First Meeting With The Surgeon

The office is stark and compact. Painted a pale robin's egg blue, not one picture graces the walls. The ten chairs in the waiting room are chrome with leatherette seats and the magazines scattered across the coffee table are over a year old.

Looking around, the word "functional" comes to mind.

I've heard many good things about Dr. Michael Chan. We have a friend who is a doctor and several who are nurses and all brighten at his name and rush to praise his abilities. They are calmed to know he will be cutting me.

I am alone in the waiting room, except for an elderly man who had accompanied the family now in seeing the doctor. I'm not surprised Linda is late, she had a meeting with the Principal to review her report cards and the hospital parking lot was so full it had taken me 15 minutes to find a spot to park.

I am surprisingly calm. These visits to unknown doctors becoming all too commonplace. And I'm getting used to bad news.

The waiting room door opens and Linda sticks her head in hesitantly. Is this the place? She sees me and her face lights up with a smile.

But before she can sit down the door to the doctor's office has opened and the family have emerged. Grim faced. They whisper something to the elderly gentleman on the other side of the waiting room and hurriedly leave.

"Barry!" a male voice calls my name as if an old friend recognizing me after a long absence. I stand up to meet the surgeon for the first time and find a short Chinese man with balding close cropped hair. He looks very fit in his green scrubs, preppy somehow.

His private office is also starkly functional, but the window behind his desk looks out over Morningside Park where vast acres of trees are just coming back to life after a winter of dormancy.

This is a preliminary meeting he tells us. He would just like to go over the probable fate that awaits me, but the specific plan will have to wait for the results of the CT scan on Monday.

The usual course of treatment involves 3 months of combined chemo and radiation therapy at Princes Margaret Hospital to shrink the tumor in my throat followed by the removal of half my esophagus and half my stomach. They will use my stomach to rebuild the missing esophagus because it is composed of the same material as my throat. The surgery will require me to be in hospital for ten days to two weeks followed by five to six weeks recovery at home.

I will need five months off work. If all goes well.

Linda has turned pale at the mention of the removal of half my stomach and I can only wonder what my face looks like.

"But," Dr Chan goes on, his voice friendly and up beat, "That is only the general procedure. Your case may be very different. If it is a small cancer and it responds readily to the chemo, there may be no need for surgery at all. I have just seen a woman for her three year check up with exactly your same condition who elected not to have surgery and she is still cancer free. After three years."

After my CT scan on Monday he wants me to come straight up to his office again. He can immediately call up the results on his computer and can tell me in more specific detail what he would recommend as a course of treatment. In the meantime he ordered some blood work and an EEG for me to have before leaving the Hospital.

He takes me into the examining room and has me remove my shirt. Then he proceeds to poke and prod my stomach beneath my rib cage. The operation will be a three hole surgery he tells me, pointing out the three areas where he will be making incisions. They are no where near my throat.

Then we return to Linda and he asks if we have any questions, which, of course we do. Our questions delight him, giving him an opportunity to talk about the cancer and the surgery in more detail and to discuss some of the latest research he has been reading.

When we finally leave the waiting room is crowded to over flowing and we have to wind our way through the throng to find the exit.

Knowledge of my exact fate will have to wait until Monday.

And then I went home to my gruel.

Well no, not exactly. I've discovered I can eat spaghetti with a mild tomato sauce. And it feels wonderful to be eating a normal meal.

At home, my anxious daughter calls to ask about the meeting and to discuss my birthday which is coming up on Friday. She wants to take me out for dinner and agrees to phone around to the local restaurants to find out what kind of soup each of them serve. I am thrilled to be going out to a restaurant with real people. We will go to the one that serves the soup I like the best. After all it is my Birthday.

From Tears to Cheers

Now I know what Lindsay feels like when I unclick her leash and she races down the beach glorying in her freedom. We had put the city and its troubles and worries behind us and drove out into the gently rolling farmlands north west of the city of Toronto, the world opening up before us in vistas unfettered by massive buildings. It was nature that was spread before us, not bricks and steel.

