David Keating

This series was originally posted on Seems Like God beginning July 29, 2009. Since this is not a “religious” story, and some readers might shy away from a “religious” site, I’ve moved it to the Hub. This also gives me an additional opportunity to edit the series as I prepare it for possible print publication.  If you find it in any way encouraging or comforting, I hope that you will share it with others. David

I … am a cancer survivor.

Even when I write it down, I have to pause to let the idea sink in. In the spectrum of life-changing events, it ranks pretty high.

When it all began, I was asked how it was affecting me. And I had intended to write about the “adventure” as it unfolded. But I found I couldn’t do it. I think I needed to get some distance, some perspective, before I could tackle it. Nothing I wrote or said seemed to capture the core of what I was experiencing. Even now, with some treatment issues to be determined, and of course ongoing follow-up to happen, I wonder if I’m being premature in penning these notes.

Somehow it feels like the right time.

There are, of course, many stories of survival both online and elsewhere. Cancer, at least in some of its forms, is yielding to determined medical research. Even so, the word still strikes fear into those who hear it. If this small story helps even one person cope just a little more easily with this or any other challenge in their life, it will have been worth it.

“When I first met Mr. Keating, he looked like a little Michelin Man.” That was the comment one of my doctors made to the resident accompanying him to a recent appointment with me.

And that’s how this all started you see. Let me explain.

Shortly before Christmas 2008 I noticed that I seemed to be gaining weight. At first, I didn’t think much of it, what with Christmas goodies laying around to tempt me off my normal eating patterns and all. However, the gain continued past Christmas and became rather pronounced; obviously not the result of over-indulging in Christmas cookies.

So in early January I decided I’d best get a professional opinion. Not having a family doctor, I stopped into the local clinic. The gentleman there agreed that something was definitely amiss. Since none of the standard poking and prodding that doctors routinely do suggested an obvious culprit, the next step was to order some tests. And as this was a Saturday, the tests would have to be done the following week.

Dutifully, I showed up at the local medical lab on Tuesday, January 19th, 2009, where several vials of blood were drawn. This was followed by a chest x-ray. Off home I went.

Unfortunately (or fortunately I suppose), on arriving home I found a message on my answering machine asking me to call the clinic, which I did. The x-ray tech had flagged my pics and the receptionist wanted me to come back in. Right away. “Don’t take a number, Mr. Keating, just let me know when you get here.”

That didn’t sound good. The first ominous rumblings of what was to come rolled through my head.

When I got back to the clinic, the general practitioner on duty (a very friendly, yet professional lady) informed me that the x-ray showed fluid on my lungs. Well, since there seemed to be fluid everywhere else, why not, I quipped ruefully. Next question of course – what do we do about it? Can you give me a pill?

The doctor did not think a pill was the answer. In fact, she thought it best that I be seen in the emergency room of the hospital across the street; and, to be sure I didn’t get put at the bottom of the priority list, she called the ER and spoke to the doctor on duty there, who agreed to see me as soon as possible after I got there.

There was that ominous rumbling again.

So off to the ER went I. After another bit of poking and prodding, the ER doctor let me know his initial conclusions – my blood pressure was through the roof. This, he reasoned, was likely the reason for the fluid retention. He’d keep me in hospital overnight, give me some medication and try to bring the BP down. “See?” thought I. A pill.

So now I had to call my seventeen year old daughter and tell her not to worry. Like that would work – “Hi hon. Dad’s gotta stay in hospital overnight, no big deal. Happens all the time. Look after Gramma. Love ya.” Sheesh. Then I had to let my boss know I wouldn’t be logging on for work in the morning. Just using up a sick day, boss. No biggie. And then I had to get in touch with my cousin to pick up my truck and take it to her place for the night. No overnight parking in the hospital lot of course. Last thing I wanted was to have to go to the impound yard and bail out my vehicle when I was released the next day.

And after all that was said and done, good night Mr. Keating, you have a good sleep, okay? Indeed.

As it turned out of course, we now know that the initial diagnosis, as logical as it may have been, was not the root of all my evils.

Staying in the hospital that night, however, very likely saved my life.

The next morning, the nurse gave me a second dose of the blood pressure medication and put a patch, nitroglycerin I think, on my arm.

All was well for about ten minutes. Suddenly, however, I felt as though someone had dumped a bucket of cold water on me.

I called the nurse.

She looked at my face. And then…

Almost instantly, it seemed, the space around my bed was full of nurses; the ER doctor came into the room on the double. All the meds were pulled and I found myself looking up into a circle of concerned faces. I’m sure my own expression was considerably more bemused, since I was mostly thinking what a well-coordinated team they were.

