Biopsy day

M’s biopsy was scheduled for 8:45 a.m. on Thursday, July 12. We had to be there by 6:45. For two people who are 1) NOT morning people, and 2) NEVER on time, that we were there by 6:46 a.m. is notable, and will be making it on to the list of miracles I will be maintaining throughout this journey.

We listened to the radio on the way to the surgery center, which is in the same strip center complex as Dr. Hudnall’s office. This gave me a solid 30 minutes to once again try to block out the songs we heard, so I don’t ever have to associate them in the future with all this fuckery. Neither of us talked much.

The front desk nurses were chipper. The local news was on the TV. The waiting room had old people in it.

Michael was quiet. He seemed tired, folded into himself. Increasingly, that’s how he’s been. From the outside, he looks defeated. I know he’s not, though. He’s in pain. He’s exhausted. He’s frustrated. I don’t know if he’s scared. I haven’t asked. I’m afraid to ask, because what if he’s not, and that question makes him start to think he should be? What if he asks me if I’m scared, and then I have to be honest and tell him that my mind has already raced ahead to the question, what if I lose him?

M was called over to the front desk, around to the side, where they counseled him, had him fill out paperwork. He came back and handed me a clipboard that talked about advanced directives, listed me as his primary caregiver. It got me thinking about what we need to do, legal-wise. But I don’t want to think about that, either, because that feels like we’d actually be thinking over worst case, like, really worst case. And I can’t go there. Not yet. Not until we really know something, and maybe not even then.

After a while, they called M back to the surgery prep area, where they talked with him some more and then he came back out. Finally, they called him back for the actual surgical prep. They told me they’d come get me and bring me back once they had M all set.

More time passed. Good Morning America was on the TV, and they were well past their first hour of actual news and on to the info-tainment part of the broadcast. I guess the Back Street Boys were going to perform live on the following day’s broadcast. They’d been talking about it all show, hyping it like it would be the greatest reunion concert ever. In the back of my mind I tried to remember a single Back Street Boys song. I couldn’t. I wished they would change the channel to CNN or something, but I suppose that would be a downer, and no one who’s at a surgical center really needs to be watching downer television. I felt like HGTV would be a good choice. That’s what they show in the waiting room at Texas Med Clinic and at my dermatologist.

They called me back. M was in stall #1, or whatever they call the little areas with the beds in them, separated by curtains so you can’t see the other patients, but you can hear everything. I’m not sure if I laughed or smiled, but it was a little amusing, seeing M there with a little paper-like shower cap froufed out on his head. He had a plaid gown on, and grey socks with no slip rubber things on the soles in the shape of paws. The look on M’s face was priceless. He looked a little sheepish and self-conscious about his outfit. I told him I liked his hat, and he should keep it. I asked if we could keep the socks (we could). The space was cramped and awkward, and I had to scootch my chair around at a weird angle to sit and hold M’s hand.

I can’t write about all of this without mentioning our dogs, because they come up a lot between M and me. We have four dogs: two from my previous life, before M and I met, one from M’s previous life, and a fourth dog that literally just showed up at our door in early January (we tried  to find his owners–he’s a glorious, pure bred chocolate lab–but we never found them, so we kept the dog). My dogs, the Little Dogs, are both SPCA mutts, one seems to have some Jack Russell in him, the other is, we think, mostly Chihuahua with maybe some Rat Terrier. Their names are Sancho and Bella. M’s dog was a stray in the neighborhood, and M and his son took him in five or six years ago. He’s a 45 lbs. yellow lab and/or Golden Retriever mix, named Forrest (after Forrest Gump). The fourth dog is the chocolate lab that showed up at our door. I guess someone just dumped him in our neighborhood, which I don’t condone, but I could understand how someone would want to get rid of him. He’s a LOT. He’s still a puppy, but weighs 85 lbs. and there is no off switch with him. M’s son named him Hermes, but we call him Herpes or Big Dog most of the time. I tell you all of this, because we’ve created personalities for all of our dogs, and made up secret lives for them. Bella is a dirty, chain-smoking, old whore, who sits all day playing the slots and drinking White Russians and will do anything for a quarter. She’s not above putting a hit on someone, though she’s never actually done it. Forrest is the brains and the good looks behind the operation. He’s George Clooney in dog form. He’s also quirky. He loves Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”, and he rides around on his pink moped listening to it on his Walkman, wearing a pink helmet. He’s also a member of the motorcycle gang, the Banditos, so he knows some people. Sancho is the good guy, the loyal, innocent, never-wants-to-hurt-your-feelings guy. Forrest talks Sanchi (we call him Sanchi) into doing questionable things, just to sort of fuck with him. Forrest doesn’t mean any harm, he’s just kind of an asshole. Sanchi always goes along with it, against his better judgment. Lately, though, since Big Dog came into the picture, Sanchi has increasingly been coming into his own, a little more assertive. It’s mostly just because Big Dog irritates the shit out of everyone. And what about Big Dog? He’s the comic relief, the big, dumb doofus that the rest of the crew can’t seem to shake off, but secretly kind of like. M and I got into “Sons of Anarchy” a couple months back (I know, FINALLY) and binge-watched it ’til it was over. We decided Forrest was Jax, Bella was Gemma, Sancho was Juice and Big Dog was a prospect.

The dogs are our relief, they’re how we escape. The stories we make up about the dogs and tell each other are how we know we’re okay, no matter the situation.

