Let's do this properly and start from the beginning. Or the point in time that I'm now designating as the beginning:
Friday February 3, 2012 - 2 AM
My phone rings. "Liz I wouldn't ask, but the pain. It's not going away. Can you drive me to the hospital?"
I can't remember the last time I was in the ER. No, I can. My college roommate had gotten food poisoning from some bad meatballs. This will be like that. They'll hook Paul up with some fluids, prescribe him some meds, and send him on his merry way.
But this is not like that, and he's not fine, and we won't be sent home anytime soon. And just like that he's draped in a too-small hospital gown, retching into an equally too-small receptacle.
When the puking stops we make ourselves comfortable and look forward to what has just become an extended weekend. Word! We laugh and take grainy photos with our flip phones. And then some doctor spoils our fun with the words "emergency surgery," and we both realize things are about to get real.
He tells us there's a mass obstructing Paul's bowels. They need to remove it. Stat.
Luckily, they recognize that this type of procedure falls outside the realm of their expertise so they shuttle us off in an ambulance to Buffalo General.
Unluckily, that hand-off will become just one stop along a lengthy string of experts, tests, and treatments.
But in that moment, as we head downtown in what I remember to be chokingly awkward silence, we are still ignorant of how turbulent the ride is going to become.
We, like most people in our age bracket, had never really considered the possibility that Paul's increasing abdominal discomfort could, in fact, be something life-threatening. That was unthinkable. No, like every previous sickness or broken bone we'd ever had, this was fixable. They'd look at Paul's scans and inform us with a knowing half-smile: "kids, go home. Pick up some Pepto. It's just gas."
Look. Paul was 27. Aside from a few grays that were probably brought on by my cajoling him into DIY wedding favors ("It'll be fun!"), Paul was the picture of perfect health. He ate vegetables. He didn't smoke. He had nice biceps.
So cancer? No way, son.
But still. Something was not....right. Weird symptoms started popping up in the fall of 2011. He had sporadic bouts of intense stomach pain. He lost weight. (which we originally attributed to our cutback on beer consumption. yeahhhh) He had sheet-drenching night sweats. It was gross. And, perhaps, worst of all: when he lied down you could actually feel a slight protrusion in his gut. Just a tiny, maybe-I-feel-something kind of lump. Maybe.
In January of 2012 Paul's health insurance finally kicked in, and he tried to get to the bottom of things. He scheduled a sonogram. He scheduled an MRI. Things were moving too slowly. The stomach pain got worse. It became unbearable. And that's when I got my 2 AM wake up call in early February.
Since that night, since that bumpy ambulance ride into downtown Buffalo, Paul has been through some pretty ugly things. But this. Sweet Jesus have mercy. THIS. IS. HORRIFIC.
A young, anxious nurse brings a sizable tube close to Paul's face. "I need to get this into your stomach," she says. "THROUGH YOUR NOSE."
She tells Paul to relax, which is exactly like telling a toddler to sit silently though The Tree of Life. (Don't try convincing me it's poetry on film. I don't care.) Impossible. Paul is not a wuss when it comes to pain, but with her first attempt to jam that tube up his nostril he instinctively (and forcefully, I might add) pushes her away. She tries again, same thing. He tells her, "I'm sorry, but there's no way this thing is happening. I can't do it." And I believe him. I imagine it's how some mothers feel during labor: nope, this thing is NOT gonna happen. Sorry, you'll have to figure out another way.
Of course, she does eventually work the tube down Paul's throat. Cue Liz breaking down. I'm really very helpful that way. At this point, Paul becomes...less Paul? We certainly aren't laughing about his hospital gown anymore. He's can't talk, he can't eat or drink, and he's in pain. The nurse leads us to another room, and I follow behind her like a lost and frightened child. We wait for a doctor. We wait for an answer.
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