True, we were on our way to Jack's funeral, but we had only met him at family gatherings and he wasn't one to talk a lot. He was my son-in-law's grandfather, but he had played a major roll in Jeremy's life. Jeremy's father had been killed in a tragic car accident when Jeremy was 8 and Jack had stepped in to fill an aching void. Jeremy spent every summer on Jack cattle farm.



We were heading for Listowel in Mennonite country, their one horse carriages riding the broad earthen shoulders of the highway like ghosts from another time.

All so different from the city.

The funeral was in a small Presbyterian Church in the little farming village of Atwood, just outside Listowel, and the pews were filled to overflowing. We were there to support Heather and Jeremy and to look after our grandchildren should they get restless and not be able to make it through the service. Young Griffin, 5, is notoriously restless and disruptive.

As it turns out, they made it 3/4 of the way through, before Heather gestured to us and we took them down stairs to the play room. Linda sat in the rocking chair with a book and Natasha nestled on her knee and the two of them disappeared into a story. Griffin and I found some wooden blocks and Griffin delighted in building fragile towers and then demolishing them with a plastic truck.

Over and over again, with escalating force.

His initial joy was gradually replaced with destructive anger as the blocks went smashing across the floor. I could see tears in his eyes.

"Are you alright, Griffin?" I asked cuddling him to me.

He looked away.

"Are you okay buddy?"

"My great grandfather died," he told me.

I stroked his hair. "Yes I know, Griffin. That's why everyone is so sad today."

Then he looked up at me as if searching for something important, wet eyes shining intently through long bangs.

Uncomfortable, I forced a smile. "Lets see if we can build a bigger tower, okay Buddy?"

But by then the church service was over and his parents had arrived. The church basement was filled with people and tables of food. The church kitchen staffed by a dozen women, making sandwiches and coffee and busy cleaning up. Farmers stood in their ill fitting Sunday-Go-To-Meeting suits, their broad farmers shoulders pushing at the seams, mud on edges of their boots.

I found Jean, Jack's widow, in the middle of the crowd and gave her a hug of support. She melted into my arms in sudden tears, "Oh Barry," she said, "I was so sorry to hear about you. We can't loose you too."

And suddenly and unexpectedly, this was getting tough. For a moment I couldn't talk.

"Don't worry," I told her and turned the conversation back to Jack and how she was coping with her husband's loss. And then Jeremy was there and took her off to talk with some distant cousins.

All around me, the tables were loaded with sandwiches and pickles and pasties and raw vegetables with dip and cheeses. None which I could eat. And huge urns of coffee, none of which I could drink.

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Three hours later we were back in the City, changing for a trip downtown to see the stage production of the Sound of Music at the Princess of Wales theatre.

When we got to the theatre it was packed. The curtain rose and Maria was revealed running up to the peak of "her" mountain, arms outstretched and the hills were suddenly alive and the crowd was lifted up in cheers!

And so were we.

The Day Saturday Came Early

I sit before the computer keyboard, fingers restless on the keys. Its isn't Saturday yet but I won't be here to write a Saturday blog. As fate would have it, (are you ready for further irony B&B?) I'm going to a funeral. My son-in-law's grandfather has past away and Linda and I are paying our respects, along with being supportive to my daughter and her husband. Then we're rushing back to Toronto where we have tickets for the stage production of Sound of Music.

But as I sit here now pondering what to write as my Saturday post, in my mind a strange fantasy starts to take shape.

I imagine a restaurant where the lights are turned low. Very low. A tuxedoed waiter glides from table to table lighting tiny tea candles in their crystal vases.

Linda and Barry are seated at a table peering through the gloom at the restaurant's massive menu occasionally making out words through the flickering light.

Barry is on a liquid and soft food diet while Canada's finest surgeons hold nation wide conferences in an attempt to agree on the optimum treatment plan for the esophageal cancer they discovered while on a video taping expedition down his throat a week ago Thursday. He imagines doctors across this great land laying aside their own needs, neglecting their families, ignoring their dogs, eschewing their children, sacrificing their sleep while working tirelessly on his behalf.

Or, at least, this is the scenario that runs through Barry's mind while he sits squinting at the menu in the darkened restaurant.

"Are the lights turned off for Earth Day," he asks Linda.

"I don't think so," she replies. "I believe it's always like this here. It's romantic."

