Saturday, December 04, 2004
He was 57
Nothing could have prepared me for what was going to happen today. This post is diabolically morbid. Please be warned.
I got called to do a pre-anaesthetic check on a chap whom I will call Mr. Malcolm X. I was told that he's 57 years old. Fair enough, off I went, and there he was, in the far right corner of a four bedder bay.
Grossly cacexic in built, all bones with his gown hanging off him ill-fittingly. His face , definitely generous with bony prominences, sunken but with permeable boyishness, and a newly acquired mediterranean tan. Teeth somewhat still all his, white and been kept impeccably well.
His torso was however a different postcode to his thigh which were slim and possibly slightly wasted. Not trying to be funny but it looked like he had swallowed a goat. He didn't look right.
You know how you form a first impression within the first 15 seconds? A word jumped at me. Cancer? A second word: Death?, and a few more lymphating through:
He is not going to survive, he's not going to make it, he's going to die, just tell the family, what's the point of doing this, If I put this chap to sleep he is not going to see another Sunday.
His blood result numbers were all over the place. Nothing was normal. He was not peeing as much as you and me and it's not a good colour. He was also fighting for breaths which for somebody who'd never smoked was slightly odd. Always be careful of people who 'can't get enough air in'.
After some questions and answers, I looked at him and I braved a smile. He had a grave look in his weary eyes. I was worried if he could see through my eyes and read what exactly my thoughts were. I usually look hard into one's eyes as I speak, to gain trust, but ,I found Mr. Malcolm X too trusting.
I explained to him about epidural as he's going to have a laparotomy. I was amazed to find that he was completely on the ball about it all. Very good for his age. I had completely forgotten the fact that he was 57. Not 87. Illnesses always age people and this one is unstoppable, whatever it is.
This so called illness, according to him started about 2 weeks prior to him being admitted. He was in Spain then, on a holiday with his missus. A bit of diarrhoea and a bit of constipation. He is now hoping that we are finally going to do something about it. He's obviously didn't think much of it.
I spoke to the boss as this is going to be a major operation and we needed to do a 'full monty' -the full work up of sticking lines in the neck, in the wrist, not to mention back of the hand and on the back itself. He agreed to come in and give me a hand.
In the anaesthetic room, just before the last drop of Thiopentone made it's way into his vein to later denature the conscious reticular network, Mr. Malcolm X managed to say,
"Please take out whatever that needs taking out" ,
...and effortlessly closed his eyes. The boss, Deb, our assistant and me stood there through a deafening silence while exchanging uneasy glances . That, rendered me temporary incapability to multitask. Deb wasn't pleased. This language I instantly acquired is probably the most easy one to pick up but definitely the hardest one to master.
Mr. R the surgeon, went through the layers of Malcolm X abdomen. Mr. Malcolm X seemed to have settled on the machine. I glazed through the techicolour screen of the monitor, against a backdrop of the ventilator bellow doing hypnotising up and down excursions. I started the record keeping task.
Name: Mr. Malcolm X
Age: 57
Operation: Laparotomy
Surgeon: Mr R
Every now and the I'd stop and look at Mr.R to see any signs of him arriving at any definitive findings. Tik tok . Tik tok. 25 minutes into the operation. He had his right hand in the incision he made, his thumb and index finger were eagerly feeling the barely visible omentum.
It's not obvious from his pair of eyes (the only bit on his face visible) what his thoughts were. At that point in time, his eyebrows synchronizing pilates, I found, were one the most fascinating findings apart from the maddening sounds of the diathermy zipzapping intermittently causing blips of ventricular tachycardia on my monitor.
He was aware that I was as curious as he was as to how big the 'goat' was. He instructed me to come closer and have a look. The omentum (the layer that covers the bowels) ,were riddled with hard lumps. The colon was caked and cobbled with a pale looking 'mass'. The cancer was absolutely everywhere. Rockhard, attempt to remove this would be futile.
'I am going to start closing, ' Mr R muffled under his mask.
I noticed myself blinking at 2 million hertz in half disbelief hearing that. My heart sank at the thought of Mr. Malcolm X last words before he drifted off to sleep. Quietly I felt most sorry. What needed to be taken out was the whole content of his abdomen, which with our genetic make up, will not be compatible with life.
We obviously finished earlier than what we have set out for.
***
We wheeled him into a cubicle on the intensive care unit. His arrival had broken every single protocol for admission into the unit but , as the family was told earlier that he was going to be in there post operatively , we did what we thought was best for everybody.
I found myself not as eager to see the missus and the daughter who were already waiting, by the door. As we settled Mr Malcolm X in the room, Mr R the surgeon dashed in. I made way for him and closed the door behind me stealthily. I sauntered aimlessly, effacing away to avoid getting tangled in the emotional newsbreaking. Funny enough, I felt somehow magneted to stay and share the pain. So I did.
My ears picked up an almost choking, contagious barely orchestrated outburst of cry , definitely from the wife and the daughter. I felt a drenching pain of remorse, but in a way relieved that the floodgate had been opened. May he rest rest in peace.
