I started my new job on March 28 and, just as I was getting used to the new schedule and routine, a nasty cold knocked me out two weeks later. Outside work, dozing off and falling asleep were becoming my only recreational activities.
I did manage to stay awake for a few cultural experiences. On March 30, J. and I met friends for dinner at Ras Dashen before crossing the street to the Broadway Armory for the National Theatre of Scotland’s Black Watch. Aside from the venue name, the space seemed perfect for a dark, spare, echoing look at contemporary war — in Iraq. A storied regiment, Black Watch finds itself a writer’s object of study even as its members recount their observations about their American counterparts. Like making movies, war seems to be a matter of waiting, but with a tragic ending. The starkness of the space reflects the raw emotions the men of Black Watch feel as the war inexorably draws them in and then as the writer, who has seen nothing, tries to draw them out. You had to be there to understand and to know death.
I’d like to be more interested in current movies, but the ongoing crop of action, comedy, reality, and franchise retreads leaves me cold. That’s why I almost missed Jane Eyre. Granted, like most movies now it has been done before. In the version I’ve seen most often, baby-faced Orson Welles does the honors as jaded man of the world Edward Rochester, while Joan Fontaine keeps her lips pursed, her feelings repressed, and her heart open. That Jane Eyre is memorable for a strong performance by Peggy Ann Garner as little hothead sinner Jane, a pretty turn by Elizabeth Taylor as the sweet but sickly Helen, and a cloying but good showing by Margaret O’Brien as Rochester’s coquettish ward (and daughter), Adèle.
While the 1943 Jane Eyre was shot primarily and noticeably within the confines of a sound stage and lot, the 2011 edition is more expansive (and expensive), beginning with a distraught young woman running across the haunting, perpetual twilight of the moors, which may be the best feature of the movie. The rest is almost as claustrophobic as the earlier version or the mad woman’s confinement. For all his wealth, worldliness, and travels, what we see of Rochester’s world is as narrow as Jane’s.
Aside from the brooding open-air cinematography, I didn’t find much to recommend in this Jane Eyre. There’s less focus on Jane’s childhood and the influence of her “education.” The child actors aren’t as important to the movie, and their performances are weak. I found myself missing Peggy Ann Garner’s explosive farewell to her aunt (Agnes Moorehead). Adèle appears tangentially only, speaking French because she’s French, and apparently no one needs to know what she’s saying. She’s there because the plot requires it but what her presence reveals about Rochester’s character is lost. Even Rochester’s supposed intended bride flits through without making an impression. The only character who does is Mrs. Fairfax, the housekeeper, because she’s played by Judi Dench, who is talented enough to pull off such a weak role with aplomb. The man who, along with his sisters, takes Jane in is also noteworthy, but mainly because his appearance is jarring, his personality tightly wound, and his relationship with his guest awkward and forced.
That leaves Jane (Mia Wasikowska) and Rochester (Michael Fassbender), a pairing that has as much chemistry as two inert substances. Jane lacks a distinctive personality, substituting white-faced teariness for controlled emotions. Rochester, who should be bitter, brutal, and enigmatic, seems to be doing his fairest impression of a 1980s sensitive guy in touch with his feminine side. Their pairing, the dynamics of which should be at least a little disturbing, is about as interesting as that between two Yuppies circa 1987. Passion of feeling there is not, especially that passion that makes the Victorian society of literature so compelling. I wanted to like Jane Eyre, but it needed to be more than a movie with pretty scenery and attractive faces rushed through without life or context.
Fast forward from the Industrial Age to the Machine Age and beyond for Death and the Powers by Tod Machover (music) and Robert Pinsky (libretto). This time — perhaps ironically, given the subject matter — the performances outweighed the subject, and the repetitive movements of the Crow-like robots held more interest than either the torturous music or stilted libretto. Strangely, nothing about either music or libretto evoked the monotonous, regular, stifling hum of the machine, despite the use of that word, no matter how awkwardly, enough times to make me grind my teeth reflexively. The music is more random than a well-ordered machine (whether industrial or computer) could make it, although perhaps a machine could create a mood — any mood. It wasn’t even irritating.
In a weird anachronism in this futuristic world of blended man and machine (technology), people still read newspapers, and the print press is still powerful. Neither my hostess nor I quite understood where that came from or what it was supposed to mean. In the age of technology, the conventional notion of the press is obsolete has been for some time. What was the point?
The robots were cute, the set decor different if a bit too reminiscent of a disco, and the performances good. Sara Heaton as the daughter was exceptional, which the audience appreciated. But it’s going to take something truly awful to unseat Death and the Powers as my least favorite opera to date.
Doctor Atomic is modern opera executed beautifully, with music that evokes emotions and a libretto that fuses poetry and arguments into a thought-provoking vision of the apocalypse, before and after. Death and the Powers seemed to be words and notes signifying nothing.
J set aside Memorial Day to visit his paternal grandmother’s grave, which he’d learned is in Saint Adalbert Catholic Cemetery in Niles. After a sunny early morning and stormy late morning/early afternoon, he picked me up.
Saint Adalbert Catholic Cemetery is enormous, larger than I would have expected. If you hadn’t known the northwest region of Chicago was heavily Polish, you’d have only to try to read the names on the thousands of tombstones. There are non-Polish names — J’s grandparents’ included — but I didn’t see many during our brief drive toward the section he’d been told to look for, or later on the way out.
