A Mixed Blessing

I check the reflections in the glass doors just before we enter the Veteran’s Hospital in Fresno, California. I’m twice the size of my husband and I’m a small woman. Every four months or so he loses more muscle tissue. No one mentions wasting disease, only arthritis and the possibility of type 2 diabetes.

This will be my husband’s third colonoscopy in eight months. Again he will lose another three to four pounds. Travis has decided this will be the last colonoscopy for a long time. Travis and I both agree no one is looking at the physical strain this is causing.

Today we’ll take the elevator to the third floor where wives, sisters, brothers and neighbors wait for same day surgery procedures to be over, then there is the two to three hour wait as the anesthetic wears off.

The doctor will remove two polyps from Travis, one from his stomach, one from his colon. We’re told all polyps eventually become cancerous. Weeks later the biopsies will be benign, even the polyp that has existed for almost a year will exhibit no change.

So far, cancer has only appeared in patches on Travis’ face. This skin cancer was destroyed after five weeks of daily radiation treatments. Now, bright red spots appear on Travis’ face, then disappear in three to four hours. No one can explain why.

Recently, I tried to remember all the procedures Travis has gone through and the decisions that we had to make under duress. The consultation we had with the amazingly confident surgeon fifteen years ago ranks highest in difficulty.

Travis’ foot was losing circulation. He had one successful operation with veins transferred and circulation reinstated. Then the familiar blue-gray color and the pain were back in his left foot. This surgeon recommended removal of the foot “because no matter what you do, sooner or later the operation will fail and the foot will have to come off.”

The surgeon confidently explained through diagrams on a blackboard how they were going to remove the foot, how simple the procedure was and that he personally had done hundreds of these operations. I only knew I did not want Travis maimed in any way.

This prompted the question that had not been asked, “Where exactly, that is, how far above the ankle will you be cutting?” Travis remained silent and the surgeon’s smile remained fixed. “We’ll make the cut just below his knee. It will, of course, require some rehabilitation.”

Several weeks later, we sat in the hospital hallway with an intern, one of several assigned to the confident surgeon. It was winter and after 5 in the evening. I remember the pager calling for the surgeon until finally an intern informed us that the surgeon had left for the day.

The intern was given permission to do the procedure. Procedure was such a neutral word for an operation that called for a gut-wrenching decision. We remembered this young intern’s insistence, “Let’s do this. The faster it comes off, the quicker you can get rid of the pain.”

Travis and I had a mutual sense that the surgeon should have said something to us before he left. There was no solace to be found anywhere. Travis asked why we were discussing this in the hallway. The intern said, “No office space is available.” He never looked. Our need for privacy was not important.

For two years we had made every effort to save Travis’ foot. Our tension was turning into panic. Travis and I agreed we would find someone outside the system. We had to believe there was another option. The intern was disappointed since Travis’ operation would have been his first opportunity to remove a foot.

Within two months, we found a very young serious surgeon with quiet confidence who said, “Yes, the situation is difficult, but it is not impossible.” The surgeon’s kindness was as impressive as his skills. The operation was a complete success, unlike what followed.

After the foot surgery, there was the rotary cuff replacement that removed most of Travis’ movement in his right shoulder and arm. Then the fall and the broken hip, then a hip replacement that left Travis’ left leg three-fourths of an inch shorter than his right leg. Then his left kidney stopped working. No medical explanations have been offered to Travis.

The culmination of these physical insults to Travis’ body can be seen each day as my husband struggles to dress himself, walk, or move his body in ways most of us take for granted. Travis has also been given many medications over the years, some experimental and all with deadly side effects that have further compromised his health.

Because of his physical condition, Travis constantly feels the anger of frustration, but he also finds joy in his garden, his hobby of building model airplanes and cars, watching the History channel, and playing with our pets. We are each other’s best friend and I would do anything to help him, but all I can do is love him and keep the pain away.

When I wrote the title I thought I was going to explore my husband’s good and bad experiences with the Veteran’s Hospital, but then Travis emerged as the subject. I realize this is about my husband’s bravery in the face of unending physical complications. This is about his ability to recover his humor and acceptance even if his body can’t cooperate.

Travis does not give up and I believe this time in his life is as much of a battle as the challenges of war he faced in Korea. For the past 20 years, Travis’ life experience has been one of extremes in good and not so good events, a life that can best be described as a very mixed blessing.