15 years ago today, having a ball

by Jason Tudor

Your whole life, you never thought you’d be in Mississippi for any reason. Now, there are a dozen people in a Biloxi hospital working to save your life, and you had to drive yourself here to have them do it.

Surgeons hauled out that golf ball-sized tumor three months ago. Soon they’ll tee up the jokes. Take your ball and go home is still No. 1. You’ve been scratched onto the list of the 7,500-8,000 diagnosed every year. You’ll never be able to say the words “radical orchiectomy” to anyone because they’ll think you’re talking about a snowboarding trick.

At least you’re two weeks in. The Greek gyro payoff at the end of each session is worth it now that you’re not dry heaving your way to a stroke every day and you’ve stopped bleeding out of your eyes.  (Hooray, pharmaceuticals!). The lead blanket’s not so bad. It’s that lead ostrich egg they wedge your privates into that could use a happier face (Well, maybe “face” isn’t the right word …). And who thought that thing up? “You’re going to need radiation therapy, but we want to avoid radiating your joyboys. So we’ve created this lead Pac-Man to encase them. We’ve got three sizes. Oh, you want the largest? All guys do.”

Everyone is kind. Helpful. Warm. They smile. It’s not like you’re in this alone. They reach out and ask how you’re doing. They seem to mean it. That matters. The 85-percent survival rate jumps to 100 when someone holds your hand to help you through the tough moments. You’re 320 miles from the nearest person who loves you, and at least for the hour you’re lying there being partially cooked by some medical Transformer spitting radiation, they help you remember you’re human and not some slab of ribs they’ll sauce up later with a few Coronas. 

Having an oncologist who’s a woman turned out fine. Sure, she’s attractive. All of your guy friends said if you were assigned a female doc, every meeting would turn into a scene that would make a Vivid Video reel. “Hey, doc, I brought us some pizza.” Fortunately, you leapfrogged over 7th Grade intentions (including your own) and it’s just a weekly visit.

You’re working again, even if it's just something to do after treatments. Two weeks ago, at the same time of day, you were smashing your fist against the rim of a toilet, wondering when the vomit, pain and tears would get flushed permanently.  Now you’re writing and helping out wherever you can (and that line about “the island is really no bigger than the period on the end of this sentence” is genius).

Is there some life-affirming change on the horizon? Will Jesus or Buddha or the Flying Spaghetti Monster suddenly stroll through the door with a Mai Tai and a club membership in hand? Will you want to climb mountains or hack Samson’s hair? Go on some sort of spiritual journey? People say that happens. I don’t know. There are two weeks to go. You’ll still have go to work, mow the lawn and change the cat box. If some greater force is going to put itself front and center, he/she/it should probably bring a few bags of Fresh Step Scoopable as incentive.

Your whole life, you never thought you’d be thinking about these things. Mortality, being humbled and gaining even the slimmest glimpse into humanity will do that.

Have a ball.

Two Doctors Walked Into a Bar

by Stacey Graham

Note: As editor, I asked the Ermas to describe their life 15 years ago. Some columns are hilarious and others more poignant, but when I took a spot I didn't realize that I'd be describing my daughter's experience instead.

My second pregnancy was a breeze. No complications, labor was a short 1.5 hours and on her due date my lovely Syenna was born a healthy weight. At 10 weeks old, I noticed her stomach was hard to the touch - I figured she had gas. Her three-month visit to her pediatrician had yielded nothing abnormal. Two weeks later, however, the world turned upside down. At her four-month checkup, her doctor couldn't feel her kidneys so sent her for an ultrasound; there the technician discovered Syenna's abdominal cavity was filled with fluid. We were in the hospital the next day where they extracted a liter of a milky liquid called chyle from her belly. She was diagnosed with Chylous Ascities,  a condition that didn't have a great batting average due to being associated with cancer, organ failure and ripe for infection from her loss of antibodies. She had nothing else, thank goodness, except for a whopper of a birth defect. In the past few hundred years since Chylous Ascities was recorded as its own condition, there have been less than 400 cases -- out of those only a handful were females. Awesome.

Eighteen months passed with us in and out of the hospital, usually for three weeks out of every four. Three major surgeries, shunts and blood infections from procedures and the tubes criss-crossing her body kept us regular guests at Doernbecher's Children’s Hospital. I had my own mug at the nurse's station. I showered on the oncology floor while old ladies rocked Syenna so she wouldn't be alone. My eldest daughter, who was two at the time, stayed with her grandmother during the day while her father split his time between work, visiting Syenna and I, and still being a fantastic dad. I watched as families admitted their child and the patience of the nursing staff as they guided completely freaked out parents through the horrors of what came next and I said goodbye to a disturbing amount of children as they passed from this life. Our surgeon worried that our marriage would be torn apart since so many couples handled stress differently, it only made us stronger. If we can face down this, what's arguing over who forgot to do the dishes that night?

At her last major surgery, which ripped open her belly for a second time so the surgeon could look for the leak in her lymphatic system, he told me this was it. Our options were limited if he couldn't repair the damage. The operation was not a success and while devastated I asked what the next step was and to move forward. I had no time for weeping. She was put on a cocktail of meds that were piped through a tube into her chest -- and no eating for 13 weeks. By now, Syenna was nearly two years old and hadn't taken a step, she was too weak. She refused to eat the no-fat formula the doctors prescribed so was losing weight quickly though her belly had swollen to 64 centimeters around. Obi-Wan, the cocktail was our only hope.

It worked. Thirteen weeks later, she ripped out the tube and took her first step. This chapter was done. She’s fifteen now and shows off her scars proudly. I think this week the says she was bitten by a shark. Last month she’d been caught by spies but escaped under barbed wire. Nothing is going to slow this kid down. Syenna's case was (and still may be) used during lectures at Oregon Health Sciences University because of its rareness and that she's adorable. CA hasn't returned but it doesn't stop me from squeezing her a little tighter during hugs -- just to be sure.

Stacey Graham has only a slight twitch from her experience with hospitals and went on to have three more children with no medical difficulties. Syenna is a straight-A student and plans to be a marine biologist unless One Direction asks her to be a roadie. Stacey is the author of two books: The Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide and the Zombie Tarot, as well as an editor and short story writer. Visit her at her blog, on Twitter and on Facebook to say howdy.