M told me that Forrest was waiting outside the surgery center with the rest of the Banditos. They were there to bust M out. I told M I thought that was a bad idea, and that I’d go outside and talk to Forrest.

The anesthesiologist came over. He asked some questions. He explained that he would inject the anesthesia through a needle in M’s hand. He would put M all the way under, and he definitely would not wake up during the procedure (he really, really emphasized this). Afterwards, they’d bring M back up. Did we have any questions? No.

After the anesthesiologist left, M told me he was nervous. Once again, I didn’t know what to say. I just told him that I understood. I mean, shit, it’s surgery, they’re knocking your ass out. M would be crazy or else made of steel to not be nervous. I told him it would be fine, Forrest would be waiting for him.

Dr. Graham was the doctor who would be performing the biopsy. He came by to confirm what the procedure was (prostate biopsy, scope the bladder to see if there was anything to see). He said it should take about 15 minutes, and we would have the biospy results back by maybe Tuesday or Wednesday of next week. (Jesus, how much more waiting?!) For the rest of the day, take it easy, light meals, water.

Dr. Graham left and  a nurse came by. More questions. Yes, I’m the designated driver. M would need to take the antibiotic pill taped to his chart with dinner tonight. Did we have any questions. And then she kicked me out, back to the waiting room. M and I kissed  before I left.

More GMA in the waiting room. Insufferable. A very large lady who refused to take off her sunglasses or to talk quietly on her phone went to the vending machine and bought a bag of chips. I had brought a book of crosswords with me and was trying hard to solve one in spite of GMA and loud chip lady and all the thoughts bouncing around in my brain. Dr. G came out to speak with me. He brought me back into the surgery prep area, into a room with the word “Consultation” on the door. I felt like I was going to hyperventilate. This could not be good, right? I hadn’t seen anyone else in the waiting room get called back.

I sat down, Dr. G stood. He’s very tall and has glasses. He explained that in the course of scoping the bladder, they had found a thumb-sized mass toward the front of the prostate, between the bladder and prostate. He said he was able to insert a needle rectally that was just long enough to grab a sample of the tissue. He said he wasn’t really prepared to find that during the biopsy–it was sort of outside the scope of what they were there to do, is how I took it–but he felt like he got a good sample. He said he didn’t know if the mass was related to prostate cancer, or if it might be bladder cancer, or if it was something else altogether. He said we wouldn’t know until the biopsy results came back. In the meantime, though, he thought that mass was part of the cause of there being blood in M’s urine, that it was rubbing up against the urethra and causing irritation.

I went back to the waiting room. It’s never good to hear that something is growing inside you that is definitely not supposed to be there. But I was oddly relieved. At least we knew SOMETHING now. Yes, we had scans and blood panels and PSA scores and whatever that bone enzyme count was. But this was somehow different. It’s a mass. It can be seen. It can be poked. It’s causing irritation. It can be removed (maybe, I don’t know). After almost two weeks of knowing there’s definitely something bad going on, we hadn’t been able to SEE anything. Now there was something to see. I know that’s not rational thinking, but I’m just looking for something tangible, for an enemy that maybe we can start attacking.

A few minutes later, the nurse called me back to the recovery area. M was sitting up in a chair, back in his own clothes, with a small can of cranberry juice. He looked awake, but a little out of it, like he was really good and drunk. He asked the nurse, “Where’s my t-shirt?” All the nurses wear these navy blue t-shirts with “Urology” written in large, old-school curvy baseball jersey font, with “Associates San Antonio” written in smaller font inside the tail of the “Y” in urology. If a softball game spontaneously breaks out, these ladies are ready.

The nurse didn’t miss a beat, “We’re all out, they’re on order.”

“Bummer,” M said.

I really thought maybe you got a t-shirt after a procedure, they had me convinced. I asked M, “Wow, you get a t-shirt?”

“No. But the doctor touched me inappropriately, so I should get a t-shirt.” M’s humor is dry, and if you’re not careful, you’ll fall  into the trap of believing him when he’s just fucking around. It’s one of the things I love most about him.

They went through the list of things we needed to watch out for, explained that it was okay if there was blood in M’s pee, so long as it was thin and colored like cherry Kool-aid. If it was thick like ketchup or bright red, then we needed to call the doctor. Same if he had excessive blood in his stool, ran a fever of 101.5 or higher, or if he couldn’t pee. Then they got a wheelchair and wheeled M out.

As we drove, I told M that Forrest and the Banditos had planned a really dramatic rescue for M. They were going to blow up the door to the surgery center, but not, like, hurt anyone, and then there were going to bust M out. But I had told Forrest that that seemed a little extra and probably the cops would get involved and we just didn’t need the drama right now, so they’d left.

The rest of the day passed quietly, with M resting. I tried to nap, but my brain wouldn’t shut off. So I read the anti-cancer recipe book, wrote out a long shopping list, and went to Whole Foods. I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening cooking.

Around 10 p.m., M asked if I was almost done. I told him I wasn’t quite finished. He said he had asked, because he wanted to see if I would come back and sit with him while he took a bath. I instantly felt awful. I had spent the entire day just going and going, doing and doing. That’s what I do when I feel like things are spinning and out of my control. I control what I can control. It’s usually cleaning, but cooking seems to be the new thing, because what we put in M’s body is the only thing we can control right now, the only medicine we can administer right now.

I’d spent all day doing, neglecting my husband. I went back to the bathroom with him, where we just talked while he soaked in the tub.