Dispatch from PMH, Day 2

To continue my tale of yesterday: the private ambulance worked out pretty well. For $150, a firefighter and a paramedic, no doubt moonlighting, strapped me into a canvas chair and carried me down my steps while I gritted my teeth and kept my eyes closed. I get really nervous when I don't have both feet on the ground (trust issues, anyone?).

Dr. Noguff examined me very thoroughly and was alarmed at the jerking spasms that were now happening in my left leg every five seconds. My leg was numb up to mid-calf. She said the spasms indicated mid-spine problems rather than lower. She pulled all the strings she could and got me in for an MRI by 1 p.m. As usual, it was like being in a coffin while being forced to listen to outtakes from a recording session by Kraftwerk or Holy Fuck.

Somehow the doc managed to track down Dr. Second, the orthopod, even though he was away from his office, and he promised to look at the films as soon as he got back to his hospital and to consult a neurosurgeon at the same time. Time was tight because it was late afternoon on a Friday. Luckily this hospital and his hospital are part of the University Health Network, so they have access to all of the same online records. Oh, for system-wide e-records. Will it ever happen in Ontario?

Around 4 p.m. Dr. Noguff let me know that there is a cancerous lesion in my mid-spine that is probably the culprit. It's very serious and without treatment will lead to paralysis, not to mention colostomy and urine bags. She posited that the surgeons would probably recommend removing it surgically and that it might even happen that night or the next day, followed by weeks in a rehabilitation hospital.

My carefully cheerful facade kind of crumbled at that point, and I forestalled collapse by phoning all my family members and asking them to come to the hospital. I had always felt that before spinal surgery, with all its attendant risks, I would give my siblings some directions about things in my house, my will, etc., things I should have made clear to them long ago.

Half an hour later, Dr. Noguff had heard back from Dr. Second and the neurosurgeon, and informed me that they had ruled out surgery. Either the tumour is too entwined with my spinal cord, or my bones are too soft or both -- I didn't get a clear picture because at this point Dr. Noguff was rushing around arranging for a hospital bed for me, and for radiation treatment, which she wanted to start right away. More frantic phone calls to family to calm them down. By 8 p.m. I had had my first of 10 radiation treatments.

Meanwhile, by lunchtime the numbness in my leg had spread to the knee, and by 6 p.m. it was halfway up my thigh. When I look down at my foot, I get the impression it's someone else's. My leg won't move of its own volition no matter how hard I will it to. I have to lift it with my hands, and if I don't prop it up, it just falls over like a limp noodle.

I'm reduced completely to bed rest; can't even go to the bathroom without a bedpan, and I have a catheter.

This is all becoming a bit too real to me now. People are starting to act like I'm really sick, and I guess I am. I'm terrified that I am about to lose my independence for good. Will the radiation work? Dr. Noguff says there's a good chance it will. But will it simply be a temporary measure? Where else will the cancer show up next, and when? Impossible to know. And, above all, why didn't somebody do an MRI a week ago?

The radiation treatment causes nausea because it's around my abdomen; I'm getting powerful anti-nausea drugs, but I still vomited today, what looked like bile. My digestive system is really screwed up.

It must be awful to read about a person's slow disintegration. I still have hope that some better days are ahead. I have to.

But I do spend time reminiscing about some of the nice days I had this year in between treatments: my trips to Alberta, and Stratford, and Massey. August, when I had a radiation treatment every day but felt strong and well and was able to move about the city alone, which is now my measure of "life is good."

I've had plenty of visitors today, including my whole family except poor Dad, who doesn't even know I'm in the hospital. This past week his youngest sister died from complications of dementia at about age 72; she was a firecracker of a woman whom I took after both physically and in personality. I'm happy she is no longer suffering. Rest in peace, Aunt Faye.

Last, but not least, I want to clarify what I wrote yesterday about Diane trying to get me up the stairs in my house on Thursday: it was entirely my idea, not hers, and not a very good one. I thought we could do it if I was sitting on my bum, but it didn't work, and luckily she is strong as an ox and could catch me.

Pollyanna moments:

• My nephews and niece came to visit me in hospital today, even though I know it's a little scary for them to see me like this.
• The nurses so far have been exemplary. Last night when my lovely Somali nurse checked on me I got a bit weepy, and she immediately sat down and took the time to hold my hand and talk with me about everything under the sun: families, children, religion, culture, the pros and cons of being married and being single, professional distance. She is an angel in hijab.