The Beginning, Part 2: Two Surgeries and a Diagnosis

Honestly, I could kick myself for not having kept a better record of those first days. I mean, I write down EVERYTHING. From the age of 8, diaries have been my lifeblood. Still are. And yet, I have virtually nada about that time period. 

So, you'll forgive me if I can't recall much of the details. This was, after all, over 5 years ago.

Surgery # 1: Tumor Removal

What I do remember is how weak Paul looked. I remember how I cried every time I entered his hospital room. Here was my burly, bearded fiance with 10,000 tubes coming out of him and machines beeping and lights blinking and it was just awful.

I remember how his face relaxed for a second when I gave him a sip of 7Up. I remember how much I had to haggle his nurse to let me give him a sip of 7Up (all done at the behest of my hugely persuasive mother-in-law. When Sally Coleman asks you to do something, you do it!) 

I remember falling asleep with my head in his lap. We had been up all night. It was night again, 11 pm, but his nurses didn't seem bothered that I was still hanging around. "Go home and rest," Paul insisted. "I'll be OK." So I did. And he was.

It would be a week before they could perform surgery. That's one full week without food. One week with a tube through his nose. One week of speculative self-diagnosing. (no bueno!)

The day before Paul's surgery was Valentine's Day. Naturally, I brought him a basket of chocolates he couldn't eat and candles he couldn't light. 

The day after his surgery was my birthday. Naturally, Paul seized every opportunity of coherence amidst intervals of drugged-up grogginess to apologize for "ruining my day." He was a much better fiance than I ever was.

In fact, I'd venture to say this ordeal proved Paul was an all-around better human being than I ever was. He handled the pain, the tortuous waiting, the occasional odorous hospital roommate like such a champ. I was the one who was supposed to be strong, positive, keeping it together. All I did was cry. Here was Paul, making fart jokes, and all I could do was CRY. I was actually quite a sissy back then.



Paul's first surgery went off without a stitch. Well, no: there were actually lots of stitches. (See. Jokes! No more tears!) It was performed by Dr. John Gibbs, a gifted surgeon who was able to remove the tumor in its entirety. Praise!

But.

WHAT IN THE HECK WAS THIS GRAPEFRUIT-SIZED MASS AND WHAT WAS IT DOING IN PAUL'S BEAUTIFUL BODY?!?

They had some theories, all of them wrong. So they shipped the specimen off to Brigham and Women's Hospital in Boston to be identified. It took a month (A MONTH) to figure it out. When they had the answer, they called Paul in for a consultation.

"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you have Peritoneal Mesothelioma."

So we did what everyone does when they receive a grim (and confusing) diagnosis: headed straight to WebMD.

We learned Meso is a rare (though the ubiquitous lawyer ads would have you believe otherwise) and particularly deadly form of cancer most commonly caused by asbestos exposure. Until recently, patients were given 1 year to live. New treatments are prolonging life expectancy, with about 50% of patients making it to 5 years.

So...what do we do next?

Surgery # 2: HIPEC Performed by Dr. John Kane at Roswell Park Cancer Institute

Paul was referred to an oncologist and surgeon at Roswell Park in Buffalo. They decided that Paul required a 2nd surgery called HIPEC. (hyperthermic intraperitoneal chemotherapy) To put it plainly, they were going to open him up again, remove any questionably cancerous lesions, and then deliver a concentrated, heated chemotherapy directly into his abdomen.

Fun times, wow!

The procedure took a whopping 9+ hours. Casualties included a large portion of the intestine that had to be removed AND his belly button. (His surgeon apologized for the latter, hoping it wouldn't put a damper on our upcoming honeymoon.)

Paul spent at least a week in the hospital (shorter than most HIPEC patients). After he was discharged, Paul recovered at a dear friend's home for the brief remainder of his bachelor days (8 weeks), and then we were married in June and lived happily. ever. after.

Not.

"Happily ever after" is for weenies. We DID, however, have the dopest wedding of all time. And we were happy. We moved into a tiny apartment in the country, got a kitten, traveled, and never passed on an opportunity to party like it was 1999. What more could you ask for?