"Well its so dark I don't see gruel listed on this menu," Barry complains.

"I'm sure its there, dear," Linda pats his hand lovingly, "Its just difficult to make out in this impenetrable murk."

There is a breeze to Barry's right which he interprets as a sign the waiter is hovering close to their table, although in the inky darkness no one is visible.

"Is there a waiter nearby?" Barry asks into the gloaming.

"Qui Monsieur," the waiter replies.

"I"m not finding gruel on the menu."

"Non, Monsieur? But zat cannot be? I will ask ze chief."

"Thank you," Barry says.

"I'm sure they'll find some," Linda reassures him. She is wondering about having the New York steak with baked potato and spring mix but is undecided whether she wants sour cream or butter for the potato. Or maybe both?

"Pardon, Monsieur." The waiter emerges from the cavernous dark. "But we are out of gruel. However, ze chief informs me that ve hav ample slop. Made fresh today."

"Is it locally grown?" Barry asks.

"Mais oui, Monsieur."

"Organic?"

"But of course!"

Barry relaxes. "Then please I will have that."

"See," Linda beams, "I told you there would be no problem eating out on this diet."

"I'm a lucky man," Barry agrees.

"And you're handling this diet thing with such maturity."

Barry blushes, looking forward to his slop.

I lift my fingers from the keyboard. Let Saturday arrive, this post is done.

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Image courtesy of photobucket

Friday Photo Shoot Out--Graveyards

I've accepted a challenge from Patty to post photos of our local community every Friday. This week's theme challenge is to post photos of graveyards in my town.

There are links to all the Friday Shoot Out participants from around the world at the bottom of my left panel. Maybe you'd like to join us as well and post photos of your community? If you do, let me know so I can add your names to the list.

I live in Toronto, in the Scarborough area of Toronto, in the West Hill area of Scarborough. So West Hill will be the focus of my photos.
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Although the choice of topic seems a trifle inappropriate in light of my doctor's diagnosis yesterday, I have no one but my self to blame, since I was given the choice of topics by Patty several weeks ago. I still think I chose well and that graveyards makes for very interesting photographs.

We have three cemeteries in the West Hill area. The first is the smallest. The Wesleyan Cemetery holds some of the earliest pioneer families and sits in the midst of a small shopping plaza besdie a mural depicting the construction of some of the earliest buildings in the area painted on the wall of a local restaurant.























St. Margaret-in-the-Pines Cemetery is the largest in West Hill and also dates from the earliest pioneer days. St. Margarets Anglican Church was the first church built in West Hill back in the early 1800.




















Nestled comfortably in the heart of a quiet neighourhood of West Hill stands one of the largest Indian mounds to be found in an urban setting. Within the Taber Hill osuary nearly 500 people of the Iroquois nation have rested for over 700 years. The site is peaceful, dignified and profoundly spiritual.

Immediately (Part 2) And Then Then News

Linda, of course, was already in the doctor's waiting room when I arrived 10 minutes early for my appointment.

"You'd be crazy to think I wouldn't be," she said, giving me a hug.

And then we suffered though two episodes of Trivial Pursuit the game show on the large flat screen TV while we waited for our turn with the doctor and the news that would change everything. I was certain what the news would be, after all, doctors never call you in immediately to give you good news.

The biopsy results revealed my ulcer is actually an esophageal cancer and I was being referred to Dr. Michael Chan, a thoracic surgeon. Treatment will be composed of chemotherapy, radiation therapy and/or surgery.

Although the decision will be up to Dr. Chan, the likelihood is that I will be receiving all three.

Esophageal cancer is rare but one of the fastest growing forms of cancer world wide, especially among white males. It is also one of the most aggressive cancers with a 5 year survival rate of only 15%

Gulp!

My first appointment with Dr. Chan is on Monday afternoon.

So I have informed my work to be prepared for some very erratic attendance in the near future.

Linda called both our daughters when we got home to give them the news while I took Lindsay for a run to burn off some stress.

Usually Lindsay's walks are for her, this one was on me!

Immediately

I had returned from an exhausting day at work and was settled comfortably in my favourite chair, beginning to answer some of the surprising number of comments from yesterday's post when the phone rang.