And you can’t miss the names because so many graves aren’t marked by basic, flat, in-ground stones like those of my parents in Pennsylvania. The cemetery is dominated by a wealth of impressive monuments, statues, and crypts. Later we noticed a monument seller conveniently located across the street. Also across the street there’s an expansive florist shop. J noted that the Polish seemed to have done very well for themselves.
As it turned out, his grandparents are buried in a section of modest flat markers, his grandfather’s adorned only with his WWI service and a cross. We didn’t notice any other family markers nearby. He doesn’t know why they came to be buried here, other than that they were north siders and Catholic.
Given the size of the cemetery and the occasion, I was surprised not to see more people or more flags. On Memorial Day, the cemeteries where my parents and my aunts are buried are filled with flags, placed by a local organization at the grave of each veteran. There are a lot of veterans in the central Alleghenies.
Our next stop was the Chicago Botanic Garden. By this time, the weather had turned perfect, but the grounds were nearly empty. After a jaunt around the Rose Garden and a brief rest on a bench, where every mosquito in the vicinity zoomed in on me and my legs, we walked to Evening Island and the carillon, both of which I’d see only in the distance. Stupidly, I had never realized that you can walk there. Why I thought it was a forbidden place I cannot explain.
A robin flew in front of us to a small tree, carrying something large in its bill. I was trying to point it out to J when suddenly, from a nest in the crook of the tree, three mouths shot up. The robin made an attempt to stuff them, but perhaps either intimidated by their insistence or our presence, it flew back toward the water, where it seemed to have found a good spot for foraging. The moment it left, the mouths withdrew into the depths of the nest — just as J had gotten his camera and lenses sorted out. He hadn’t seen them. And, while he was fiddling with his backpack, a chipmunk crossed in front of us. I teased him that someday he’ll have his camera out taking photos or videos of some mundane thing, while bears, mountain lions, eagles, and other creatures line up behind him, out of range of his lens, to watch and laugh. He also missed some large birds (herons?) flying overhead, but at least he saw and photographed the red admiral I pointed out on the leaves of a tree.
He thought there would be a carillon concert, but they start in June. Our timing was perfect, though — the 7 o’clock hour chimed just as we were approaching.
In the berm between parking lots, J noticed a bird that I couldn’t identify at first. It was head on, and the colors weren’t true in the shade. As he was snapping away (and mentally debating getting out the big lens and tripod), an adult robin hopped over and shoved something in the other bird’s maw. Our mystery bird was a fledgling robin. Through the large lens, I could see its pinfeathers. It was at that awkward stage between infancy and adulthood, neither helpless nor mature — the avian equivalent of a gawky teenager. The parent soon wandered off, but Junior continued to stand around expectantly.
Walker Bros. Original Pancake House was closed for the holiday, but I (for one) got my fill of comfort lasagna at Rosebud of Highland Park, which made me sleepy for the long ride home. I felt strange after the long holiday and variable weather.
JT took me to another opera, the April 21st performance of Rossini’s Mosè in Egitto at Chicago Opera Theater.
Altogether, this was quite a different experience from that at Chicago Lyric. Harris Theater is nestled in the bowels of the earth at Millennium Park. Attendees cram onto one relatively small elevator, which fits the parking garage aesthetic of the entry and other public areas. It’s more than just stark and cold, or minimalist. It’s aggressively industrial, the kind of place where you’d expect the scent of leaked oil, disintegrating rubber, and pervasive dampness. Not a place where you’d expect an art like opera to grow and thrive. JT said her husband hates Harris Theater; it’s easy to see why.
Off the elevator and in the theater we descended steep gray steps made of a hard material that suited the garage theme and flanked in spots by flimsy handrails. As the average age here doesn’t seem to be any younger than at Lyric, the purpose of the design seems to be to facilitate vertigo followed by a fall — fortunately, not mine this time. As I looked around, I half expected Blue Man Group to appear.
Baritone-bass Tom Corbeil (Faraone), who is very tall and looked to me to be very young, couldn’t project beyond the first few rows — that’s where we were, and we could hear only just barely. In addition to a weak voice and unvarying volume, Corbeil’s performance suffered from awkward staging exacerbated by his idea that a pharaoh should be stiff, down to his rigid fingers. As his wife Amaltea, mezzo-soprano Kathryn Leemhuis overcame the silliness of the padded gold lamé gown/shroud she’d been stuffed into, to put on a passionate show as the voice of womanly care and reason. Baritone-bass Andrea Concetti (Mosè) and tenor Jorge Prego (Aronne) sang and acted capably, although Prego’s expressions at time reminded me of a young Brent Spiner. To me this seemed a difficult role because it’s superfluous to the plot; he’s overshadowed by the two couples and Mosè. Second banana, fifth wheel — never easy, and the role of Aronne adds little.
The real show stoppers are tenor Taylor Stayton as the Pharoah’s son, Osiride, and soprano (and flaming redhead) Siân Davies as his Israelite lover Elcia. The plot is thin and straightforward, so they end up singing about the same things over and over. Fortunately, both have the vocal power and acting range to stretch the material.
