The Diagnosis

June 28, 2006. Usually, fasting for 12 hours prior to surgery would be difficult for me but not today. Truthfully, I haven't had much of an appetite since all of this started. I know I need to eat to keep my strength up but depression and anxiety are a pretty good one-two punch.

This happened to be the one day during this entire week that we actually got some sun. It was certainly hot though. I thought this might have been a good omen. I arrived at the hospital at 12:3o pm, 1 and 1/2 hours prior to the scheduled surgery. My wife Michelle met me there shortly after and we were ushered into a pre-op waiting area. These areas are not very private. It actually looks like a big triage room lined with beds on either side. Curtains are the only thing seperating patients as we're told to undress and then poked with needles and asked a battery of the same questions over and over again. I was amused by the fact that one of the nurses was required to ask me if I knew what I was there for and instructed me to physically point to the area that was to be operated on. Hospital regulations. She then drew a big "X" in marker at the site, presumably to make certain that they don't cut into the wrong side. You hear these stories of people who go into surgery for things like a tonsilectomy and come out with one leg amputated. I guess they don't want to mistakenly amputate my leg which is nice.

Michelle has done an excellent job of keeping me calm through this. The anesthesiologist finally comes in and tells me that they are going to use a breathing tube on me and I don't like the sound of that. After some time, Dr. Hermansen comes in to go over exactly what she is going to do and the technique she plans to use. I guess it's a little more complicated than simply cutting me open and grabbing the thing with some tweezers. The CT scan showed only one node instead of the multiple nodes that she thought she felt. Looking for a reason for optimism, I commented that this was a good thing, right? Her response was something along the lines of ,"Maybe... we'll see." It's time for me to go. After a kiss and hug from Michelle, I am wheeled into the operating room. The last thing I remember is the doors opening, a bright light and being very cold.

I've had general anesthesia before. Each time it was very difficult to wake up and get my bearings. However, this time I woke right up. I saw Michelle sitting to my left. She had been crying. Although I knew why, I was still too groggy to put two and two together. A minute later, Dr. Hermansen came in and immediately said, it's cancer. I asked if it was Hodgkin's and she said no, something entirely different. The initial pathology showed Squamous Cell Carcinoma and while I didn't know what that was, it just sounded bad. Dr. Hermansen was perplexed since this is a type of cancer that usually affects older people who smoke and drink heavily. I am only 35, have never smoked and rarely drink. The only thing I could think was that this was just my luck. I couldn't even get the type of cancer I wanted. Dr. Hermansen tried to be reassuring by telling me that she's had many patients that have recovered from this. One of them is a 26 year survivor, apparently. More people survive this than do not she tells me. However, the nurses seem very sad and I wonder if they know something more that I don't.

The drive home was quiet and I fell asleep.