Warrior Pose (30 page)

Home from the hospital, we establish a new routine with feeding schedules, burping, nap times, diaper changes, bathing, and powdering. Pamela and I grow closer together as I immerse myself in it, but I also have limitations. Pain episodes strike. There are days when I'm down and can't contribute much. Little fears about not being able to be a successful father bubble up regularly, but I tuck them away in the growing file down in my subconscious where I cram all the stuff I lack the courage to face. I weigh close to 215 pounds now, thirtyfive more than in my prime when I was a correspondent. Things no longer function well in my body. It's more than physical disability and weight gain. My inner rhythms are out of sync, like I'm a song so out of tune that it hurts your ears.

Fortunately, Morgan is an easy baby. He's always calm, never gets colic, rarely cries, and smiles endlessly. With his flaxen hair, cherubic cheeks, and milky skin, it's as if an angel has descended into my arms. When I'm able, I love to feed him, change his diapers, wash his tiny body, dry him off, dust him with baby powder, and get him dressed. I hold him every chance I get, coo at him, make silly faces, gaze endlessly at his tiny fingers and toes.

I run warm baths almost every evening, slip in, then lift Morgan onto my belly and dip his toes in and out of the water. I bob him up
and down, going deeper and deeper, up to his ankles, then his knees, now his hips—always making sure we stay within his comfort zone. Soon, I have him in up to his shoulders, with water splashing everywhere as he gurgles and coos. Then I suddenly lift him high over my head and dip him down in again, making a big whooshing sound,
wwwwhhhoooooaaaaaa!!!!

After his bath I wrap him in a warm blanket and bring out his baby rattles and stuffed animals for a little play. He gazes with glee as I shake the rattles. When I rub the soft, furry face of his teddy bear onto his cheeks, he swoons with joy. My son really is a shining light, and I have found a new identity: I'm a father. The broken back, the failed surgery, the lost career, the constant pain, and the emotional turmoil don't matter quite so much anymore. This radiant light of new life has opened the seas of my heart, giving me a reason to live.

It's early 1998. Morgan is only three months old. I woke up this morning feeling incredibly sick. It's like a heavy cold, only without a sore throat, runny nose, or headache. I'm feverish, achy all over, exhausted, spent. I fall back to sleep hard.

Day Two of the illness. The symptoms seem to be changing. I get steamy hot and then suddenly feel freezing. My head is pounding. More sleep. I can hardly move.

Day Three. The worst head cold in my life. I can't breathe through my nose. My lungs are filled with goop.

Day Four. I can't stop coughing. The fits are so bad I sometimes think I'll never be able to inhale.

Day Five. The malaise subsides and I start to feel better.

A week later, it hits me again. This time it's more like a classic head and chest cold. Three days later, I'm recovering again, wondering what the hell just happened.

Then I get walloped and begin to fear that something insidious is inside of me. This time, the sickness lingers with persistence, still taking on different personalities. My sinuses throb. Then it's in my
lungs. Now my temples are on fire. One afternoon I have full-body aches. The next night I struggle with more sweats and chills. My doctor is baffled. Maybe it's mononucleosis, or a rare infection. Blood tests are inconclusive and antibiotics have no effect.

Over the next few months, the mysterious illness keeps coming in waves, hitting harder and lasting longer each time it strikes. One morning, I reach to rub a sore spot on the left side of my neck and discover a lump about the size of an almond. Within days, the lump grows to the size of a walnut and continues to get larger and more painful.

“It's probably just an infection in the lymph node,” Dr. Schafer says. He's an ENT—an ear, nose, and throat specialist—that I've been referred to by the medical group that contracts with my insurance company. “We need to biopsy it, just to be safe. Then discuss your options.”

As always, I want details.

“A biopsy is a fairly simple procedure,” Dr. Schafer explains. “A specialized needle is inserted into the lump, it's aspirated—meaning cells are sucked into the needle—and then the cells are analyzed under a microscope. You'll be under anesthesia, so it's painless.”

The next morning, September 11, 1998, I'm on a gurney being wheeled down a hospital corridor at Sharp Chula Vista Medical Center, just south of San Diego. In the operating room, it's the back surgery scenario all over again. Bright lights, plastic tubes, computer monitors, and clinking steel instruments. The anesthesia needle slips into my vein and the mask slides over my face. In less than a minute, the thick, wet sound of my breath is all I can hear.

I'm dying!

I'm unconscious, but I can hear myself whispering this into a black void.

I'm dying!

I can feel my life leaving my body.