The set, dominated by a slanted glass pyramid sheet, and the costumes lacked flair or imagination, even on a budget, and the staging detracted from the interrelated dramas — Pharoah vs. the God of the Israelites, and the son and his lover vs. his father and her God. Too much was performed straight on or at 180 degrees to the audience (not unlike a first-grade play), random movements were substituted for action, and the ensemble (serving as both Egyptians and Israelites) was too small to project either an Egyptian force or an Israelite throng, making the plot’s very large sticking point (emigration) seem very small. At times, the combined staging and lighting reminded me of Catholic mass — surely not the desired effect. Worse, the staging of the piece’s deaths and the parting of the Red Sea was clumsy, confusing, and on the border of laughable — also surely not the desired effect given the human and personal drama that has gone before.
I couldn’t help noticing one of the ensemble members, partly because he is very tall — as tall as Corbeil — and because, sporting a beard, he’s very handsome. I liked him, too, because he seemed comfortable in his own skin, fluid in his movements, and, despite his height, never calling attention to himself to the detriment of the principals. Through clues in the program and on the Chicago Opera Theater Web site, and my intuition, I figured out he’s baritone-bass Benjamin LeClair. JT looked at his history and declared it impressive for an ensemble member. She speculated that he simply wished to appear in this rare production, even if only as an ensemble member. He also served as cover for Moses. I’d like to hear his voice, especially if he can project better than Corbeil. I’d love to see him again, even if not on stage!
And so, with the deaths duly died and the Israelites on the other side of the Red Sea, we departed, and I was able to get home early enough not to suffer the next day at work — at least I was alert enough to discover the tall and handsome (and too young) Benjamin LeClair.
I’d tell you to make an effort to see Le Nozze di Figaro at Lyric Opera, but it’s too late. You’ve missed it.
After a fine dinner at Lyric’s relatively new restaurant, JT and I attended the March 24 performance. Singing, acting, music — all good. Opera, like everything else, is fighting for limited attention spans and budgets, but at least it has multi-generational appeal, from the well-heeled, gray-haired sophisticates and us middle-aged folk to the college students waiting patiently in queue for their $20 tickets (qualified undergraduates can attend a full-length Mozart opera for 1/10 of what you would pay, or just a few bucks more than the price of movie tickets at Showplace Icon). I admit to nodding off for a few moments here and there during the last acts of the 3.75-hour performance, which I blame on a combination of PMS and rising at 5 a.m. I was smart, however; I took Thursday off as a personal day, which made getting home at 12:45 a.m. less painful. That’s after waiting for one bus, then walking to a different stop to wait for another, then finally catching the familiar #6 Jackson Park Express on State Street. While waiting for the #151, I noticed that more than security guards seemed to be at work at Hyatt Center. And then a white-haired woman, briefcase in hand, joined me at the stop — where and on what had she been working until nearly midnight? I don’t miss the long or late hours of consulting, and, while some of my work had some immediate impact on a subset of workers and retirees, it’s all been forgotten, I’m certain. I’m reminded of how much of what many of us do every day is transient at best, futile at worst.
Feeling somewhat more energetic Thursday, I performed some of the Saturday chores. I almost could have gone as far as spring cleaning, especially as it seemed to be a chilly and, for some reason that I can never explain to myself, I didn’t feel like venturing out. I did make some progress in The Road to Monticello. By evening I was dreading even the one-day return to work.
As I lay reading, think to get to sleep early, I slowly noticed that I was feeling chilled, although the room wasn’t cold. Even under comforter and blanket, my extremities stayed icy. And the congestion that I’d been denying for a few hours had filled my sinuses to bursting.
Great. A fever. Plus the third respiratory illness since mid-January. Supplicating the echinacea deities doesn’t help.
By Friday, the fever had passed, leaving a full-blown cold in its wake. But wait — there’s more! My period made its slightly delayed appearance. Between the cold and the cramps, and with too much time for reflection, I sank into a little depression. Tears came, tears went. On Saturday J. took me grocery shopping and to the Big Easy; I spent most of the rest of the weekend sleeping, writing letters, reading The Road to Monticello, and playing Bejeweled for iPhone. It’s (check one): ___ relaxing ___ addictive.
On Monday, work, which I should permit to be no more than an irritant, added to the weight of illness and out-of-whack hormones.
To console myself, I headed to Borders to pick up the D’Aulaires’ illustrated versions of the Greek and Norse myths — then and only then thinking to look on amazon.com, where I found them for a significantly better price. I never seem to learn.
I’m not the only one who’s not feeling so hot. Wednesday morning, the 31st, I noticed Hodge was behaving strangely, and that evening evening I watched as he made dozens of trips to the litter box when he wasn’t wandering around restlessly, meowing and occasionally dribbling urine on the carpet. (I recommend Anti-Icky-Poo.)
At the veterinary clinic the next morning, Dr. W. asked if I can pill him. “Yes, but I’d rather not.” Neither of us needs that stress. While Doc and a teen-aged observer looked on, Dr. W. gave the unhappy beast his annual physical and groped his empty bladder — he was piddled out. Earlier, Dr. W. had told the young observer, “He WILL bite. Not MAY bite, but WILL.” While he flipped him about and pinned him down, Doc gave him various shots in various parts of his anatomy, then we bustled the 15-pound bundle of futile fury into the carrier. Dr. W. said to the girl, “There, do you see any blood on me? Do you see any blood on him? THAT is what I call a successful appointment.” Hodge, safely encased, didn’t seem convinced.
So for the better part of a week, between coughing spells I kept an eye out for yellow drips on the carpet. This isn’t quite how I envisioned spending what I feel more and more to be my dwindling time here.
Friday, April 9, I got together with relatives from New york, which made me very happy. For a time, I felt I belonged somewhere again and that my entire childhood wasn’t just a myth lost in time.
