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Contrary to popular thought, life after 70 is not dull. While millennials have to jump off cliffs into lakes in Argentina or ski the Alps for adventure, we seniors can live life on the edge waiting for a biopsy report. In my case, the result was a cancerous mass in the colon. Uncle Nunzi said he found it ironic that for someone who never goes to Mass, I was holding one in my colon.
When the doctor gives you the cancer diagnosis, you have two choices: It could mean that your sister-in-law will never again have to choose a gift for you that combines slippers and two 9-volt batteries; or maybe the cancer is curable and you can start to appreciate your sister-in-law’s gifts for a change. In my case, the prognosis, is at the moment, this guy is just a “temporary” cancer patient. The sunny prognosis actually caused me to remark brightly — ”Except for this cancer, I’ve never felt better in my life.”
At this point in the column, I want to thank the terrific folks at the Jefferson University Hospital for once again saving my life. It seems that the medical and nursing staff at Jeff have taken it upon themselves to rescue my family from another high-priced burial just because that’s what they do. I love my doctors — particularly Dr. Scott Goldstein, colon-rectal surgeon supreme. Dr. Goldstein did his thing on former Eagle Vince Papale in 2001. Vince told me that he calls Dr. Goldstein “The Wizard.” I do not want to spoil things by mentioning that UCLA Coach John Wooden already earned that nickname, but hey, maybe Hollywood will make a biopic where George Clooney will star as me in “Invincible 2.”
I do not want to forget to mention the wonderful Jeff nursing staffs on the third, fifth, seventh and 13th floors, all of whom cared for me physically and mentally during those trying days. To you Republicans out there who are saying to themselves that I am helping to bankrupt America’s medical system, I cheerfully apologize. However, I must add that nobody sang “America the Beautiful” more loudly in their hospital room on July 4th. Getting back to Jeff’s nurses and all the nurses out there, you are super devoted and grossly underpaid, especially the two of you who had to clean my soiled sheets on a couple of occasions (I would have just wrapped my wrinkly rear end in the bed linens and tossed me out the window onto Chestnut Street. Instead you eased my embarrassment).
A word is in order about some things in the medical and pharmacy field that need improving. To the drug companies, is it really that tough to make a potassium pill that is smaller than an NFL football? I swear if Tom Brady had to take a potassium pill, he would hire someone to try to deflate it. If you split a potassium pill in order to make it easier to swallow, the taste is like drinking battery acid.
There is also a procedure that’s been in effect for likely half a century called a nasogastric tube insertion. In this procedure (in my case while I was fully awake), a plastic tube is inserted in one of your nostrils. The tube is then threaded down your throat into your stomach. In one case, it took five tries to get the tube inserted in the right spot. If you want life on the edge, try letting your medical attendant understand that the tube has coiled in your throat and that’s why your eyes are bulging out of your head at that moment. Only Linda Lovelace could have enjoyed what is lovingly called the NG. Isn’t there someone on “Shark Tank” who can figure out how to make a better NG? And throw in a set of steak knives, too.
The transition from the hospital to home is not always easy. My wife Fran, as you know, is the best, and once saved my life six years ago by donating me a kidney (is it selfish of me to think that she could’ve donated her colon this time around and cut a few weeks off my hospitalization?). I worried about Fran when I arrived home because my bowels had not shifted into regular gear yet — just ask the nurses. When you’re married 51 years, you don’t have much margin for error. Chances are crapping the bed in the middle of the night will not be greeted by a smile from your partner and the words, “Honey, everything is going to be alright.” Maybe if the same thing happened after three weeks of hot sex when you first married, crapping the bed might not be a deal breaker, but after 51 years of marriage, all bets are off. Thank goodness, so far, my newly re-sectioned colon is cooperating.
Back in the day, my family never spoke the word “cancer.” My father called it “The Big C,” which made it sound like the disease could score points and rebound. No one went for checkups. The Big C was a death sentence. Nowadays, cancer can be just another illness from which one can recover.
In the meantime, for some reason Fran keeps looking to check my life insurance policy. I have taken the theme from “Brian’s Song” off my iTunes playlist. I’m feeling tougher like Bernie Sanders-with less dandruff.
Contact the South Philly Review at editor@southphillyreview.com.
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