I’ll call him Bill because concealing his name is the only small way I know to give him back some of what he lost today.
He went in for a routine colonoscopy. I was there as a student, sent simply to observe. I was becoming more comfortable in my scrubs. I still felt self-conscious, but I was learning to pretend I belonged, and that was half the battle after all.
I was still too shy to talk to him, even though we were introduced before the doctor arrived. The procedure started off fine. The doctor strolled in ten minutes late and removed his suit jacket while Bill nervously greeted him. The lights were turned down and the doctor injected pain medication into Bill’s IV, then inserted the scope his exposed rectum. I averted my eyes.
Two minutes in, it became clear that this was no ordinary procedure. There were polyps everywhere. Some covered in pus, some in blood, some still pink and new. The doctor set to work removing them, a slow and sometimes painful process. Ten minutes in, Bill began to make noises of protest. The doctor nodded at the nurse and she quickly administered another dose of Vicadin.
Twenty minutes after that, another dose had to be administered. Bill’s blood pressure dropped slightly but he remained stable. The doctor kept cutting. An hour later, Bill started coming out of his med daze a little and told us he was hurting.
I could see his hand against the rail of the bed, clenching as he moaned his pain. It looked like my Papa’s hand before he got sick. I wanted to cross the room and take it. I wanted to touch his fingers, give him my support, tell him that I had been there, that I knew what it was like. I wanted to tell him it would be okay, that it would all be over soon. Then I saw his face. This was not my Papa. I didn’t know this man, or this room. I shrank back further against the wall, felt the cool paint against my palms.
“Do you see anything?” Bill asked.
“Yeah. A shitload of polyps.” The physician was short and crisp in his answer, too focused on his project to pay much attention to this man.
“Do I have cancer?”
“I don’t know.” The doctor sounded irritated. He looked briefly at the nurse. “I can’t talk now.”
Bill’s eyes traveled up to the TV. A bloody growth filled the screen. “Is that a polyp?” he asked. I listened to the monitor as his heart rate rose to 120.
“Yes.” Short again.
The doctor worked furiously to rid the colon of these growths, to stop the bleeding he was causing, to minimize the damage. I know he didn’t mean to be short, that he was probably a good man, but I was angry at him for doing nothing to address this man’s fear.
My eyes traveled back to his hand, grasping air.
“Do I have cancer, Doc?” Bill sounded panicked.
Nobody answered him. The doctor and the nurse kept working furiously to stop the bleeding, to find the next polyp, to remove it as efficiently as possible.
“That makes over twenty,” the nurse said quietly. “I’ve never so this many this big.” She held up two of the specimen cups. “Look at them. They’re huge.”
The doctor ignored her, busy severing yet another bundle of tissue. “Dammit. Where did that piece go?”
I saw it floating through the fluid in Bill’s colon.
He was moaning again. “It hurts,” he said. “It hurts real bad.”
The nurse looked at his monitor. “100 over 60.”
“Better hold off,” the doctor said. He continued to push and cut and cauterize.
They did nothing for his pain. My heart wrenched as this grown, proud man groaned in agony. And I, too, did nothing.
Looking back, my heart still hurts. I wish I’d held his hand.