Yesterday I sat sideways on a
chair in my dining room as a homecare nurse named Emily pulled 40 staples from
the incision running down my spine.
Every few seconds there was a
stinging sensation and then the sound of a staple landing in the metal dish.
Sting-plink, sting-plink,
sting-plink.
 |
| And Now equiped with a zipper! |
I absently tried to keep track
of how many she had pulled, and when I had counted 34 and she suddenly
announced only 6 left to go, I silently congratulated myself, I was bang on.
What an accomplishment!
Counting staples aside— it was
indeed an accomplishment to be here, in my own home, spinal surgery completed,
staples out, and looking towards the next steps in the treatment plan.
My mind abruptly shifted gears
as I thought back to the journey that had begun more than six months ago, and
what I had learned over that tumultuous time.
Go to the doctor, they said.
Be your own advocate, they
said.
Speak up and tell your doctor
exactly what you are experiencing, they said.
Get a second opinion, they
said.
Well in this case, it turns out
that they were 100% correct!
And yet...
It turns out that even if you
take all of these common sense, proactive steps to safeguard your health, you
may still end up being under the care of a doctor who fails you.
Doctors are just people, after
all.
And over time, they may fall
into a sort of daze, caused by the routine of similar ailments, if I can put it
that way. In which case they may become unable to see beyond those common cases,
to what could be a rare, unexpected cause for the symptoms their unfortunate
patient complains of.
In my case, I believe this is
what I experienced with my family doctor.
In October of 2025, I first
experienced the beginnings of the symptoms that eventually progressed to the
point where I could barely walk without experiencing excruciating pain.
When my symptoms first
appeared, I expected my hip and knee pain to get better over time, but after a
few weeks without improvement, I went to see my doctor.
I explained the symptoms and
asked about some of the serious possibilities that worried me.
"I've had cancer before,
and I'm worried about bone cancer."
Our discussion went back and
forth. Where exactly is the pain? And eventually as he motioned to my leg, I
was informed, bone cancer in your leg wouldn't cause pain here, or here, where
you say you are experiencing pain.
He was indeed right — IF bone
cancer was in the leg, it would have presented differently.
So that possibility was
dismissed and we spent the next several months getting x-rays of my back and
hips and knees and his eventual recommendation was physiotherapy for some mild
arthritis.
I dutifully tried that with no
improvement.
Then there were cortisone
injections, first the SI joint and there was blessed relief for about a week.
Then it was another injection
in the hip, and this time relief lasted 2 or 3 days.
Meanwhile I was experiencing
more and more pain while walking and it was March and I had completely run out
of patience.
March 30th, I went to my doctor
one last time.
His final recommendation: take
the GLAD program; an eight-week, group exercise therapy session for sufferers
of osteoarthritis.
When I suggested he order an
MRI, which I would gladly pay for, I was told no, it wasn't needed.
When I arrived home, my lovely
wife saw I didn't have the MRI requisition that we were hoping for.
She was, shall I say, livid.
Did you tell him how you have
declined so rapidly? Yes, I did.
Did you tell him you would pay
for the MRI? Yes, I did.
"That's it, we need a new
doctor!"
It was agreed, and we decided
to seek out a second opinion.
But new doctors are hard to
find right now in Alberta.
That was when we remembered
that my sister had recently been seen by a doctor at a new clinic in St. Albert
and she was very, very happy with how well he had looked after her.
He wasn't taking new patients,
as far as they knew, but it was apparently possible to make an appointment with
the clinic and request to be seen by a specific doctor.
So, Rose called and worked her
charm and just like that, I had an appointment to see the doctor in one week.
In the meantime, it was the
Easter weekend and because their church didn't have a Good Friday service and
ours did, our friends decided to join us for the service, bringing along their
daughter, a nurse practitioner in the city.
When she saw how I moved and
how much pain I was in, she was shocked.
We talked for ten minutes after
the service, and she was very glad that I was seeing a new doctor and was
planning to seek an MRI as soon as possible.
Of course, there are many kinds
of MRI, and we weren't sure which one would pinpoint the source of my illness;
but the one that she recommended I ask my new doctor about, was a lumbar spine
MRI.
A few days later we saw the new
doctor and that's exactly what he ordered, along with a bone scan and a CT
scan.
When we left the doctor’s
office on April 13, we were clutching a fist full of scan requisitions and
prescriptions and we finally felt we were on the way to diagnosing my illness.
As soon as the results came in
from the MRI, three days later, ($540 at Insight) we knew we had done the right
thing. Yes, the system may have eventually gotten around to scheduling a
hospital MRI in a few weeks, but having it done so soon after all the
interminable delays I had already experienced, was very much worth it.