J. has had to work the past two Saturdays, so he has stopped by on his way downtown for dinner at Bonjour. I feel relaxed outdoors there when the weather permits, and I am sure I was better company this Saturday than I have been in years. I can’t promise that I won’t relapse into the sour person I seem to have become and don’t like.
On Sunday morning outdoors at Bonjour two men across from me called me, “Miss” and asked if there was more to Bonjour than the obvious. At first I couldn’t think what they meant and said, “No,” but immediately I realized that they were referring to the French restaurant across the way, La Petite Folie. The older man went to look at the menu while the younger told me that his companion drives everywhere instead of walking like he does and therefore misses a lot. I thought this would be especially true of La Petite Folie, which is in the middle of the courtyard and can’t be seen from the street. The older man came back and described a menu item, asking the younger to guess how much it cost. “$20?” he answered quizzically. “$8.50,” the elder replied triumphantly. “It pays to get out of Lincoln Park.” They asked one of the Bonjour girls if the quiche is made fresh; she assured them that it is. Their quiche order arrived soon after, and their comments indicated their approval. Before I left, I noticed each had ordered a different kind of cake for dessert.
Madame and crew did the neighborhood proud.
After scrambling on Friday to pay my 40-cent library fine (inflation!) and renew The Road to Monticello, I have now accompanied Thomas Jefferson and his little entourage to Paris. I am also reading the aforementioned Greek myths as told and illustrated by Ingri and Edgar Parin D’Aulaires, which somehow I missed out on as a child. I need to make up for lost time.
In the meantime, they call me Mr. Phlegm! Or should. This cough has worn out its welcome, and then some.
These photos are from a Friday trip with J. to the the Chicago Botanic Garden to see Wonderland Express, about which I knew nothing. The walk through Chicago in natural miniature was followed by dinner with another friend at Don Roth’s Blackhawk in Wheeling and an evening of art and conversation over coffee. A walking tour of Tuscany or Scotland would be grand, but in the meantime life, or at least my life, doesn’t get better than this.
A lot of the people at Blick Art and Argo Tea have complimented me on this “Planet Saver Sack,” a gift from J. They probably wonder how such a frumpy old woman got hold of such a cool bag. I wasn’t sure about it at first, but now that I’ve seen the series I’m thinking I should buy at least one more.
I’ve been cleared to return to work Monday. If I feel then like I do today, it will be an especially painful experience.
Yesterday I had my second follow-up appointment with Dr. P. This week’s medical student showed me into a room and told me to undress from the waist down, which I had not done the previous week. I also noticed that this examination table, unlike last week’s, had stirrups at the ready. Not the dreaded stirrups . . .
The medical student asked a series of specific questions that made me want to interrupt to say simply, “All systems functioning normally, Captain!”
Except one — I told her I seemed to have developed a painful external yeast infection as a result of the antibiotics. And that question wasn’t even on her list.
She mentioned “vitals” and then went to get Dr. P., who proclaimed my incisions 100 percent better than they were last week, explaining why to the resident, who had not seen them before.
The medical student, mistaking herself for my mother, said encouragingly, “Tell Dr. P. what you told me,” adding it was better if she heard about it directly from me.
I described the yeast infection and its effects, which felt strictly external to me, and asked her about oral medication (which I’d already researched). As we were talking about it, her eyes fell on the stirrups, and she suggested we take advantage of them for a closer look.
Okay. Anything to get a prescription for the magic pill.
After “scooching” further down the table several times, never easy but especially not after surgery, I found myself trying to look between my legs at the peering faces as the resident explained the lay of my land to the medical student. “What do you mean by ‘no lesions’?” I wanted to say. “It feels likes there are plenty of lesions!” But I didn’t have to say anything. When Dr. P. decided to use her finger(s), both of them probably got a slight adrenalin rush when I jumped and screamed.
Yes, it hurt that much.
They left, undoubtedly wondering what was wrong with me. While I was dressing behind the curtain, a perky nurse came in to take my vitals. “Is your blood pressure normally good?” she asked with some surprise, telling me it was 112/66. Everything was “perfect.”
When Dr. P. and her shadow returned, I asked her to complete the short-term disability form and write a return-to-work note. “What is it you do again?” she asked. “I write,” I said. She looked a little blank at that, so I added, “I sit around all day.” That must have decided her, because I can sit at work as well as at home, and do something for which I will be paid. I’ll have used three of the four to six weeks the surgery entitles me to, which, given how I feel and what I do (no lifting), seems an appropriate amount of time.
Returning last week, as I had wanted to, would have been premature, I realize, but now I am probably ready. I may tire easily, but I will have to remember not to push myself, and not to allow myself to be pushed. This weekend I’ll make a list of those things that must be done ASAP and focus on them on Monday. Of course, I’m sure that more will have been dreamt up in my absence.
On this, my last day of leave, I woke up in some pain and not feeling well, and spent most of the day sleeping or trying to. One step forward, three back.
After an August 2008 uterine fibroid embolization, or UFE, failed to relieve me of Ignatius the tenacious fibroid’s symptoms — bulkiness, frequent urination, and possibly the lower back and leg pain that sometimes made walking even easy distances painful and tiring — I scheduled a laparoscopic myomectomy for July 27, 2009. In this outpatient procedure, a laparoscope is inserted through the navel, and the fibroid is sliced, diced, and extracted through several small incisions compared to a single large one. The surgery takes longer, but the recovery period is shorter.
