the lobectomy papers: part 1

June 21: Vancouver General Hospital

I'm running late, completing last-minute preparations for a couple of weeks away from home and not expecting to be able to do much when I return home... automatic fish feeder installed in the tank (thanks, Shelley), plants watered, laundry done, recliner chair installed in the bedroom, bills paid (well, mostly), toiletries packed, pyjamas packed, notebook (oldschool type; not the laptop) packed, books and magazines packed.

Twenty minutes behind schedule, we head out the door with Gerald predicting we'll miss the ferry. Not critical, but it would result in a two-hour sit in the Langdale parking lot. Fortune shines upon me though, because the ferry is even later than we are, so we board with no wait. Damn. Although I remembered to wash the laundry, I forgot to throw it in the dryer.

At the VHG Admissions desk, I'm processed and dispatched to my room on the 12th floor of the Jimmy Pattison Pavillion, where all the serious lung cases are kept. I'm an old hand at this, having been here just in February, for wedge resection surgery.

I'm the kid who already has a season of summer camp under her belt, the old con returning for another bit in jail; cocky and comfortable, already looking to claim the best bunk and the best view, looking for a game of cards to pass the time.

My room, shared with Ingrid, is spacious for hospital accommodations by any standards, with a spectacular view of downtown Vancouver with its picturesque, bustling harbour and a backdrop of the moody North Shore mountains. Overhead cranes zig and zag above construction sites, lines of vehicles stop and start at traffic lights, tiny ferries travel back and forth through the waterways.

It looks like a child's playset of miniature cars, busses, buildings, boats and Mechano toy cranes. A tiny helicopter appears over the North Shore, heading south, getting bigger as it gets closer. Now it's a full-sized, for-real chopper thwap-thwap-thwaps its way almost right up to my window. It hovers a moment, then descends to make a perfect landing on a white cross-marked landing pad below. Cool.

My room is in a clean and modern tower in the heart of what's argueably the most beautiful city in the world. It has extraordinary room service and in-house amenitites. How many hotels do you know of that have an operating theatre? The food isn't great, but it's delivered three times a day, while juice, water and snacks are available on demand.

The view? Well, I've told you about the view. This semi-private room is billed, regardless if the patient or their health insurance carrier is paying, at $165 a night. A private room is $195. The Sutton Place is one of the nicest Vancouver Hotels I've stayed in, but I doubt you can get a room under $200 a night. Granted, they have parking, but you have to pay for your own meals. And surgery.

If I'm still here July 1, I'll have a million-dollar view of the city's Canada Day fireworks display over Burrard Inlet.

Vancouver is best known for its Celebration of Light international fireworks show, changed it from Symphony of Fire, presumably to spin attention from the polluting aspect of the days-long pyrotechnical orgy, not to mention the fire hazard in the hottest, driest time of year.

But, we love our fireworks. Even a smug, vegan, tree-hugging and hybrid-driving citizen of the planet and champion of Mother Earth looks the other way at the expense, the noise and chemical fallout of their beloved fireworks.

Admiring the view is interrupted by a visit from my first cousins, Russell and Brian Doyle, and Brian's wife, Pam. It's okay, paramedics have already transported the patient from the helicopter into the bowels of Vancouver General and the chopper has thwap-thwapped up, up and away, over the harbour and North Shore mountains, looking like it's headed to the Sunshine Coast, maybe even my home of Pender Harbour. I fantasize about being onboard, not facing surgery in the morning.

I'd never met Russell before; in fact, I didn't even know he existed. Such is the nature of my family. We don't waste a lot of time keeping in touch, so visits like this are really appreciated. Rusell contacted me a few weeks ago because an uncle died without a wife, family or will, and so all the family members had to be notified for Kimble's estate to be distributed amongst the children of his siblings, according to Canadian estate law. Kimble and his siblings numbered 12, not unusual for a Roman Catholic family in northern New Brunswick not long after the turn of the 20th century, so I doubt I'll get enough to pay off my Master Card.

Russell is in Vancouver on a brief layover, heading to the Land of the Midnight Sun to take part in the Whitehorse 24 Hours of Light mountain bike festival. He also runs, so I know he's not a smoker. Genetics is interesting. Most of the Doyles drink alcohol in that good old Irish tradition, but not all of them in my generation are stupid enough to still be smoking. Russell and Brian are my cousins though, there's a peculiar sense of familiarity when I talk to them, like looking into my mother's dark brown eyes.

Russel leaves, off to catch his plane to the Yukon, Brian and Pam leave, and Gerald leaves. I'm left with my books and thoughts, trying not to recall those lobectomy images and descriptions I found on the internet.