Read the series
A Little Medical News
Part 1: Off to the Hospital
Part 2: Homeward Bound
Wednesday June 17. Right after we left the hospital grounds, the rain stopped. It was smooth sailing the rest of the way home. Clear skies, bright sun. It was a great day to be alive. (But then, aren’t they all?)
As we rounded the corner into our neighborhood, my cellphone rang. It was a guy from Edible Arrangements. “Are you home?,” asked. “We have a delivery for you.” I told him we’d be home in five minutes. “Okay, we’ll be there in 10,” he said and hung up.
We pulled up in front of the house. Nothing had changed over the last three days, but it had never looked more beautiful. Siobhain collected my tote bag with clothes — along with assorted bandages and tape — and then came around to help me out of the car.
We went inside. We were home.
Moments later, the Edible Arrangements guy arrived and delivered a small box of chocolate-covered strawberries and a couple tiny cheesecakes, along with a lovely note from Pat Gohn, my editor at Living Faith. I was touched by her thoughtfulness. I pulled out my phone and tapped a quick thank-you.
After getting settled, we made our way upstairs, my hand gripping the banister. I was a little worried about doing it, but we arrived safely and securely on the second floor and walked to what I called “The Medical Ward.”
Before I went into the hospital, we equipped one of our guest rooms with waterproof sheets, special pads to absorb any liquids, and new waterproof pillow cases. My wife also bought some “Get Well” balloons. I was ready to settle in. A few steps away was the guest bathroom. We decided to use that as a daily staging area, for cleaning and draining and replacing various bandages.
But for that moment, two days after my surgery, I was just happy to be in familiar territory, in the home that I loved, with my wife holding my hand to make sure I didn’t fall. I whispered a prayer of thanksgiving. We made our way to the TV room and I eased onto the couch — also covered with pads, just in case — and I settled in.
Siobhain asked if I was okay, because she wanted to go to Walgreen’s to pick up my prescriptions. I assured her I was all set. “I’ll be here when you get back!”
I grabbed my phone for Evening Prayer, which gave me exactly what I needed:
Lord our God, as the shadows of evening gather, remind us that your love remains constant through every season of life. Keep us faithful in times of uncertainty and strengthen our hope in the promise you have made through Christ.
At some point, we must have had something to eat, but my mind is a blank. I do remember that we went into the bathroom at the end of the day and Siobhain began what would become a familiar routine of draining, emptying, dabbing, and cleaning. She never winced, grimaced, hesitated or complained. I was being loved, every minute. At one point, I took her hand and tried to speak. “Thank you ,” I sputtered. “Thank you for doing this. Thank you. I love you.” She smiled. “I love you!,” she said. “I don’t mind at all.”
I made a mental note: once this is over, contact Rome to begin her canonization process.
Bedtime came, and Siobhain helped me slide into bed in the guest room. We didn’t have any Tylenol on hand — the meds recommended by the hospital — and I was reluctant to take the heavy duty stuff in the prescription. I downed a couple of Advil instead. That did the trick. I made it to bed without any serious pain.
That became my daily routine, too. Every morning, I would take a couple Advil before climbing out of bed. That was more than enough. Ordinary events that at first caused extraordinary soreness — laughing, coughing, blowing my nose — became routine again. By Saturday, I found I didn’t need painkillers at all. Five days after the surgery, I could easily get up and about without any discomfort or pain. No flashes, no fireworks.
I was good to go.
After that, things got a lot better, a lot faster.
Every day I found myself feeling stronger, more agile, less fearful.
My appetite returned. Siobhain made a lot of easy-to-digest meals, mostly fish or chicken and vegetables. (One night, we splurged and ordered Marco’s Pizza.) I had cereal, coffee and yogurt for breakfast, a sandwich for lunch. That was plenty. I wasn’t getting much exercise, beyond wandering about the house, up and down stairs, in and out of the bathroom, so the less I had to eat, the better. It all tasted good to me.
Sunday, six days after my surgery, I stayed home while Siobhain went to Mass. She asked Fr. Matthew if she could bring me Communion. Fr. Matthew gave her a pyx containing a couple of consecrated hosts. Once she got home, I found my old green prayerbook, a ritual for Holy Communion for laypeople to use. My wife had never done anything like this before — she’s not an EMHC — so I found the short version and we sat at our dining table while she read the prayer:
How holy this feast, in which Christ is our food: his passion is recalled, grace fills our hearts, and we receive a pledge of the glory to come.