Beforehand, I felt the same way I’d felt about the UFE — I was going to start the day relatively healthy and was choosing to end it, and to spend many days after it, in pain and discomfort. I didn’t hesitate, but it struck me a year ago and again now what an odd choice it seemed, especially because I had become so accustomed to the symptoms that they seemed normal and endurable. I knew, though, that I never felt very good anymore. Sometimes I wondered, too, if the growing sharpness of temper that I’d been experiencing weren’t attributable in part to the fibroid’s effect.
In short — no pain, no gain.
For a laparoscopic myomectomy, you must undergo something I’d never done — a bowel cleanse. On the remarkably cool and pleasant Sunday before the surgery, I spent my time swallowing a noxious liquid while hovering within 10 to 15 feet of the toilet. By 9 o’clock, I was sure that the pain I was in then was sure to be the worst of the whole affair.
Of course, it was just the beginning.
On Monday morning, I threw enough into a tote bag to keep me entertained in the waiting room — pen and pencil cases, journal, paper, The Bride of Lammermoor — plus the usual travel practicalities, like tissues and an umbrella. I also took my new iPhone GS, but not the adapter — I wouldn’t need that during surgery or the brief period of in-hospital recovery.
It’s too bad my brain didn’t regurgitate the slogan from the old commercial at just that moment: “Don’t leave home without it.”
I arrived almost exactly on time, at 8 a.m., and sat in the waiting room only a few minutes before I was called; there was very little time in which to become anxious, let alone break out The Bride of Lammermoor. I was escorted to a bed, where an experienced nurse introduced herself and began her ministrations, including the dreaded catheter.
I had been afraid of that.
Dr. M.’s resident came in and introduced herself. The anesthesiologist and his resident came in separately and introduced themselves. Even further down the food chain, a medical student introduced himself. I was the center of a lot of attention, which I’m not used to.
The anesthesiologist, who seemed distracted, noted my high TSH and low level of Vitamin D, although he confessed he didn’t keep up with the recommended ranges. “Really?” said the nurse. “It’s all the rage now — thought to be behind a lot of health issues.” “Like diabetes,” I contributed. “Like diabetes,” she agreed. The anesthesiologist appeared to be deferential on this point. “I follow it because it’s in the news so much,” the nurse explained.
The anesthesiologist left his resident behind to do the IV honors. She offered them to the nurse, who said it was up to the resident. “This isn’t the first time I’ve done this,” the resident said brightly. “And it’s not the second time, either.” If it was the the third time, it was not the charm, for after carefully and laboriously tapping a vein, she couldn’t get blood to come back even as the nurse was telling me, “I can do it because I’m old.” Later, the anesthesiologist tried a different vein, which he pumped up and which mysteriously disappeared as he tried to draw blood back. “It was there, but now it’s gone.”
I’m used to having deep, small, uncooperative veins, so none of this surprised me. I don’t recall who finally drew first blood or when.
My surgery was to begin at 9:30 a.m., but there was a slight delay. I went through the double doors at around 9:45 a.m., then promptly conked out, no counting needed. I’m not even sure how.
When I came to, I had the very odd but very clear sensation that it was late in the day. I did the mental math — two to three hours for surgery, say another two hours for recovery — and couldn’t reconcile my memory and calculations with my sense that the afternoon was far advanced. I turned to look at the wall clock, which, if I squinted, I thought I could read without glasses. Big hand on the 5, little hand on the 6. 5:30 p.m.
That couldn’t be right.
I looked again. Same result.
Uh-oh.
As people bustled about me and asked me how I was doing, I wondered if the extended time frame meant missing body parts.
Then I lay in Room 1462, overlooking Lake Michigan, I wasn’t in much pain, and if it hit me I had a button to push every 15 minutes as needed. I had time if not clarity of thought to wonder what kind of interesting circumstances or complications may have arisen.
Later that evening, Dr. M. came in to tell me the story. I don’t fully understand it, so I wouldn’t want to be quoted on chronology or cause and effect. The short version is that issues with CO2 absorption, combined with the fibroid’s calcification, led to the decision to switch from an outpatient laparoscopic myomectomy to a mini-laparotomy to ensure the entire fibroid was removed. Ignatius, which was described using the precise medical term “ginormous” and which was demonstrated with a show of surgical hands, proved to be “hard as a rock,” having calcified after the UFE.
“So that’s the good part,” he said encouragingly.
“Yes,” I said, having a distinct feeling there was more.
There was.
For the first time in his experience, or any experience he knew of (including, as he later mentioned, that of his father, who had been a gynecologist for 40 years), an instrument (a tenaculum) had broken, and a small piece, one-fifth of inch in size, was now embedded somewhere in my tissues.
Ah. My very own piece of shrapnel.
While I was coming to, or shortly after, I think, x rays had been taken to track down the tenaculum tip. Dr. M. explained that the problem with x rays is that they don’t show where such an object is in three dimensions. In my anesthetized stupor, I suggested an MRI because I knew it would produce a 3D image. Dr. M. seemed to think this a brilliant idea, although later I marveled that I would even mention undergoing an MRI, which I, like most, don’t enjoy. He consulted with Dr. V., the interventional radiologist, who being more expert than I about medical imaging, in turn suggested a more efficient CT scan.
