When I first met Stan, he told me he had problems with his tonsils. “See?” he said opening his mouth, obviously inviting me to peer inside. I did, and got a surprise: Stan’s tonsils were the size of golf balls, so enlarged that they smashed his uvula out of shape. He spent his entire career in the Army diagnosed with strep throat until my father, the Commanding Officer of Ft. Irwin’s Dental Clinic had a look and immediately scheduled him for an Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor. Stan had a video consult at Ft. Irwin and his tonsils were taken out at Loma Linda hospital a week later.
Good thing, too, since Stan often stopped breathing in his sleep. I felt like he would die right next to me in the night, and only two weeks into our marriage.
Incidentally, when Stan accidentally overdosed on his Tylenol with Codeine just after his tonsillectomy — and I sped down Ft. Irwin Road hoping an MP didn’t catch me and pull me over because my husband was crying in the passenger’s seat with the biggest migraine he’d ever experienced — we met the same doctor who “diagnosed” me with herpes.
This time, she took one look at Stan and told me he was dehydrated. Refusing to listen to my repeated attempts at explaining that he’d accidentally taken 3 doses of Tylenol with Codeine in one hour, she pumped him full of saline instead. Eventually, the saline flushed the medication out of Stan’s system and the doctor reaffirmed her initial diagnosis of dehydration since Stan seemed to be improving.
Fortunately, we didn’t happen to come across her again. Thank God.
Often, during the months that Stan was diagnosed with lymphoma but before the source was found, I thought about his enlarged tonsils. I pictured Stan on chemo, reclining in one of those cush chairs they had at the clinic. I was so ready for him to get some medicine already. Chronic tonsillitis seemed to be the perfect source for a cancer of the lymphatic system.
As it turned out, the source of Stan’s cancer was never found. Pathology came back inconclusive, and even a visit to Brooks Army Medical Center in San Antonio to one of the ENT doctors there yielded no further useful information. In the end, Dr. Hassan decided on radiation for Stan.
The radiation clinic was in Calallen, TX, about 45 minutes from our home. Stan was scheduled for external beam radiation therapy, to be administered five days a week for six weeks. I peered into the room once, just before Stan lay down on the patient table. Overhead was a massive machine with what looked like a robot arm on it. Stan told me later that the doctors programmed the machine to administer radiation just over the scar on his back, the one that looked like an over-sized almond, having healed from the bottom up due to his ripped stitches.
“They made me sign a release saying that the radiation might paralyze me,” Stan told me as we left. “I hate how they just put it on paper like that. “But they said that having a machine to do the radiation makes it more accurate. They’re just concerned because my scar is right over my spine.”
I nodded, a chill going through me. Could I take care of two kids and a paraplegic husband? Images of Stan in a wheelchair filled my mind, of his weak legs that lay at awkward angles in bed, knees knobby and muscles atrophied. Could I do that? Could I live with that? Could I take care of that?
I pushed the idea out of my mind, telling God that he knew damned well I couldn’t handle that so he’d better not stick me with it.
During his radiation treatments Stan was able to be temporarily transferred from his ship, moving from his position as sonar operator to some administrative job in the headquarters building on base. Paper pushing suited Stan. He had an eye for detail and a memory for protocol, so he did well. Plus, in an office-like environment, I think he probably got a bit more friendly conversation. The rules seemed a bit more lax (if your work is done, it doesn’t matter how much you chat) and I know Stan enjoyed putting on a uniform that wasn’t a pair of coveralls for once.
It didn’t hurt that he got 3 hours off work every day to drive up to Calallen for treatments. We would spend almost 2 hours in the car for a treatment that lasted less than five minutes, but Stan said he liked my company on those drives. I guess we did get more time to talk, and it seemed as though things weren’t so bad once and a while.
Of course, I was still incredibly nauseated and fatigued by my pregnancy, and my OB doctor wasn’t exactly a saint, either. None of the OBs at the Corpus Christi Women’s Clinic seemed to be; a couple of women in my ward were pregnant at the same time as me, and all of us had dragons for doctors. Mine was Italian. Abrupt. But at least she didn’t tell me that the answer to any concern I had was because I was pregnant. That happened to another friend of mine who had legitimate complications.
I remember one of the nurses asking me how far along I was when Stan was in for treatment. “Four months,” I said to her. Her eyes widened and she looked at my stomach. It’s true that my abdomen was quite large just below my ribcage, but I didn’t appreciate her stare all the same. This time around I happened to look a bit farther along than four months. I put my hand below my sternum, watching it trace an arc over my bulging belly. I wasn’t that big, was I?
The radiation gave Stan headaches, he said. They tired him out (even more) and he mentioned that he felt sick to his stomach after the first week of radiation. Despite this, Stan seemed to be happier working in the admin department at base headquarters. He was making friends with the Senior Chief there, a lady he mentioned often and spoke of highly.