My dad has turned 57 recently. I have not spoken to him for a while. How have you spoken to yours?
I got called to do a pre-anaesthetic check on a chap whom I will call Mr. Malcolm X. I was told that he's 57 years old. Fair enough, off I went, and there he was, in the far right corner of a four bedder bay.
Grossly cacexic in built, all bones with his gown hanging off him ill-fittingly. His face , definitely generous with bony prominences, sunken but with permeable boyishness, and a newly acquired mediterranean tan. Teeth somewhat still all his, white and been kept impeccably well.
His torso was however a different postcode to his thigh which were slim and possibly slightly wasted. Not trying to be funny but it looked like he had swallowed a goat. He didn't look right.
You know how you form a first impression within the first 15 seconds? A word jumped at me. Cancer? A second word: Death?, and a few more lymphating through:
He is not going to survive, he's not going to make it, he's going to die, just tell the family, what's the point of doing this, If I put this chap to sleep he is not going to see another Sunday.
His blood result numbers were all over the place. Nothing was normal. He was not peeing as much as you and me and it's not a good colour. He was also fighting for breaths which for somebody who'd never smoked was slightly odd. Always be careful of people who 'can't get enough air in'.
After some questions and answers, I looked at him and I braved a smile. He had a grave look in his weary eyes. I was worried if he could see through my eyes and read what exactly my thoughts were. I usually look hard into one's eyes as I speak, to gain trust, but ,I found Mr. Malcolm X too trusting.
I explained to him about epidural as he's going to have a laparotomy. I was amazed to find that he was completely on the ball about it all. Very good for his age. I had completely forgotten the fact that he was 57. Not 87. Illnesses always age people and this one is unstoppable, whatever it is.
This so called illness, according to him started about 2 weeks prior to him being admitted. He was in Spain then, on a holiday with his missus. A bit of diarrhoea and a bit of constipation. He is now hoping that we are finally going to do something about it. He's obviously didn't think much of it.
I spoke to the boss as this is going to be a major operation and we needed to do a 'full monty' -the full work up of sticking lines in the neck, in the wrist, not to mention back of the hand and on the back itself. He agreed to come in and give me a hand.
In the anaesthetic room, just before the last drop of Thiopentone made it's way into his vein to later denature the conscious reticular network, Mr. Malcolm X managed to say,
"Please take out whatever that needs taking out" ,
...and effortlessly closed his eyes. The boss, Deb, our assistant and me stood there through a deafening silence while exchanging uneasy glances . That, rendered me temporary incapability to multitask. Deb wasn't pleased. This language I instantly acquired is probably the most easy one to pick up but definitely the hardest one to master.
Mr. R the surgeon, went through the layers of Malcolm X abdomen. Mr. Malcolm X seemed to have settled on the machine. I glazed through the techicolour screen of the monitor, against a backdrop of the ventilator bellow doing hypnotising up and down excursions. I started the record keeping task.
Name: Mr. Malcolm X
Age: 57
Operation: Laparotomy
Surgeon: Mr R
Every now and the I'd stop and look at Mr.R to see any signs of him arriving at any definitive findings. Tik tok . Tik tok. 25 minutes into the operation. He had his right hand in the incision he made, his thumb and index finger were eagerly feeling the barely visible omentum.
It's not obvious from his pair of eyes (the only bit on his face visible) what his thoughts were. At that point in time, his eyebrows synchronizing pilates, I found, were one the most fascinating findings apart from the maddening sounds of the diathermy zipzapping intermittently causing blips of ventricular tachycardia on my monitor.
He was aware that I was as curious as he was as to how big the 'goat' was. He instructed me to come closer and have a look. The omentum (the layer that covers the bowels) ,were riddled with hard lumps. The colon was caked and cobbled with a pale looking 'mass'. The cancer was absolutely everywhere. Rockhard, attempt to remove this would be futile.
'I am going to start closing, ' Mr R muffled under his mask.
I noticed myself blinking at 2 million hertz in half disbelief hearing that. My heart sank at the thought of Mr. Malcolm X last words before he drifted off to sleep. Quietly I felt most sorry. What needed to be taken out was the whole content of his abdomen, which with our genetic make up, will not be compatible with life.
We obviously finished earlier than what we have set out for.
***
We wheeled him into a cubicle on the intensive care unit. His arrival had broken every single protocol for admission into the unit but , as the family was told earlier that he was going to be in there post operatively , we did what we thought was best for everybody.
I found myself not as eager to see the missus and the daughter who were already waiting, by the door. As we settled Mr Malcolm X in the room, Mr R the surgeon dashed in. I made way for him and closed the door behind me stealthily. I sauntered aimlessly, effacing away to avoid getting tangled in the emotional newsbreaking. Funny enough, I felt somehow magneted to stay and share the pain. So I did.
My ears picked up an almost choking, contagious barely orchestrated outburst of cry , definitely from the wife and the daughter. I felt a drenching pain of remorse, but in a way relieved that the floodgate had been opened. May he rest rest in peace.
My dad has turned 57 recently. I have not spoken to him for a while. How have you spoken to yours?