A female voice comes from somewhere beyond the void as I try to hold on: “Wake up! Come back! You're not dying!” She sounds insistent, but far away, like I'm at the bottom of a deep well. I feel myself slipping further away, but the woman's voice gets stronger, demanding that I come back to life.

“Right now. Come back here! It's your sister, Valerie!”

Finally, I slip out of the void. I feel life slowly returning to my body and start to find my way back into the world. But I have no idea where I am and begin thrashing and trying to get up. Two big men begin restraining me like I'm a prisoner caught during an escape.

“Get off me! Let me go! Dammit, let me go!” I hear myself trying to scream, but my voice won't come out.

“You are in the hospital recovery room,” a nurse says with authority as the two strong orderlies continue to hold me down. “Snap out of it!”

I struggle and fight some more as the room finally comes into view. My sister Valerie is right next to me. It was her voice beckoning me back from the beyond. As she holds my hand and comforts me, I'm convinced that without her I would have permanently slipped away.

“You had major surgery,” Valerie tells me. “You've been out for hours.”

“What do you mean, major surgery?” I'm barely able to rasp this out, and it hurts my throat like crazy.

“Let's wait and talk to the doctor,” a nurse says firmly while guiding me into lying back down. “You still need more rest.”

It's one of those unspoken things. Everyone knows something is terribly wrong, but it's not time to discuss it. There is some complication. Maybe a mistake during the surgery. Too much anesthesia. Possibly something worse. I try to swallow again, but there's tremendous pain in my throat and my neck is throbbing as fast as a jackhammer. I reach for my neck. The entire left side is heavily bandaged.
This was more than a simple biopsy
.

“There's good news and bad news.” The surgeon, Dr. Low, is offering me a classic cliché. It's mostly bad news, so the approach is to look on the bright side first, then deliver the hard facts as softly as possible.

“The lump wasn't the source of the problem,” he continues. “We found the source and took care of it.”

“So what was the source? What's the problem?” I'm still barely able to speak but am back to playing journalist and want to get straight to it.

“It was in your tonsils,” Dr. Low says. “We were able to cut it all out and remove your tonsils along with some of the areas around them.”

“Cut what out?” I sound like a hissing snake.

“Squamous cells,” he says.

“What are squamous cells? What do I have? Just come to the point.” Now it feels like my throat might explode.

“You have oropharyngeal carcinoma,” Dr. Low says, as if it's a confession. “When we biopsied the tumor we found the squamous cells. We had to sedate you further and perform emergency surgery. After we removed the lymph gland from your neck we found that the squamous cells weren't just in the lump. We had to follow it, go into your throat. We found the source there, in your tonsils. We cut out as much as we could find.”

“Carcinoma,” I croak the word out slowly. “That's cancer.”

No one ever wants to say the word.
Cancer
. That frightening disease that always happens to someone else.
Cancer.
One of the leading causes of death in America.
Cancer.
Fifteen hundred people a day, more than half a million annually.
Cancer
.

“You are going to need some treatments,” Dr. Low says. “Radiation is a necessity. We need to try to kill any squamous cells that may have been missed in the surgery, get everything we can. You'll begin radiation treatments once the incision on your neck heals a bit.”

“So what are the odds of beating this?” I ask the question Dr. Low has probably heard a million times, my voice almost inaudible.

“We don't know,” Dr. Low says calmly, “and I don't think it's ever helpful to speculate and talk about percentages. Each case is different. We just have to do our best and be positive. For now, try not to talk much and just go home and rest.”

Go home and rest.
But will I survive? Will I die? If so, how long do I have?
These questions drive me crazy on the drive home. Even
though I'm still stoned from whatever they gave me during the surgery, and now have a new bottle of heavy painkillers, I feel half crazy and completely hyped up. All night it pounds in my head:
Cancer
. It's hard as hell to swallow anything with my throat sliced open, but I manage to down a few extra Valium, after crushing them up and mixing them with water. Still, I can't doze off.

It's late now. Well past midnight. I still can't sleep.
Cancer
. I can't get the word out of my head. I get up as quietly as possible and tiptoe into Morgan's room to watch him sleeping in his crib. I listen to the gentle rise and fall of his breath, feeling connected to the very core of his being. Tears run down my cheeks like wild rivers. It's a terrible thought that I'll be leaving Pamela without a husband, although I've often felt she might be better off without having to care for me or face my constant emotional flare-ups. But the prospect of leaving my son without a father rips me apart inside.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper softly, the rasp so bad now it's barely audible, careful not to awaken him. This little shining light by the sea has just flooded my life with meaning and joy. And now this disease wants to steal the life out of my body. “I'm so sorry.”