Three years ago today, right at this very moment, I was in the fight of my life.
I had small cell renal carcinoma, a tumor the size of a quarter was growing in my left kidney; had it not been discovered, quite by accident, I wouldn't be here today. This type of cancer doesn't manifest itself until it's spread to the liver and lungs and, by then, it's usually too late.
I'd had a routine chest x-ray, which just happened to catch the upper portion of my kidneys and the doctors noticed a mass in my left kidney. Believing it to be a cyst, which is common, my personal physician suggested I have an MRI...just to be sure it wasn't something more serious.
It was.
She'd told me, on our next appointment, that it would have killed me eventually and that I was lucky. She also said I'd lose the kidney, but that hundreds of thousands of folks are living normal, everyday lives with only one kidney. Doc Becker asked if I'd like to be referred to a local kidney specialist or go elsewhere.
We went to Columbus. For reasons I won't go into, I'll never have another serious surgical procedure performed in this area.
We chose Central Ohio Urology, a group of thirty physicians in Columbus who specialize in all things related to the renal system. Dr. Brad Pewitt was who we saw on that initial consultation, a 50-ish, balding man who spoke in monotone but made it clear he knew what he was doing.
After reviewing the x-ray and MRI film and reports, Dr. Pewitt had some good news...sort of. "You won't be losing the entire kidney. The tumor is confined in the upper portion and, provided there's no evidence of it having spread, we'll be able to remove that portion of your kidney during a robotic procedure which will leave you with three small incisions in your abdomen. You'll heal much quicker because we won't have to make a large incision and cut through abdominal muscle."
I had to wait 45 days for surgery day, a time frame during which I didn't sleep much, knowing there was a killer growing inside me.
Stacy and I stayed at a hotel near the hospital the night before surgery; I had to be at Mount Carmel East in Columbus at 0600. That night I slept a little better, knowing the issue would be resolved the next morning.
Surgery prep was almost robotic itself; the nurses and staff were very efficient in getting me ready to go under the scalpel. They shaved my lower chest and stomach, dousing it thoroughly with the red, sticky antiseptic that every hospital in the world seems to use. An IV was started and they gave me some sort of sedation to keep me calm, the nurse administering it laughing as I joked with she and my wife. The sedative, I thought, made everything I said hilariously funny.
The time came to go into surgery; Stacy kissed me and said she'd see me in a little while as she held my hand. I didn't want to let go.
Three-and-a-half hours later, hearing first and then seeing through hazy eyes, I drifted in/out and then back into consciousness. My left side just below the ribcage throbbed, burning a little, too. A nurse worked beside my bed, checking vitals on a large monitor and inspecting the IV insertion site. She told me I was in a recovery room but would be going to intensive care shortly. I was still loopy enough that those words didn't alarm me.
Drifting in and out, seeing fluorescent ceiling lights pass by and feeling the sensation of moving - stopping - moving, I cannot say I knew exactly when I was wheeled into the ward. Time didn't exist, just the floating feeling, the snatches of sentences heard, but not quite understood, from nursing staff. That aching, burning pain getting just a little more intense by the minute, I finally regained some semblance of my senses when I heard my wife's voice, her face appearing above mine like the angel she is.
She was crying.
"I thought I was going to lose you", she said, voice cracking. That is a memory I will take to my grave, Stacy extremely distraught at my brush with death. I don't ever want to be the reason my wife cries.
She kissed my forehead and explained that something had gone wrong during the procedure, wrong enough that a nurse had sought her out to tell her I was bleeding profusely internally but that doctors were working to get it stopped.
I later discovered that, during the robotic procedure, an artery had been cut; Dr. Pewitt and assisting surgeons then had to make a ten-inch incision just below the ribcage to get to the artery. They gave me six pints of blood during that incident, which is why they'd placed me in intensive care; they wanted to make sure I didn't start bleeding again. Apparently I'd almost bled to death in surgery.
Three days later I was moved to a step-down ward; five days after that I was released from the hospital. Three check ups later, there's no sign of cancer anywhere. I didn't even have to undergo chemotherapy or radiation treatments because, by the grace of almighty God, the tumor had been fully-encapsulated inside the kidney.
Though I may be sixty-one, I consider this day the third anniversary of my second-chance life, a chance that thousands every day don't get. I look back on those three years that have passed, noting all the events and happy times I would have missed, and am ever thankful for this life I have, this gift God has given me. To Him goes the eternal glory.
It can end in the blink of an eye, at any moment. I will never take my life for granted. Ever.
Neither should you.