A few days later we saw the
doctor again and he explained the seriousness of the results to us, and we made
an appointment for the following week, after all of the tests were going to be
complete.
We listened carefully as he
explained the likely diagnosis, but we had of course already Googled the heck
out of it and had made some progress wading through the technical jargon of the
scan reports.
Later, while the nurse
practitioner helped us apply for a handicapped placard for the car, the doctor
left the room to make some calls and get me a referral to the Cross Cancer
Institute as soon as possible.
The next day was the bone scan
and a couple of days later, the CT scan with contrast.
They all confirmed the same bad
news; some sort of tumor that had damaged the bones in my spine causing all the
nerve pain I had been experiencing.
The Cross didn't call me until
the following Wednesday, after all of the tests were complete, but then I received
the call from a friendly young woman who apparently works on "The Lung
Cancer Desk".
From the first time I heard
that voice on the phone, things began to happen at a speed that was hard to
believe.
As I write this, two weeks
later, I find it impossible to think of the enormous impact this young woman’s
actions on my behalf have had on my life and my family’s lives, without being
completely overwhelmed with profound gratitude.
I've tried time and time again
to talk about it, and each time tears flood my eyes, and I am quick to lose the
power to speak as I sit there, helplessly mute, looking for a tissue as I
remember what she did for me.
Barely an hour after our first
brief chat, she called back with a firm course of action.
She told me she had sent my
file to the spinal surgeon, and I needed to go directly to the emergency room
at the Royal Alex Hospital and tell them that and they would be expecting me.
Apparently, the oncologist at
the Cross had looked at the scans and told her he wouldn't be able to do
anything for me until my spine stabilized and they had taken a biopsy.
I wasn't thrilled at the
prospect of waiting in the emergency room at the Alex, but she reassured me the
spinal team was expecting me, and they would send someone to bring me through
and get me admitted.
So Rose and I packed a little
bag and headed down to the hospital as quickly as we could go.
There, due to the usual bureaucratic
nonsense, my name had disappeared from their system, and I was shuffled off to
wait with the other unfortunate souls.
But my benefactor had given me
her direct phone number at the Cross, and I called and left a message.
Not too much later, she called
back with the news we were hoping to hear. The NP (nurse practitioner) for the
spinal team was now on her way down to meet us.
This NP became a key member of
the wonderful team of people that gathered around and cared for me so well over
the next few days.
I felt so blessed to be under
their care.
She led us past the curtained
cubicles of the ER that we are all familiar with, to a small private room,
tucked behind the nurse’s station, and there the ponderous admitting process
began.
At first, our questions went
unanswered (there is always a certain amount of confusion in these
circumstances). Am I going to be admitted? Can I have something to eat?
But of course, because I came
to be there through the bureaucracy of the Emergency Department, I would have
to be seen by one of the doctors on duty.
"Oh, oh," my mind
screamed, "if this is going to go sideways, this is probably where it will
happen."
When he did finally arrive, he
didn't seem to be fully informed of my status or circumstances, and we had to
convince him that what I needed was not more pain meds and then to be sent
home.
Rose was adamant, "NO morphine!".
But all credit to him, he
seemed more than happy to turn me over to the spinal surgery team and before
long I had my blood taken and was gifted with an IV line and several wristbands
before being moved upstairs to the surgical ward #34.
Once there, I was finally able
to eat something and was told that my surgery would likely be the next day, so
after midnight, no more food or drink until after it was complete, so make the
most of it.
Finally, at 4 pm on Thursday,
April 30th, I was informed they would be coming for me at 5 pm.
7 hours later, at 11 pm, I was
back in my room, groggily talking to Rose, learning that my daughters, Kait and
April had just been sent home at 9:30 after spending time being with their mom,
comforting each other in the family waiting room.
I loved hearing that the girls
had been there for their mom, they were both so sweet and considerate, leaving
me flowers and stuffies and sweet treats and a very special card from my
granddaughter Juniper.
It is a wonderful thing to have
family and friends around you in times like this.
I learned also that Rose was
getting a ride home around midnight from some friends who had volunteered to
both come down and take her and her car home (Rose had let slip that she was
contemplating sleeping in her car at the Royal Alex parking lot). For some
reason they were aghast at the thought, and I'm glad they looked after her the
way they did.
Finally in a chair and out of bed
Poor Rose had already had to
listen to me woozily praising the recovery room nurse.
I've had a few surgeries now
and each time I wake up from the anesthetic afterwards, whoever is there to
greet me and welcome me back into the world, temporarily takes on a very large
place in my recovery.
They have news of how it went;
they may know something of where my wife is, they talk in a kind, comforting
voice and the very normalcy of the interaction makes you feel good.