In the meantime, J. came in bearing gifts — flowers, candle, hand soap, “Get Well” balloon, and his Flat Eric to keep me company. After all that anesthesia, I could not keep my eyes open for more than a few moments, so I’m sure I was dull company. When I slept, it was as though dead. The frequent interruptions by the staff — to take my vital signs, to change IV bags, to look at my abdomen, to ask me about bowel movements, etc. — barely broke my sleep.
I found that early mornings began with a visit from Dr. M.’s resident with subsequent visits by other residents — never the same one or two twice — and the medical student I’d met Monday morning. While the residents asked questions, checked my abdomen, and performed other medical ablutions, the medical student seemed limited to asking questions and learning bedside manners. Before leaving, he would reach for and squeeze my ankle through the covers in a way that, in an experienced physician, would be reassuring but in this case was mostly awkward. As each morning’s residents came in, often waking me up from a sound sleep, I did appreciate being part of their educational experience in some infinitesimal way, and wondered if they’d seen my surgery or how much they knew of my case.
It was Tuesday, I think, that Patient Escort Services came to take me for a CT scan. From one day to the next, I had become as weak as an infant. I was sore, but it’s not that it hurt me to sit up or to transfer from the bed to the gurney. It simply took all my strength just to move from a prone to an upright position. Each time, I had to reach for one or more helping hands.
My room was in Prentice Women’s Hospital, while the CT scan equipment is in Galter or Feinberg Pavilion. We descended into the bowels, then proceeded what seemed an interminable distance. I don’t remember much except the surreal sensation that comes naturally with being wheeled on a gurney through long stretches of hospital basement hallways, broken mainly by scenic paintings, automatic external defibrillators (adult and child versions), and emergency signs and equipment. I also recall the weakness I felt transferring onto the CT bed and back, the hands reaching to help me, and how quickly it was done — in that sense, much preferable to an MRI.
I don’t remember much of Tuesday or Wednesday, which were largely featureless. I used my iPhone as long as the battery lasted. I figured out how to use the room’s TV/computer system, which seemed to hark back to the old WebTV. I watched students play baseball on the two diamonds below and the boats in the harbor and on the lake. I began to feel that I had never really learned how to live and that I had missed out on much in life, that the ball players, dog walkers, and boaters were all privy to secrets and pleasures that elude me. And I chafed at my constant restraints, the catheter and the IV. Finally, I don’t know when, the catheter was removed, bloodily and painfully, which gave me the freedom if not the energy to roam the halls, including the one circumference prescribed. I discovered a patient/family education center and a visitors lounge, both with computers, which I used to email Virgil and others.
By Tuesday dinner, I was deemed capable of a solid diet, and I was starting to feel hungry, so I ordered perhaps a little too ambitiously. I learned later that, if I had not ordered something, dining services would have called me. If your doctor has ordered a diet, they don’t let you get away with not eating, whether you wish to or not.
I felt okay yet not good on Wednesday. I thought that if I could just go home, I could rest and feel better, as I had after the UFE. It didn’t help that was I was fighting constant nausea and even had an incident in the handy bedside basin. I was told that one of the primary conditions of my release was the ability to keep oral pain medications down — something that nausea and vomiting were making problematic.
By Thursday afternoon, though, I wanted out. Although I sensed some reluctance, I was finally deemed ready for prime time, and J. agreed to pick me up after work. He arrived at 7 p.m., and we set off, first for Walgreens, armed with prescriptions.
At the pharmacy, it took longer than I expected, and after 15 minutes or so I started to wonder if a trip outside to get the basin I’d thoughtfully brought with me was in order. The nausea I thought was under control hit me hard. Although vomiting provided no relief, it probably did raise the eyebrows of the fellow who saw me emptying the basin, I thought discreetly, into the bushes outside the store.
Once home, I set J. up as best I could, showered, and fell into bed — where I could get only snatches of sleep between the terrible gas pains in my bowels and the equally awful nausea/acid and trips to relieve it, followed by the need to clean up the mess. It was the most vile vomiting I’d ever experienced, almost as though my internal organs had liquidated and were being voided through the mouth. It reminded me of the beef bouillon I’d had Sunday, as though it had fermented in my stomach for the past 72 hours.
I’m not sure when I’ve ever felt more wretched. And I had only myself to blame for pretending my symptoms were better than they were.
By 4 a.m., I was shivering uncontrollably. Later, after I had closed the window against the refreshingly cool night air, I started to sweat. My esophagus was in acidic flames, and even I had had enough. I called Dr. M. at around 5:30 a.m. To my surprise, he answered. He asked me my temperature (I didn’t know then, but took it a few minutes later — 102.4ºF), asked other questions, and told me to come straight back to the 14th floor of Prentice. All I wanted was that fire in my esophagus put out and to stop feeling so woozy. I roused J. and packed my bag, this time, remembering to include the iPhone adapter as well as my sponge bag — even in my feverish state I had that much presence of mind.
By 6 o’clock we were on Lake Shore Drive, me with my window rolled all the way down so the 60-degree wind could take the edge off the fever and sweating.
At the hospital, there was some delay with security, and I dragged myself to a seat while they figured out what to do with me and J. dealt with the valets. On 14, I veered instinctively toward Room 1462, which had since been occupied, but J. and my hospital escort firmly steered me toward Room 1464. After I was settled on the bed and my bag stowed, J. went to work, and I was left for quite a while to contemplate the unrelenting burning in my esophagus. Over the next couple of hours it dissipated, the nurses finally started an IV with antibiotics (being more concerned about the fever), and I accustomed myself to the thought of another night in the hospital.
