Andrew, Doug and the hematology ward.

I spend a night on the cot in between my companions, and the next day I learn that I will be transferred to the hematology ward. This will be one of two times I am in the proper ward for the condition I am treated for. This turns out to be very common.

When I move into my new room, I am greeted, or not so much greeted as gazed at blankly, by "Andrew", a ninety year old man who is attended by his wife and friend. He's a neurology patient, displaced in hematology, like I was just displaced in post-op. Through conversations with his visitors, I find out he just got a bed after being in emergency for four days. He's suffering from a far-reaching and developed degenerative brain disorder. His nurses meet him:

(Loudly)"What's your name sir?"

"..."

"...Andrew."

(Loudly again) "Do you know where you are?"

"..."

(Loud) "You're at the University of Alberta Hospital. Do you know what day it is?"

"..."

(Loud) "We're wearing poppies. It's November. Do you know what day it is?"

"..."

And so forth. At night, he incessantly scratches at his bedding and plastic bed guards. He grumbles and moans. He pages the nurses.

"Nurse, I need my light turned off!"

"It's already off, Andrew."

"Oh.... oh. Thank you."

(Repeat 5-12 times)

The nurses know me from my last visit, and amazingly, when I mention that he stays up all night, he's moved into another room. I didn't ask for this, I feel kind of bad, but... sleeping in a hospital? It's already hard, and it'll gain a whole new level of horrible in the coming weeks.

I destroy Vanessa at Scrabble. Not bragging or anything. I'm still good enough to play Scrabble.

Andrew moves out, and Doug moves in. He's a fifty-something guy with an oilfield consulting firm, he's got great spirits... and leukemia. He's in for a day for his second last dose of chemo. Cancer destroyed his body in about a month, and the doctors tell him that if he hadn't come in for treatment right then, he would have been a month late from being sent home to die. He says,

"Whenever I feel bad for myself, I just head on down to the Stollery... and when I see those little kids that got worse than whatever I ever could get, I think, 'Doug, suck it up.' "

Over the next few days, several things transpire:

My surgeon visits, but not before his reputation does...

(Nurse): "Dr. Briesbois? Oh, you're lucky."

(Dr. Ritchie): "Briesbois is in the military and consults with the military. So he performs surgery and jumps out of planes. He's flying back from Ottawa from a meeting with some generals. He's our best."

(Christina Prins, friend to Vanessa and OR nurse at the Royal Alec): "You're having surgery? Did they give you Dr. Briesbois?"

(Dr. Woods, another, more different Dr. Woods, a hematology resident): "Hell, Briesbois could do my job and his job."

When the surgery is confirmed and I finally meet him, I can't escape the feeling that he's larger than life. He's brisk, well-spoken, and to the point. Little chit-chat. He tells me that the splenectomy can be done lapriscopically, meaning that instead of creating a jack-o-lantern-like scar across my midsection, then make four small incisions, go in with a jackhammer and a vacuum, chisel the beast out, and my healing time is drastically reduced. That is, assuming my spleen isn't vastly enlarged.

When we talk, I've heard most of what he has to say due to discussions with other doctors... but something does stick in my mind:

"When I say you lift nothing over five pounds for six weeks, I mean that. This is the third time I've said it. Young guys always overdo it. So if you go gung-ho and herniate yourself, don't come crying to me to operate."

Fair enough. But the only thing under five pounds in my job is the coffee filter. It's gonna be a weird recovery.


Also, I learn about the more far-reaching reasons for my splenectomy. I will summarize these in point form, because of the stupendous amount of depressing information they contain.

-My spleen is aggravating all of this, if not causing it. If I have this condition in the future, and with my spleen in, I will have to take more prednisone (steroids). The amount of prednisone I have already had leaves me at risk of being a bent, broken, gelatinous mess by the time I am forty.

-The splenectomy has a fighting chance of working. This is not a guarantee, because I have a variable type of autoimmune hemolytic anemia, (fluctuating between a warm and cold type) and this is considered medically implausible, if not impossible.

-If the splenectomy doesn't work, I then receive a series of injections that resemble chemotherapy. They are harsh and cost $20,000 for four shots.


Many people visit. Friends, family. Notably, my grandparents come. My grandfather was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer over a year ago, and given a three-month "pink slip." I remember seeing him in his hospital bed... the great hunter, welder and man of the land, whithered to almost nothing, unable to keep down food. Now he's in remission, strong, hair back, and looking at me in my hospital bed. An odd, surreal reversal, though not to the same severity of what he encountered.

So far, I am still relatively healthy. I'm thinking this episode will be no more than a simple repeat of the past ones. But I'm not really prepared for the feeling of being trapped in a body trying to kill itself. That comes soon.