I am invariably chatty, a
little goofy, and quite happy to be alive.
And then there's Rose.
While the recovery room nurse
is important, hers is a bit part; just one small scene in a lifetime.
Seeing Rose again after surgery
like this is something else again.
I don't remember if I cried at
seeing her, but I may have, and if I didn't... I probably should have.
She is incredibly important to
me.
Her steadfast love: her
constant encouragement and support, her utter belief that I will recover and
her patience with me along with her iron will and strong resolve that together
we can get through any challenge.
All of these qualities lift me
up and enable me to face whatever is coming.
But most important to me is her
faith in God
Because faith in God is at the
very heart of any strength I have.
On my own, I know that I am
weak and powerless in this situation. At the mercy of a bureaucratic system
where I am represented by a number.
Bed 22-1.
And I am treated exactly the
same as any other occupant of bed 22-1.
But when faith and prayer and
love come together to focus God's power on the resident of bed 22-1, something
special happens.
Sam happens.
And the impersonal system
throws open its doors and makes a place for me.
Simran happens.
And I am whisked through the
emergency department and admitted to the surgical ward.
Dr. Raj happens.
And the next day I am operated
on in a long and grueling, but successful surgery.
Rose happens.
My beautiful, loving, kind,
patient wife, waiting to welcome me back after hours in surgery.
Dr. Naidoo, and Ruth, and of
course, nurse Sophia happens. Wonderful, attentive nurses who cared for me.
(Sophia now has a car named after her).
And before I had met any of
these wonderful medical people, my coincidental meeting with Angelle, my NP friend,
on Good Friday happened, and helped set off the sequence of events that led
directly to the surgery and beyond to the recovery and treatment.
I know that all these people do
their jobs every day in much the same way as they cared for me, and I know that
their other patients are lucky to have them as part of their own medical team.
But in this case, I choose to
believe that they came together as my team, as an answer to prayer.
I am incredibly grateful to
each and every person who has been and who will in the future, be part of this
group of willing people who looked after me.
It starts of course with family
and friends nearby who are able to physically be there for us, but there are
literally hundreds of people who have come together to pray for us as well.
Friends and family who live far
away, and our Pastors and church family, faithfully lifting us up in prayer,
and strangers who are part of the Christian community who somehow heard of my
illness. All of these wonderful people are integral to this story.
Without prayer I am just the
occupant of a bed, in a ward, in a hospital, where the staff is tired and
overworked, just trying to do the best they can.
I can't explain it very well,
but with prayer, something special happens. I am not alone, even when no-one
else is nearby. I truly feel that there is something happening on another
level.
Don't get me wrong, there was
pain and discomfort and sometimes I did feel very much alone.
Not every member of the nursing
staff was part of my team, some were very much not.
But always, there was the
thought of shift change and the prospect of the return of a favorite nurse.
Prayer is a wonderful thing,
and now that I am home recovering, I pray for every member of my medical team,
and for my roommate in the hospital, suffering with his own serious medical
condition.
Lately, a new chapter in my
story has opened up and the second part of my journey through this illness has
begun.
On May 13th, exactly one month
after I first saw my new doctor, and 2 weeks since my surgery, we had our first,
in person interaction with the Cross Cancer Institute
My initial consultation with a
radiation oncologist.
As we talked, Rose tried hard
to pin him down as he explained my prognosis and the likely outcome of
treatment.
"How much time does he
have left?" She asked in her no-nonsense way.
We both liked the doctor and
felt as reassured as it was possible to feel under the circumstances.
He explained that there was
actually some good news. Even though they still needed to do a PET scan and a
brain scan, the bone scan, MRI and CT already completed had not revealed cancer
anywhere else in my body.
The biopsy results had shown
that the cancer was an offshoot of the lung cancer from four years ago and it
was common for it to turn up in the spine and that was what we were now dealing
with.
After digesting this news, I
tried in my own way to summarize my understanding of what he was saying.
"So I have an awful
diagnosis, but with the best possible prognosis— providing these next scans are
clear of any cancer?"
He nodded.
So now we know.
The first battle is over, but
the war is not yet won.
Thank you all for your prayers
and kind wishes.
Thank you to those of you who
have been able to be those "boots on the ground" that we so
desperately need as we prepare to move, and we deal with all that comes along
with that.
Downsizing in the midst of a
health crisis is not something I recommend.
Thank you, to all of you who
have been there for Rose especially, and who continue to shower us both with
love and kindness throughout this struggle.
Thank you Jesus for being there
for us, for me; for strength, hope, comfort and healing and also for the
wonderful team of people who made the occupant of bed 22-1 feel very special
indeed.
May the Lord bless and comfort
you all, in your own time of need.
