(I wrote this a few months ago while sitting in my wife's hospital room)
I sit besides my wife’s bedside and listen to her quiet breathing harmonized with the beeping cacophony of hospital equipment. I can’t begin to imagine what she must feel after having two surgeries within four days. It began with a visible lump on her throat noticed by an acquaintance. Feeling no pain, the sense of urgency for an examination was absent. After a conversation with her sister, my wife set up the appointment with our family physician to examine her throat. This examination led to a biopsy and ultrasound and the discovery of atypical follicular cell growth on my wife’s thyroid. Further discussions with our ear, nose and throat specialist sent us to St. Lukes Regional Medical Center for, what we thought was our first and hoped for last, surgery. On Tuesday 10.21.08 our doctor performed a partial thyroidectomy, removing the isthmus and right side of the thyroid. The largest growth, the biopsied mass, was located on the isthmus and was the focus of our attention. The right side was dotted with five additional masses. These small growths, thought to be insignificant, changed our focus entirely. The phone call with the diagnosis of papillary carcinoma was unexpected, throwing us into a whirlwind of incredulity. The second surgery was quickly scheduled to remove the remainder of my wife’s thyroid, three days after the first. This combined with the new diagnosis of cancer was an emotional torpedo shattering our fragile sense of well being. Now, I sit at my wife’s bedside, listening to her gentle breathing in harmony with the cacophony of beeping monitors.
Neither one of us slept very well last night. Restlessness plagued us relentlessly through the dark, waking one or both of us every couple hours. My thoughts always ran to my wife and what she might be feeling as she tossed and turned. I want what anyone would want when someone they love is faced with the spectre of illness. I want to remove the worry, the fear, the pain, all discomfort . I tossed and turned with her. My own private worries and fears surged through my mind and body fed by the unknown. My mind clutched the worst scenarios and enlarged them. The fatalist in me was rising and I needed to smother him.
I need to be the strong one. The one to comfort. The one to be patient. The one to serve. The one to unconditionally love and support. As I hold her hand and carress her fingers in the dark of the quiet room, I feel my love for her blossom. The nurse said, “What a nice guy”, when I spooned a single ice chip into her parched mouth. I am doing only what any husband would do for his best friend and eternal companion. I will spoon ice chips and hold her hand, rub her feet and adjust her blankets. I will plump her pillow and help her sit up. I will slide her slippers on her feet and help her to the restroom. I will do whatever needs to be done to bring her what small measure of comfort I can. I know she would do the same for me were our positions changed.
It is simple. I love her. And so, I sit in the darkness of this quiet room listening to her soft even breathing harmonized with the beeping of the monitors, holding her fingers gently in my hand .