I took great consolation and hope from the Gospel that I read earlier in the day:
Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin?
Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s knowledge.
Even all the hairs of your head are counted.
So do not be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.
The old hymn came to mind. “His eye is on the sparrow. And I know he watches me.”
I was feeling very sparrow-y. I needed that.
In the middle of the first week of recovery, I got a text message from an old colleague from CBS News Radio, Ed Crane. We’re the same age, and he’d had the exact same operation a few years earlier.
He wrote: “The day you lose the catheter will not be as wonderful as the day you married, became a deacon or retired to Florida; but it will be in the top 10!”
I would find out what he meant on Monday, one week after my surgery.
My wife drove me to Dr. Marella’s office, where I was scheduled to have the drain removed from my side. After we were ushered into the examining room, the young woman who was the medical assistant said, “We’re going to remove the catheter, too.” Oh? I was expecting that would remain for another week. I was more than happy to bid it farewell. It wasn’t painful, but it was, well, weird. It made getting around difficult and unwieldy. And it was something else to tend to, several times a day. She said Siobhain could stay in the room while she disconnected me. “Okay, now, take a deep breath and exhale,” and I did and then it was done. I barely felt a thing.
She tended to a couple bandages and sent me on my way. I felt like a new man. I made an appointment for a week later, for a follow-up with Dr. Marella — curiously, I still hadn’t seen or spoken with him since the surgery — but I left the office that morning with a spring in my step. Ed was right: this was a great day.
Once we got in the car, I snapped a picture.
Freed from the catheter and bag, life changed. I became more active. I walked the three blocks to the row of mailboxes in our neighborhood to collect the mail. In our first big outing, my wife took me to Publix to buy groceries. It was glorious, all of it.
A highlight was finally being able to take a shower, instead of having my wife pat me down with pre-moistened washcloths. The day after the catheter was removed, I told Siobhain I was going to try taking a shower. “I think I can do it on my own,” I said. “Let’s see.” I walked into the bathroom and started the water and stripped off my clothes. Then I stepped on our scale. 151. I was 156 pre-op. I know I didn’t leave behind a five-pound prostate at the hospital. Most of that lost weight was simply from eating less.
Once I was in the shower, feeling the water wash over me was like a new baptism. Standing there, with bandages and cotton taped to my body and some small wounds healing, I nevertheless felt triumphant and perfect. I was Michelangelo’s David. Even when I finished and grabbed a towel and got a good look at myself in mirror, I was simply amazed that I was standing there, doing what I was doing, just six days after major surgery.
If I haven’t said it before, it needs to be said again: God is good. Medicine is miraculous.
Things kept getting better.
One morning, I rolled the garbage can from our garage to the curb. I felt like Charles Atlas.
Along the way, a few friends asked me about, um, leakage. That is also improving, bit by bit. It’s still a work in progress. I told my sister, “I should contact the New York Knicks. If they need a great dribbler, I may know someone.” Meantime, I’m trying out various brands of disposable underwear, and I’ve been satisfied with what they do. No complaints.
My biggest leap forward came on Friday June 26 11 days after surgery. Siobhain said she was headed to Publix and asked me if I’d like drive. I was ready. I was ecstatic. It was another sign of my life returning to something close to normal.
What more can I say?
I know I have a way to go. Every day reminds me that I’m just getting started. I have a follow-up meeting with my surgeon next week. And I have exercises to begin, to work on my pelvic muscles and get a grip (so to speak) on my bladder.
I also have to gauge when I’m ready to get back to the parish, and start serving and preaching again. Genuflecting may be a challenge. Stay tuned.
But for now, every day is a prayer of thanksgiving and a canticle of boundless hope.
I remember that June is dedicated to the Sacred Heart — and so I remember, too, the One who is with me, guiding me, consoling me, walking this path with me.
Nothing is impossible for God.
I found this prayer online:
Lord, you deserve all honor and
praise, because your love is perfect
and your heart sublime.
My heart is filled to overflowing with
gratitude for the many blessings and
graces you have bestowed upon me
and those whom I love. Forever
undeserving, may I always be
attentive and never take for granted
the gifts of mercy and love that flow
so freely and generously from your
Sacred Heart.
Heart of Jesus, I adore you.
Heart of Jesus, I praise you.
Heart of Jesus, I thank you.
Heart of Jesus, I love you forever and
always.
