg's guitar-centric world differ only in degree--we simply must play the guitar, whether we are great players or not. It is part of our very humanity. There are also medical scientist/artists whose determination can help us so much. I suppose we really cannot ask that as well as amazing powers of memory and deduction, alchemy and manual delicacy, they also have perfect emotional sense, diplomacy and tact.
Saturday, July 30, 2005
Thank you, Britta!
Most if not all of us take the simple, wonderful things in life for granted. I have proof: when was the last time you cherished every minute of breakfast? After dad and I got out of the hospital today, the first thing we did was go to dad's favorite place... Britta's Cafe.
For those of you not in the know, Britta's is one of those few places where service still rules and the food is excellent. My wife Motomi and I took dad there a couple months ago for Sunday Brunch.. dad simply loved it... we had no idea then that we had started a family tradition. One dish in particular really stands out for dad with his medication-restricted tastebuds: Britta's French Toast. It's not just a breakfast.. it's about 30 minutes of pure bliss for dad in a day filled with countless challenges and often much pain.
After being released from the hospital this morning, dad and I arrived at Britta's today at 2PM, three hours past the end of breakfast and the french toast on the menu. It was nearly empty following lunchtime.. Britta and our waitress were in the back near the kitchen. Our waitress seated us. Dad said something to the effect of "I know it's late, but can you possible still..." and the waitress gently interjected, "Britta saw you walk in, and she wanted me to tell you that the kitchen will make you the French Toast." Dad looked up at our waitress with the widest smile, looking almost like he was going to cry.
The rest of the meal was great. Pam, Greg & Margie joined us, and I'm so glad we had this time together to enjoy a moment after a trying week.
Something as simple as a French Toast breakfast could certainly have fallen outside the bounds of 'daily business operations'. But it didn't today. Thank you, Britta, for your part in making this day beautiful.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
'Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor not a bartender!'
This Tuesday dad was admitted to the hospital right after a routine visit. Dad's primary physician, Dr. Jeff Weber, followed the pain clues and a subsequent MRI scan to reveal a tumor pressing sharply against the spinal cord. This threat is serious- pressure on the spinal cord can cause anything up to and including paralysis, loss of bodily control, and more. And it can happen fast.
Only two options really exist for this situation- radiation or neurosurgery followed by radiation. The latter is a risky and dangerous option that doesn't guarantee any results. According to one doctor here, in a clinical trial involving 100 patients with similar tumors where 50 received surgery and radition and the other 50 only received radiation, there was virtually no difference in survival rate or length of survival after treatment.
The doctors decided to utilize extremely strong, sharply focused radiation to beat the tumor back, shrinking it so as to relieve the pressure against the spine. We just finished the third radiation session a couple hours ago [just to satisfy you comic book junkies- dad hasn't manifested any super powers yet, but he has several more radiation sessions to go].
So right after admission, at least a dozen different doctors, nurses and medical students all come into the room at different times. Most of them asked the same 1-2 dozen questions ("can you feel your feet?" "are you numb anywhere?" "how are your reflexes?") then proceeded to run dad through a series of reflex tests (kindof like the one where they tap your kneecap with a ballpeen hammer, only various and different). The general consensus was a) this guy is a seriously tough dude to be walking around in so much pain, b) he's got complete functionality of his body, c) he's strong as a horse, all things considered and d) man, can this guy play guitar or what. The docs said radiation makes the most sense, no surgery at this time.
So the next day (yesterday), in walks a neurosurgeon that apparently had not consulted with dad's primary doc and begins to describe in all the gory detail what the surgery would be like, cutting into this, through that, from both sides, etc. He even states that once the surgery is completed, anything could still go [horribly] wrong. Then he states more or less that he hopes dad does not need his services. OK, so dad's sitting there, pretty much horrified and agast. What was this guy thinking?
After this guy leaves, you can imagine the state of mind dad was in. All of the doctors, nurses and staff to follow found a patient who had been shocked into the most severly negative state of mind, and for good reason. It took Dr. Weber and a few other doctors and nurses some time and energy to get dad back into shape again. All because this other doctor didn't say "I'm going to get a little graphic on you, because it's my job to do so. Are you ready?" before beginning.
That doctor's been since described as suffering from a congenital lack of bedside manner (Think of Bones on the original Enterprise, only Vulcan instead of Human). The lesson learned here is that one of the challenges a patient must face when battling a disease can be the personality of a left-brained, well-educated and superbly trained doctor on whom one relies for survival. I am not angry at the doctor. It's his job to be honest and completely up front. I thank him and his colleagues every day for saving my dad's life.
Only two options really exist for this situation- radiation or neurosurgery followed by radiation. The latter is a risky and dangerous option that doesn't guarantee any results. According to one doctor here, in a clinical trial involving 100 patients with similar tumors where 50 received surgery and radition and the other 50 only received radiation, there was virtually no difference in survival rate or length of survival after treatment.
The doctors decided to utilize extremely strong, sharply focused radiation to beat the tumor back, shrinking it so as to relieve the pressure against the spine. We just finished the third radiation session a couple hours ago [just to satisfy you comic book junkies- dad hasn't manifested any super powers yet, but he has several more radiation sessions to go].
So right after admission, at least a dozen different doctors, nurses and medical students all come into the room at different times. Most of them asked the same 1-2 dozen questions ("can you feel your feet?" "are you numb anywhere?" "how are your reflexes?") then proceeded to run dad through a series of reflex tests (kindof like the one where they tap your kneecap with a ballpeen hammer, only various and different). The general consensus was a) this guy is a seriously tough dude to be walking around in so much pain, b) he's got complete functionality of his body, c) he's strong as a horse, all things considered and d) man, can this guy play guitar or what. The docs said radiation makes the most sense, no surgery at this time.
So the next day (yesterday), in walks a neurosurgeon that apparently had not consulted with dad's primary doc and begins to describe in all the gory detail what the surgery would be like, cutting into this, through that, from both sides, etc. He even states that once the surgery is completed, anything could still go [horribly] wrong. Then he states more or less that he hopes dad does not need his services. OK, so dad's sitting there, pretty much horrified and agast. What was this guy thinking?
After this guy leaves, you can imagine the state of mind dad was in. All of the doctors, nurses and staff to follow found a patient who had been shocked into the most severly negative state of mind, and for good reason. It took Dr. Weber and a few other doctors and nurses some time and energy to get dad back into shape again. All because this other doctor didn't say "I'm going to get a little graphic on you, because it's my job to do so. Are you ready?" before beginning.
That doctor's been since described as suffering from a congenital lack of bedside manner (Think of Bones on the original Enterprise, only Vulcan instead of Human). The lesson learned here is that one of the challenges a patient must face when battling a disease can be the personality of a left-brained, well-educated and superbly trained doctor on whom one relies for survival. I am not angry at the doctor. It's his job to be honest and completely up front. I thank him and his colleagues every day for saving my dad's life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)