It was the first time, but certainly not the last, that I thought the Fates might have decided that the time had come to cut the thread of my life and send me on a new journey. My main concern was that I hadn’t been able to tell my sons and daughter goodbye. This was an even greater concern in the case of my sons, whose mother had been killed in a car accident when they were very young. Just didn’t seem fair somehow.

However, I didn’t see any light to walk into, so I hung around.  The doctor had me wheeled into the cardiac care area of the ER and ordered an immediate echocardiogram. Which revealed fluid around my heart as well. No big surprise I guess, but now we knew why my blood pressure was so high. Poor old heart was beating underwater.

Given the apparent extensive nature of my problem, the decision was made to transfer me to Kingston General Hospital, which has a dedicated cardiac wing. It’s also a teaching hospital, associated with Queen’s University.

Fire up the ambulance folks, we’re goin’ for a ride.

I was still concerned about the lack of opportunity to contact my family. Since the doctor wasn’t exactly open to the idea of letting the ambulance idle while I made phone calls, I contacted my cousin, who was, quite coincidentally, already in the hospital that day. I updated her, and asked her to let my daughter know what was going on. Not being the dramatic type, I resisted the temptation to say “And if I don’t see you again,  so long, and thanks for all the fish.”

Just the same, I think I may have scared her just a little. Okay, more than a little; then again, I was definitely more than a little on the nervous side myself.

In any case, once the ambulance was ready, and the hospital nurse who was also to accompany was prepared, off we went. Note to those who’ve never been in one: ambulances do not offer as smooth a ride as I would have thought, given their generally fragile cargoes.

During the trip, which took about an hour, the paramedic, the ER nurse, and I chatted. There were frequent reminders to let them know if I felt strange. Strange??? Compared to …. ? But I appreciated the solicitousness just the same.

Once we arrived inKingston, paperwork was exchanged, notes were compared, the paramedics and the nurse handed me off, and I found myself behind a glass wall, watching the folks at the nurse’s station watch me.

Welcome to the fishbowl, Mr. Keating.

At this point, about twenty four hours had passed since the chest x-ray.  Been quite a ride.

It wasn’t long before a cardiology resident, along with a couple of additional people who were briefly introduced, appeared at my bedside.

I should take a moment here and explain a little about how the resident system works at the hospital. At least to the extent I understand it.

New doctors spend five years in “residency”, essentially working under the direction of a senior physician, while they hone their skills. As they advance through the program they gain greater autonomy. As part of the process, those who are more advanced in their residency have less experienced doctors and other specialists as part of their team. In this way, everyone gains from the experience of the others and a certain synergy comes into play that makes the environment rather dynamic.

At least, that was my experience. I should also note that I found throughout this entire experience that the health care system performed beyond my expectations. But more about that as we go along.

Dr. Thakrar, the lead resident who would be my primary contact throughout this phase of my illness, wanted to know how I was feeling. He asked a number of questions about symptoms. Had I had any shortness of breath? Fatigue? Numbness?

Didn’t think so; not really; and nope. Just this funny taste in my mouth. And of course, a minor issue with gaining twenty some pounds in two weeks.

Doc didn’t question my comments on lack of symptoms, although he later confided that his own observations were somewhat different. Guess I wasn’t all that clued in when it came to my own functionality. Funny how things can sneak up on you. Even life-threatening things.

Instead, he explained what was going to happen next. With my permission of course. But heck, what was I gonna say, “no”? Not likely.

They felt that the most immediate need was to relieve the pressure on my heart. After all, I’d already just survived a rather alarming cardiac episode, and they would prefer that I not have a repeat incident. I was all for that as well.

So Dr. Thakrar would set up a procedure, the name of which escapes me at the moment, that would see him bring in a nurse to assist and an ultrasound tech to guide him while he slipped a drain in through my chest and up alongside my ticker. No sweat, done right here in the bed Mr. Keating. A little local anesthetic, you won’t feel a thing. See you in a couple hours, as soon as we’re all set to go.

Then they left me alone for a bit. During which time my daughter Meaghan, and her boyfriend Alan, arrived.

After lots of hugs and a few tears, we looked at each other and said, as I recall, the equivalent of “huh.”

We’ve never been a family to panic in the face of crisis, and we’ve had a few over the years. My sons’ mother, as I mentioned, died when they were very young, in a car accident. My dad died at home while we held his hand. My daughter’s mother up and left one afternoon (the reasons for which were many, varied, not entirely unexpected, and at least equally my fault). Then two years previously, my daughter had shown up on my doorstep at 10:30 at night when her stepfather had thrown her out (the reasons for which I shall not stoop to include here – save to say that some stepfather stereotypes exist for a reason). And a year ago, we’d spent the day after Christmas in hospital while my daughter had an emergency appendectomy.

In each situation, there seemed little point in bemoaning fate, circumstance, or the vagaries of the world. Better to simply say “huh”, and deal with it.

Huh.