An emergency after surgery
Yesterday morning, Rusty received his first radiofrequency surgery. Using a CT-guided probe, Dr Banovic cut through Rusty’s back to reach the tumors in his right lung. The plan was to deliver a high dose of microwave energy to two tumors, killing them. If successful, he would treat the other two in a few weeks.
He only managed to do one and a half. An air leak developed while the second tumor was being zapped. The operation was stopped and Rusty stitched up. An hour out of the operating room, Rusty seemed fine. He was in high spirits that at least one of the four tumors were gone. We had a plan. At least, it seemed possible that by the end of this year, we would finally reach NED status. No Evidence of Disease. That would be the first step of our long journey towards remission.
But as it turns out, the day’s ordeal was not over. Almost 15 hours later, at midnight, Rusty reached for the emergency button. He couldn’t breathe. He clutched his chest in pain. What happened next was a blur. It seemed everything, every action was at the same time slower and faster. That was how his mother described it to me.
One chest X-ray, another scan and a liberal dose of morphine later, doctors found tiny pockets of air coating part of Rusty’s lung. “I could go in and take care of it, but it’s likely to resolve itself in a week,” said Dr Banovic. So for now, we wait until the bell rings for round two.
This morning, on the phone, Rusty’s voice has taken on a strange quality after the scare last night. It is slow, even languorous, and I cannot decide if it sounds more like a child’s, or an old man’s.
He tells me conspiratorially: “One of the doctors who came in last night was cute. He looks like me when I was younger.”