Dr. M. wanted to make sure the sliver hadn’t moved, and so I was scheduled for another CT scan at 3:30 p.m., this time with and without contrast dye. Through some snafu or other, I wasn’t picked up until shortly before 6 p.m. I was still on pain medications, so I wasn’t in much pain, but I was in no condition to do anything except send emails through the WebTV-like room system, watch the weather, try to find something on television that wasn’t unbearable, and otherwise kill time until 3:30 p.m. and then past it.
Not long after Dr. M. had dropped in Friday afternoon, I had developed diarrhea — a sign that my bowels had come back online, if imperfectly. “That’s good!” he said enthusiastically when I told him later. “Do you always have that effect on people?” I shot back, which made him shake his head ruefully. Even Monday night J. had commented that my “wit” never left me, even under the influence.
By the time Patient Escort Services came for me before 6 p.m., I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t embarrass myself — at one point, either during my first or second visit, I’d already had a soiling incident. Sure enough, while waiting I had to go. And go again. And again. Just as they were about to run me through the machine the first time, without dye, I said, “I have to run,” and I did. In all, I made six or eight trips to the CT scan area’s facilities. At least at a hospital, most are sympathetic.
Next came Phase II — consumption of two 450ml bottles of barium sulfate, the contrast dye solution. Whimsically, one was labeled, “Berries,” the other “Apple.” (My first choice, “Banana,” which I thought least likely to aggravate my ongoing nausea, was unavailable.) Because of the nausea, I had warned everyone that I that I might not be able to keep the stuff down. The taste and texture didn’t help.
I was distracted by a conversation with a fellow patient, who sported a kerchief over her head and a deep red sickle wound under each eye. She looked like she’d been in an accident or on the losing end of domestic violence. She told me that the chronic sinus infection that had plagued her had proved to be a sinus tumor and that it had been removed the old-fashioned way — by going down through her head. “I look like I’ve been in a wreck, I know,” she said. Then, using J.’s words almost exactly, she added, “You, on the other hand, look fabulous. May I ask why you’re here?” “That’s because you can’t see my belly,” I answered. Not only did it look like a Frankenstein experiment, with the incision through the navel, two large and two small laparoscopic “ports,” and the larger mini-laparotomy incision on top of my appendectomy scar, but it was grotesquely distended with gas and distorted, with the bottom of the old scar even more pulled in and a bigger divot missing — not a sight for the squeamish or delicate.
I drank the two bottles within the allotted hour (it was now 8 p.m.) and hinted that I couldn’t be held responsible for keeping it down if there were any delay. Coincidentally, I was next — and somehow I did manage to keep it down. In fact, I think that by this point I had nothing left to give at either end, although the queasiness continued.
In the back of my mind, I wondered if J. had stopped by during the height of visiting hours and found me missing. When I was wheeled back into my room at 8:50 p.m., there he was, handing me a note about how he had to go back to work and how he had scrounged dinner at Argo Tea, discovered the hospital’s wireless network for guests, and fallen asleep over his iPod Touch. He stayed with me for a while, lured by the possibilities of wireless downloads. He really had to go, however, when around 9:20 p.m. I started to drool involuntarily and ran for the bathroom, saying, “Oh, I’m going to throw up” (although, as it turned out, the nausea passed and I didn’t).
“Uh-oh, well, I really do have to get back to work,” he replied. With that, my “nurse” unceremoniously bailed with unusual alacrity.
The CT scans revealed that the tenaculum tip was still in the abdominal muscle. They also revealed another unwelcome guest — a “big” gallstone, which was possibly the culprit behind some pancreatic inflammation, the nausea, and even fever.
I was scheduled for an ultrasound the next day to get a better look at my gallstone and the inflammation. This time, unlike for the previous night’s CT scan, I was taken lying down on a gurney against my will. The reason for this became clear, though, as the ultrasound technician performed his examination of me on the gurney — no transferring needed. It wasn’t too bad, except on a few passes he dug the wand into my tender abdomen. Owww. I asked for his unofficial verdict. “Your gallstone looks like it’s between one and one and one-half inches,” he answered. “That doesn’t seem that big,” I said later to Dr. M., who looked surprised and said, “It is. Typically gallstones are described in terms of grains of sand.” Oh.
The ultrasound also showed the inflammation was under control, probably thanks to the antibiotics. My temperature was consistently normal, the tenaculum tip was ruled out as a cause, and I was deemed fit to try to eat again. Indeed, I was told this time that if I could keep Saturday dinner and Sunday lunch and breakfast down, as well as oral medications, I could go home Sunday.
On Saturday afternoon I noticed the boats in the harbor pulling up quite closely to each other in rows. The nurse who came to reinstall my recalcitrant IV told me that the boaters pass from vessel to vessel drinking and having a good time, while the police keep a cautious eye on the festivities. It sounded like they do this a few times a summer as a tradition.
In the meantime, one of us noticed that I had developed ugly red welts on the insides of both forearms — an allergic reaction that mystified everyone as I’d been on the antibiotics for a while, and they thought the contrast dye an unlikely culprit for this delayed response. (I read later that it may have been additives.) Congratulations to me — I’d just earned several doses of IV Benadryl.
