182 Minutes

Kevin had a "routine colonoscopy" today--sort of a 'happy birthday, you're over 50' gift from his doctor.

We arrived at the GI suite of the hospital before 6 AM for his 7 AM exam. Just us and the nurses for the first 45 minutes or so. The only guy in the place this morning, Kevin good naturedly accepted a lot of teasing from the nurses and me. The nurses commented that as a reward for Kevin's tolerance of the teasing, they were going to get him "out of here by 8:30. You can be eating breakfast by 8:45."

I glanced at the clock when they took him back. 7:03. "We'll bring him back by 7:30, just wait here in his room."

As good as their word, a dozing Kevin was returned right at 7:30. No one made eye contact with me. No more teasing remarks about what they found. Just "he'll be out awhile; we gave him some extra sedation."

By 7:45 I knew Kevin had cancer.

The gastroenterologist showed up to talk with me. Kevin was still in the land of nod. Dr. M. had a handful of papers and started with "he has an ulcerated area. A lesion."

OK. I'm good with a lesion. This sounds like something that can be fixed with a change of diet and some medicated cream.

Then, "He has a large ulcerated lesion." "A bleeding growth."

I remember reaching to the chair next to me to move my computer and motioning for the doctor to sit down. This is going to be a sit down conversation.

"It's cancer. He needs surgery."

I looked at the clock. 7:45

The TV/movie people have this all wrong. In the movies people are called into quiet offices and sit in nice chairs facing their doctor across a big desk. Couples get to hold hands for support. They get some private time to adjust to the news before The Planning begins.

In real life you sit in a cold metal chair in a curtained cubicle of a busy exam area and get about a 2 second interval to be stunned and then it's time to focus on what you're being told. This is important stuff; you know you can't afford to miss anything. And you're alone because the other half of your couple-dom is still in an anesthetic induced dreamworld, getting the last few moments of peaceful sleep he's going to have for a while.

"... very large growth, very low....certain it's cancer....want some tests done now...call a surgeon and an oncologist today."...You want me to wait for the biopsy though, right?... "No, don't wait for the biopsy...do it today. "

"Do you have a surgeon? An oncologist?"....No. NO.

I know our life has already changed. If I'm ever asked those two questions again my answer will be "Yes."  It just seems bizarre.

In  sort of parallel part of my mind, I was impressed by the doctor. He so clearly felt bad about the information he had to give me.  But he was concise and honest and he listened. I mentioned Kevin's work in Ohio and he instantly rearranged orders with the nurses so Kevin didn't have to make an extra drive over to Indiana for more tests.

Kevin was starting to become aware of things--a lab tech drawing blood from an arm, a nurse getting additional information from me and arranging for a CT scan.

8:52 AM

He was so groggy still that it was well into waiting the 90 minutes in the CT area before he started to grasp what was going on.

I think those minutes will be forever etched in my mind. A room full of people, no privacy, Kevin feeling sick from the sedative for the exam and the contrast drink for the CT, not really clear minded yet, trying to understand what was happening. Me trying to help him grasp the idea of cancer.

I had this disconnected feeling. Outside I was calm, taking down information, regurgitating answers, keeping an eye on Kevin. Inside a million thoughts, smells and sounds were bombarding my mind. And somewhere over to the side I was watching all of it...Dr. M's demeanor as he told me, the nurses as they offered encouragement, other people in the CT area, my reactions and Kevin's slow comprehension.

It struck me as odd that these people we had never met before were suddenly cast in the role of delivering news that so changed our day. Our lives. I can't spell the gastroenterologist's name but I doubt that I ever forget it.

10:47 AM

One of the nurses from the GI area slid into a seat beside me in radiology. "I just wanted you to know all of these tests today are routine for diagnosis. Doing them doesn't mean things are worse than you think. They're routine."

Routine colonoscopy. Routine bloodwork. Routine medication. Routine CT scan. Routine calls to surgeons and oncologists.

I'm not sure yet where we've landed that all of this is routine.  We're clearly not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

The first 182 minutes of a newly defined "routine."