Lindsay looked up from the floor at my feet where she was sleeping and yawned.

Telemarketer, I thought.

Linda looked at the call display.

"It's for you," she said. "Your gastroenterologist's office."

"Easy for you to say," I said. She handed me the phone.

I had had trouble swallowing a few weeks back which led to a visit to my family doctor and an urgent gastroscopy. The scope showed an ulcer just above the esophageal sphincter. Being thorough, the doctor had taken some samples for biopsy and had referred me for some further tests.

"Hello," a sprightly female voice said. "This is Doctor Xeroulis's office calling. Is that Barry?"

"It is."

"Your biopsy results have just come in and the doctor needs to see you immediately. Could you make it first thing tomorrow morning?"

I thought about it.

This couldn't be a good phone call. I thought about the reports at work I've been struggling to write for the past week that have been delayed due to constant interruptions. I thought about the meeting I have set for first thing with the potential new customers who have flown from Vancouver to see us. I thought about the 12 other things I had crammed into my day. And the 12 I didn't know about yet that would crop up through the day.

There was no room in my busy schedule for a visit to the doctor. Especially a doctor whose office was a hour away from mine.

Then I thought about what the phone call from the doctor's office must mean.

At my feet, Lindsay laid her head back down between her paws and went back to sleep.

"Could I make it in the afternoon instead?" I asked.

"One oclock?"

It would be tight but, "Yes, I can make one oclock. The doctor knows the CT scan and UGI series haven't been done yet?"

"Yes I confirmed those times with the hospital before I called."

"And he wants to see me before he gets those results?"

"Yes he does."

"Alright, I'll see you at one oclock."

Linda was looking at me with concern. And trepidation.

"Damn," I said, and told her about the conversation.

"Damn," she said. "Barry, that's not good news. I'm coming with you."

"No, it's alright. You have work to do and I'll be running back to work right after."

She looked at me like I was crazy.

"There are things I just have to get done.", I explained.

Now sitting up, Lindsay started nudging my hand with her nose. She wasn't sympathizing, she was letting me know it was time for her nightly run.

I held Linda's gaze for a minute. Lindsay nudged my hand again.

Life goes on.

I got up and grabbed my coat and hat, clicked on lindsay's leash, and together we went out into the cold night and the rain.

Lindsay's Secret, Please Don't Tell

Shhhhhh!

I don't want Lindsay to hear this.

I don't want to see that bright sparkle in her eyes turn dull and fade.

I don't want to see her self esteem crushed.

I don't want her to learn that you don't love her.

Well, not "you" in particular; the collective "you" I mean.

There is something about Lindsay that is hard to disguise.

Lindsay is (oh I don't want to say it) black.

Lindsay is a black dog.

Okay, not completely black. Her snout is white and she has a white chest, a white tip to her tail and she has the cutest little white feet that look like she's wearing athletic socks....

But I digress. The fact is, Lindsay, for all intents and purposes, is a black dog. 97% black, at least.

And according to an article I was just reading, people hate black dogs. Dog Pounds can't give them away. They even have a name for it. They call it the "black dog syndrome".

In British folklore, such as stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Sir Walter Scott, the black dog is a creepy, spectral figure that haunts cemeteries and is an omen of death. In "Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban," it is a big black dog called the Grim who stalks Harry. Another Englishman, Winston Churchill, battled serious bouts of depression which he called "the black dog."

Black dogs have another problem, they can appear older; even when they're young, they have bits of facial hair that may be white or gray. And the ignored breeds are often those who simply look a little big and scary, and whose bad reputations may have preceded them, such as Rottweiler, Doberman pinscher and pit bull mixes.

Now I especially don't want you to listen to this part Lindsay. Some people turn in their black dogs to the shelters just because they've gotten new furniture and don't like the dark fur their pet sheds.

In the shelter the colour of their fur makes them the least likely to be adopted and the most likely to be euthanized.

People want goldens, and brown dogs. They want white dogs and gray dogs and russet dogs. They want large dogs and short dogs and long wiener dogs; dogs with long hair and dogs with short hair; bold aggressive dogs and tiny timid dogs.

But they don't want black dogs.

No matter how lovable.

Oh Lindsay, I hope you never hear of this!