feeling pressure

I really like that people send e-mails and even stop me on the street to tell me they enjoy this blog. I like knowing it makes people laugh as well as shows them what it's like to be a cancer patient.

I really like my oncologist, Dr. Ho, but I'm thinking she has another, terrifying and intimidating side because of the breakneck speed at which she arranges tests for me.

Last week I had blood tests and an ultrasound of my neck, and when the experts have a look at that they will select a lymph node (at least I think one will be enough) to remove for biopsy.

The PET Scan showed cancer in these nodes, but oddly the ones in my chest, closest to my lung, weren't looking malignant. This could mean that the cancer in my lymph nodes is not secondary lung cancer, but perhaps lymphoma. This would be a good thing.

The next test, on St. Patrick's Day (I wore a green sweater) was a bone marrow biopsy, to be taken from my hip. Via a needle. A big needle. Dr. Ho and a handful of reputable medical websites assured me the procedure would be almost painless.

A local anasthetic would be used, the same type as a dentist uses. I would feel some pressure, some discomfort, but I would be surprised that the procedure was far easier than I had expected.

I admit that I was surprised, and I did feel some pressure, but that's where the resemblance to what I believed and what occurred came to a screeching, grinding halt.

I was led into a little room off the chemotherapy ward of Lion's Gate Hospital in North Vancouver, looking out at a row of mostly elderly patients lounging in reclining chairs, covered with quilts while their treatment was delivered intraveinously. It was a peaceful scene.

I was asked to scoot on my side as close as I could to the edge of the bed, and the metal-barred side was raised. I should have been suspicious when a nurse said, "Some patients like to hold on to the bars." That little comment should have been a dead giveaway that I was not in a happy place.

The doctor was positioned behind me, beside her table of instruments which I chose not to examine. I should have been even more suspicious that there were two other people, one at my hip and one at my legs (well positioned to restrain me). The doctor said that she would explain everything she was doing, and that started off pretty good. I may have imagined that she had a German accent.

"You vill feel cold, from cleaning of zee area." And cold it was, as my exposed hip was wiped down with some antiseptic liquid. Then once more, then a third time.

"Now I vill freeze zee area and you vill feel a little prick." This was the local anasthetic and, yes, there was a little prick as the needle was inserted. This was followed by a feeling of numbness. All good.

"Now I vill freeze zee bone," and she did with another needle and another little prick.

"Now I begin zee procedure," she continued, "and you vill feel some pushing." Although my hip was frozen, I did feel pressure as the needle was inserted into my flesh and pushed right into the core of my hip bone. 

Suddenly the play-by-play description ended and the nurse standing in front of me leaned over, looked into my eyes and asked, rather urgently, "How long was your ferry ride?"

The timing was perfect. She asked the question at the exact moment I was overwhelmed by the most intense, white-hot pain I'd ever felt. I did not answer her question.

I let loose with a scream and a litany of profanity that made no sense whatsoever but certainly conveyed the message that I was feeling more than a bit of pressure. I sincerely hope that all those elderly chemo patients were stone deaf.

The door to the room was quickly closed, no doubt so the chemo patients would not be unduly frightened. I found myself gripping the rail on the bed with all my strength. Had I been able to let go, I would have punched out all three co-conspirators in that chamber of torture, but I was frozen in agony. Tears were running down my face. It seemed to go on for at least several minutes, and those were excruiatingly long minutes.

It finally ended, and the pain receeded. I composed myself somewhat and stupidly apologized for my foul language. The doctor allowed that it may have been more painful than normal because my bone marrow was diseased, and I suppose that was meant to make me feel better.

A towel was rolled up and I was directed to lean back against it, to stop the bleeding, and not move. I was told a nurse would be back to check on me in 15 minutes and, if all was well, I could then go. I waited. And waited. And waited some more. I was sure that far longer than 15 minutes had passed. It seemed like hours. I contemplated getting up and leaving, but decided that it would be best to wait until I was checked out.

Jane and I had arrived at the hospital at 11:20 a.m. and the procedure was slated to take a half-hour to 45 minutes. Jane would be back at noon to meet me at the entrance. When I still hadn't emerged by 2 p.m. she decided to go looking for me. She was told I had been released at 11:30, that I might be in the cafeteria, that my procedure was completed and I was gone.

I'm lucky to have a friend who doesn't hesitate to question authority. She insisted that I wouldn't leave because I had nowhere to go and no way to get there, and persisted until someone finally had an Aha! moment and remembered the little room in the chemotherapy ward. That's where they found me.

With my bone marrow biopsy behind me (no pun intended), I've been hearing from a number of people who had the same procedure and experienced the same, intense pain as I did. When the hip bone biopsy was being explained to them, the words "discomfort" and "pressure" were used, but none were told that it would be painful.

A word of advice: if you need a bone marrow biopsy, demand to be sedated. Maybe it's true that most people find the procedure causes only "some discomfort" but if you're not one of them, trust me, you do not want to experience it clear-headed and wide awake.

Next test to come, a CT Scan to discover if my surgery of Feb. 5 was successful in removing one, two or all three tumors in my lung. If there are any left, I'll be having more surgery, but that will be a piece of cake compared to the bone marrow biopsy.

Although surgeons have a fondness for cutting human flesh, they do their best to minimize the human's pain; they aren't nearly so stingy with the good drugs!