I went to see him at work one afternoon, bringing in some essential paperwork that he had forgotten at home. He introduced me to the Senior Chief with a smile. I smiled back.
“I hear you two are thick as thieves,” I said with a friendly grin. Indeed, Stan seemed much more energized around company that he enjoyed. The Senior Chief smiled back and said something defacing and modest. Stan walked me out to the car as I left.
“Do me a favor and keep your mouth shut next time,” he said darkly. “I can get into serious trouble with what you just said about being thick as thieves.”
My face went hot and I felt as though I’d just been hit in the chest. “But you are,” I said. “And I was just being friendly.”
“Yeah, well don’t say anything next time, okay?” he replied shortly. “People could get the wrong idea, like we’re fraternizing or something, and Senior outranks me by a lot.”
I nodded, feeling as though I’d left my stomach with Stan as I watched him storm across the parking lot and back into the headquarters building. Even though I grew up in the Army — and in officer culture, too — I seemed to blunder often when in a public setting. Stan was much more fluent at social customs than I was. It was something I had always admired about him; he seemed to know what to say no matter the occasion or the company.
My father, full-bird colonel in the Army and CO of the Dental Clinic, was an Idaho country boy first and foremost. My mother did most of the talking when they went out, and occasionally I would hear her despairing at my father for his lack of social common sense. Family trait, I thought ruefully, wishing I could cut out my tongue.
By mid-November, Stan’s treatments were finally done. I was in a private fight with my OB who said my due-date had changed from February to March (the blood test that indicated pregnancy had me at February 7th or so, but the sonogram indicated a due date in March), and I was still not over my nausea. It was the worst that I’d ever experienced, and I quickly became the whiniest pregnant woman in our ward.
There were three of us in church, I remember, all in the Primary program and all due during the winter months. The other two ladies seemed to be the image of grace, though they probably had their share of complaints. I know I took the cake for most obnoxious pregnant woman, though. I couldn’t help it; Stan’s cancer had taken center stage to the point where I felt I had to fight for attention from somewhere.
My parents came to visit at the beginning of December to celebrate the holidays. It was always a pleasure to have Mom around because she helped me clean and seemed to know just what toy would grab Krystal’s attention. Dad and Stan would start up a conversation about computers and what brands made the best motherboards.
We were all standing in the living room one afternoon when I felt a dull ache in my neck on the right side. It started out faint but grew quickly, and my hand went up to massage it. Just as my hand made it to my neck, my stomach lurched with a violent spasm of pain. I winced and took a breath to steady myself.
“Are you having neck pain with your nausea?” Mom asked, moving easily into nurse mode.
I nodded. “Yeah, just on my right side, but sometimes the pain in my stomach seems to wrap around my ribs and go into my back.” I winced again. “It really hurts this time around. I don’t know what’s different about this pregnancy.”
“It could be that you’re heavier this time than you’ve ever been before,” Stan put in unhelpfully. I nodded and told him he had a point, more to pacify him than anything else.
“I think you’d better go to the doctor,” Mom said. “You don’t really want to mess around with abdominal pain, and the pain in your neck could be referred pain from your gallbladder. Let’s hope not. That’s an unpleasant business.”
I recalled briefly that my mother had her gallbladder taken out in the late 1980′s. Back then, she told me, it was a very invasive surgery which left big stitch scars all up her stomach.
“All right, I’ll go to the ER,” I said. “The doctors are done for the day on base.”
“See you when you get back,” Stan said as I got my purse. “Take care of my baby. And take care of yourself too, honey,” he added as I closed the door behind me.
I left, feeling my stomach lurch into more spasms as I drove to the nearest hospital. By the time I’d entered the ER, I was bent over in pain. The nurses took my vitals and drew some blood. I lay on the patient bed, trying to breathe and reminding myself that if I could get through almost all of Katrina’s labor without an epidural, then I could breathe through this.
Finally, a doctor came in and introduced herself, sitting down on one of those roller stools that seem to be in every ER in America. She was lean and beautiful with a no-nonsense look about her that spoke of experience and compassion. Dr. Balin was her name.
“It looks like you have pancreatitis,” she said. “Your enzyme levels are pretty high. You’re pregnant so there’s not much we can do for you right now, but I’m writing you a prescription for Vicodin. You can get your pancreas checked out again after you deliver.”
“Wait, what?” I asked quickly. I’d seen enough House episodes to know that Vicodin was a serious drug. “Narcotics?” I looked at the doctor in alarm. “I’m 25 weeks pregnant.”
She handed me the prescription and gave me a sympathetic smile. “You’re going to need it,” she said, rising from her stool and walking out of the exam room.
Great. Now I’m the sick one.
© 2012
