Endoscopy

This was the day we waited for, the big endoscopic ultrasound. This would be the day of the long-awaited biopsy via new technology that would tell us what is going wrong inside your body.
We left the house while it was still dark sure to arrive in plenty of time for your ten o'clock appointment. The car flew along the route, freeway to freeway, leading us by its updated GPS. We talked. You said you are comfortable with knowing you have cancer. You have accepted it, and it was okay with you if we told people. I asked about specific people, and you okayed them. I, however, said I didn't want to tell the people at my work yet. I don't feel safe with the admins and am not too sure about my contract language for using my sick and necessity days. The district is in a financial crunch and they might be looking hard at ways to save money.

We arrived three hours early.

They took you in right on time. You were done in less than two hours. The nurse summoned me from the waiting room, inviting me to sit with you in recovery. She pulled a rolling chair up to the side of the bed. You were snoring; it sounded peaceful and content; I took it as a good sign. There was some blood spatter on your sheets. It was a little unsettling but I decided not to let it upset me. I didn't realize I was crying, and you woke up. You were groggy but struggled to wake. My eyes were just leaking. I took your hand and told you to go back to sleep, we had plenty of time. You started to speak but feel back to sleep mid-sentence, "I thought it was diff......" You woke again seconds later,"Could you ask the nurse to get me some water. I'm so thirsty." You ran your finger over your lips but the nurse said it was still too soon. And you fell back to sleep, your hand in mid-air.

The doctor came in. He brought over his report, complete with photos. He told you your esophagus is inflamed and ulcerated from all the vomiting. Your stomach is still full of food despite the vomiting. The duodenal sphincter is so constricted he couldn't get the scope past it. The part of the pancreas he could see had no tumor on it. He feels you have cancer, but not pancreatic cancer. However, since you are losing close to a pound a day, can't get much of anything through your intestines, and you're weak and dehydrated, he contacted your GI surgeon and told him you have an urgent need for a bypass. You need it within the next few days. We weren't sure if this was good, bad or no news. Not pancreatic cancer? He couldn't see all the pancreas. What if it's pancreatic cancer but on the part he couldn't see?

By mid-afternoon your surgeon had called. He wants you to go to the ER tonight so they can get you on IV's to hydrate and nourish you. He also wants you to get something to decrease inflammation. He is planning on doing surgery on Wednesday. He will give you the bypass and then try to get a tissue sample for a biopsy. You told me this when I got back from walking. Then you said, "I'm afraid to go into the hospital. I'm afraid I won't ever come out."


My day has been a flurry of text messages and phone calls. I have had to recharge my phone twice. There are loving, supportive people behind us. They will call, visit, email and encourage you.

What can I say to you to ease your fear? That I think the hospital is the best place for you? That I think you stand the best chance of getting some strength there? That I know home hasn't been the best place for you the past two weeks? That it's painful to watch you wasting away. Can we see this as a blessing that you might not have pancreatic cancer? Can we hold on to hope? I can. Can you?

Stretcher-bearers unite!