When Dr. M. came in after 9 p.m., sporting a sweat suit, he apologized for his tardiness and explained he’d had a commitment to his daughter. I was impressed he came in at all. By this time, my arms had cleared up, but when he took the obligatory look at my abdomen, he spotted welts all over my upper thighs. My body had not liked something.
Later, he was working at a computer in the Patient Care Center when I took a spin around the floor in the hope that exercise would act as a sleep aid. When he saw me pass by on the return trip, he seemed startled. “You walk faster than I do,” he observed. I don’t know if this is true, but by Saturday night I did feel much better than I had 40 hours earlier, and there was more of a spring in my step, I’m sure. Now if only I could keep down two more meals.
Dr. M. had found my dinner choice of whole wheat toast and cooked carrots “interesting,” while the nurses weren’t happy when they learned, too late, of it. “No whole grains, no vegetables, not with diarrhea,” they said. “In this case, fruits and vegetables aren’t healthy.” One recommended eggs or macaroni and cheese. Later, the new shift nurse dismissed eggs as “too fatty.” So for breakfast I ate white toast and drank four ounces of apple juice over a three-hour period, just enough to claim I had eaten. By lunch time, I wasn’t hungry. and I tried to sleep through it. This is when I found out that there is no evading dining services. If you are supposed to be eating, they will call you, wake you out of a sound sleep, and patiently wait for you to make up your mind. I asked her for recommendations, and she suggested eggs as “an easily digested protein.” I mentioned the nurse’s concern about fat, and — why had I not thought of the obvious? — she pointed out that they can be scrambled, etc., without the yolk. Eggs it was, plus one of the three apple juices they had left for me in the morning.
The IV was removed at some point on Sunday, and by noon I had, according to my purse pedometer, walked 1.01 miles, another feat that impressed Dr. M. That was my final burst of energy for the day because, after all that activity, the equivalent of two eggs, and the third and final apple juice, I didn’t feel like stirring.
Around 2 p.m., while those outside my window were savoring another perfect Sunday, I conked out hard. I’ll never know how long I might have slept because almost exactly at 4 p.m., a knock at the door interrupted a particularly intriguing dream. It took some time and effort to rouse myself, by which time a woman had bustled in, saying perkily, “Respiratory Services with oxygen!” Clearly, this wasn’t intended for me, although earlier in the week I had been chided by a nurse or two for not using my deep breathing visualization toy when in bed. “When I’m in bed, I’m usually asleep and can’t!” I’d retorted. They’d looked at me strangely.
Dr. M. made an appearance, this time in a t-shirt and shorts over which he’d thrown a lab coat to look more official. Maybe I said something, because he mentioned that when he comes downtown for only one thing he drives his vintage convertible. I told him he hadn’t had to come just to see me, but perhaps he did, because I was soon to be released. Free at last! For some reason, though, I had become very depressed during the day, which I mentioned and which I think he’d noticed. It may have been the prospect of going home alone, of not knowing what I was going to do with myself, and of uncertainty all around, but I also thought it might have been attributable to the effects of anesthesia, change, and strangeness, combined with my unhappy memory of Thursday night and Friday morning.
The nurse called in a couple of prescriptions to Walgreens (which is what I should have had done on Thursday) while I packed and waited 30 to 45 minutes for Patient Escort Services. Although capable of walking, I’d opted for a wheelchair because I still felt weak and lethargic, or just tired.
It turns out that cabs don’t come by that way often, and both my escort and one of the valets ventured out in search of cabs for me and for a family that was also waiting with a discharged patient. Finally, a cab pulled up to drop a woman off, and I anxiously asked him if he accepted credit or debit cards. My escort stepped up with a remonstrance about letting the previous passenger settle the fare with the driver, but I wanted to know the answer because if he didn’t, I’d cede my place to the waiting family. There’s nothing like being lectured about manners at such a time!
It worked out. The driver waited for me at Walgreens while I picked up and paid for the prescriptions and got cash back (why hadn’t I thought of that before, which would have spared me the lecture?).
And so ends the saga of Ignatius, the tenacious but benign fibroid (according to the pathologist). According to Dr. M., its post-embolization size was 12 centimeters, and it weighed 1,074 grams. I’d reminded Dr. M. that I’d wanted Ignatius in a jar, and he had dryly responded, “It would have taken a bucket!”
At one point during the week when Dr. M. had seemed a little discouraged about the tenaculum incident, it occurred to me that I hadn’t told him how I felt. So I did — even only few days later, even with gas pain and incision soreness, I could tell that my lower back tiredness, ache, and pain were 1,000 percent better and that the surgery had made a huge difference. He quite brightened and said, “That’s good!” Even experienced surgeons need reassurance. It is true, however — I wasn’t buttering anyone’s bread. The disgusting hard spot underneath my navel is gone, my uterus is no longer the size of an eighteen-week pregnancy, I don’t feel bulky and bloated, I don’t have a constant urge to urinate, and wonderfully, my back and legs feel normal without the pressure of the fibroid against my spine and nerves. In return, my already grotesque appendectomy scar is even more distorted, my activities are a little restricted for a longer period than planned, and I’ll probably feel the pull of scar tissue for a longer time, as I did after the appendectomy. The pain, fever, and tedium were worth the long-term results. At my age, I don’t think it’s likely I’ll grow another Ignatius.
Of course, the truly terrifying parts are yet to come — the bills.
I picked up Hodge via walking and bus, although two weeks in a cage on rich food at the veterinarian’s clearly put him well over my post-surgery lifting weight limit of 10 pounds.
