A Cancerous Christmas Carol
Note: This entire story is TMI. The short version is that I am on the mend from cancer and will continue to raise hell.
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As those of you who follow this blog know, I took some time off in December to undergo surgery for cancer of the pharynx. The first surgery, at the UCSD La Jolla campus on Dec 11, successfully removed all the identifiable cancer, which had spread to within one millimeter of my brain stem.
The UCSD surgical team hoped to repair their damage with a grafts taken from my arm and leg. It didn’t work, as I was readmitted to Hillcrest via the emergency room on Dec.19 and underwent a more substantial reconstructive procedure involving moving chest muscle.
Truth be told, I don’t remember much from December 11th onward. Between the pain, the anesthesia, and the drugs, I spent two weeks or so in an alternative universe. For several days I thought I was in Puerto Rico at a hospital within hearing distance of Caribbean surf crashing.
At another point I think there was a suite-mate who was some sort of tweaker celebrity who gave away his last valuables to some followers who managed to sneak in. I do know for sure I was next to an asshole who screamed for dilaudid constantly.
The electrical/cable connections to the room TV became a Picasso-esque sculpture that I spent untold hours trying to understand. When I finally got around to summoning cable content, I realized that wondering about the meaning of the art above was a more meaningful way to spend my time.
I gave a shit…. (Really TMI) A big moment after major surgery is when your body decides it’s safe to take a crap. Mine came at 4am. The woman who answered my page couldn’t understand my sign language (I cannot speak at present) and fled the room in terror at my increasingly frantic gestures.
Cooler heads brought a port-a-potty bedside --even though I was determined to walk the five steps to the bathroom. An attempt to communicate that desire probably saved me from more humiliation as they discovered the contraption was broken and couldn’t support any weight. A second crapper on wheels didn’t have a collection bucket… To their credit, the staff made it happen without me soiling myself or the floor.
I tell this above story as a reflection on the declining fortunes of the Hillcrest hospital, all-too-often being held together with hope, prayers and duct tape as they await construction of what is expected to be a world-class facility in the next few years. The giant asbestos removing air handler dominating my room served as a constant reminder of what it’s taken for UCSD to make that facility safe and sanitary.
Despite the differences in paint jobs and room decor, I can honestly say there was no difference in the levels of care given at either facility. The nurses cared, kept the show running, and the team of doctors (with overlap from both facilities) did a good job of keeping me in the loop without sugar-coating or fear mongering.
So I came home on January 1. As I write this on January 3rd, the fog smothering my brain is lifting. The coming weeks will be filled with doctor appointments, rehab, and likely some form of chemo/radiation therapy aimed at some suspect cells still hanging out in my throat.
I’ve been down this road before, as I had a complete laryngectomy in 2012, just one month before we flipped the switches on at the San Diego Free Press. The process of finding an even better voice via my writing was an important part of my healing, and I suspect this time around will provide even more opportunities for insight and expression.
My five-days-a-week posting schedule may not hold up for a while, as health upkeep and gratitude to the loving people surrounding me will be a priority. Trust me, though, I’ll be watching the world and trying my best to hash out analysis to help make sense of it all.
We’re entering a unique era in American politics, one where old alliances and ideologies will be tested by nature and quests for unlimited power. I intend to keep contributing my two cents as long as my fingers can touch a keyboard.
Finally, THANK YOU to the many well-wishers who have reached out over the past few weeks, the incredible healthcare workers, and especially my wife Lisa, who turns out to be right more often with each passing day of our 35 year marriage.
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Email me at WritetoDougPorter@Gmail.com