It was not even five o’clock in the morning when they came
to wheel John out of his hospital room to prepare him for surgery.
In November last year, we discovered that his prostate screening
antigen level was elevated. A month of being on antibiotics did not bring it
down, and a series of tests revealed that he had stage two prostate cancer. The
year’s months passed while he hopped from one doctor to another, seeking a
second, third, fourth opinion. I was
getting exasperated and told him that he was running out of urologists to
consult.
I did not want to nag him, so I enlisted our daughters’ help
to convince him to undergo a biopsy, the only definitive test to determine if
he indeed has cancer or not. Finally, he
did, and the verdict was as feared – he had the dreaded Big C. We made a new
round of doctors, and diligently researched on the Internet, as we “shopped”
for a treatment option. All doctors tried to soften the blow. They told us what
we have already heard and read about prostate cancer – that it was a slow
moving cancer, and as one doctor said “if we could choose a cancer, this is
what we would choose.” Another doctor said some men who have prostate cancer
could die of old age and not even need treatment for their prostate cancer.
But just as we were heaving a sigh of relief that he had the
least troublesome kind of cancer, one doctor said he should make sure that the
cancer is contained only in his prostate. He prescribed scans to check John’s
bones and abdominal organs. We were back on the rollercoaster of anxiety and apprehension
as John dutifully submitted himself to the scans and waited for the results.
Thankfully, both scans were negative.
But the different ultrasounds and scans also showed that he
had a stone in his ureter. One doctor prescribed medicines to try to melt it,
while another doctor ordered a lithotripsy (shock wave treatment to break down
the stone so he could pass it down). John went for the lithotripsy.
He rejected radiation therapy (too time-consuming, too many
trips to the hospital) and decided that he wanted surgery. Having narrowed down
his choice to the most radical treatment meant looking for the best doctor and
the best-equipped hospital. Consulting with friends and relatives in the
medical profession, we were told about robotics surgery, and that the latest
equipment were available at St. Luke’s Medical Center at Global City. Two
doctors were needed to perform robotics surgery – one to handle the robotics
while the other stood by the patient’s bedside, prepared to do traditional
surgery, in case something went wrong with the robotics equipment. The two
doctors whom we had approached at St. Luke’s were both trained and experienced
in doing robotics-assisted prostatectomy, and reassured John that he would fine
no matter which surgeon he chose. He didn’t think it was right to let them toss
a coin to decide who would be the lead surgeon, so John decided to go for the
older doctor to handle the robotics.
John worried about the cost of the operation until I told
him that it would be covered by his Blue Cross medical insurance. Our insurance
was reimbursement-type, but our broker had mentioned years ago that if we made
prior arrangements, Blue Cross could pre-approve the procedure and
hospitalization, and we would not need to advance payments. That was another
worry off his mind, as we made the trip to the hospital.
We checked in the night before the 7:00AM scheduled surgery.
The hospital staff was friendly and efficient, with nurses
or doctors introducing themselves and explaining their roles, (“I am Nurse
Christine, your night nurse. I will be attending to you until 6am, when your
day nurse, Jerry, would take over.”) They pointed to the features of the room –
the buzzer to call nurses in, the lights, how to raise and lower the bed or
parts of it, what time the doctors were expected to come. They patiently explained
all the procedures that they were required to do, and what the patient should
even expect to feel and experience. Before all that, as a standard security
measure to make sure that they are dealing with the right patient, they asked
him for his name and birthday.
They prepped him for the surgery, putting in I.V. needles on
both hands, even though only one received intravenous fluids that night. We
were introduced to the new machines that detected the flow of IV fluids – which
beeped when the flow was blocked. John must have had a restless night, as that
machine beeped many times through the night, and I had to press the buzzer just
as many times to call in the night duty nurse to restore the flow.
He was awake, and so was I, when they came before five
o’clock in the morning.
I stood up and walked
the few steps from the daybed where I was supposed to sleep but hardly did, to
just outside John’s hospital room door that was as far as I could join him. He
held my hand, and whispered, “Harvey, take care of my negatives.”
This is 2013, and we no longer shoot with films, and
therefore have not been handling negatives.
But his admonition takes me back further than 13 years ago when we gave
up analog cameras to embrace the digital revolution. It takes me back to 1972, and to another
hospital situation.
John’s papa had gifted him with a new Honda 300cc
motorcycle, and young and recklessly daring as he was (24) at that time, he
accepted a dare from his friend, Ernesto, to a race on Roxas Boulevard (then
called Dewey Boulevard). (If I may digress a bit, the whole stretch of Dewey
Boulevard lined Manila Bay then, and Manila’s famed sunset could be enjoyed by
any who would sit on the breakwater that ran parallel to the boulevard. In
later years, reclamation projects pushed forward the shoreline, and we have
lost this easy access to the magnificent colors of the sun’s going down).
Since his friend had a more powerful motorcycle, John was given “partida” – allowed to have a headstart. After a couple of minutes of driving alone,
he heard his friend revving his engine. As the sound of the other motorcycle’s
engine grew louder and nearer, John steered his motorbike to the right side of
the road, to give his friend space to overtake.
But his friend – violating basic Philippine (same as U.S.)
driving rules – overtook on John’s right side, and the two men and their
motorcycles collided. His friend was not harmed, but as John later recalled,
his last memory after their motorcycles crashed was of him “flying, and looking
back at his motorcycle.” He landed face and belly down on the curb, the full
impact of the crash leaving him unconscious.
He was rushed to the “Hospital de San Juan de Dios,” just a
few meters away from the scene of the accident. One of his mother’s employees
(as I recall, his nickname was Taba) rushed to fetch me from the apartment that
I was sharing with my brother, while someone else summoned his mother. He was
still in the emergency room when I arrived, but they were getting ready to
wheel him into the X-ray lab. John must have been in terrible pain and probably
having thoughts that he could possibly die as a result of this accident, when
he very faintly whispered, “Harvey, please take care of my negatives.”
Miraculously, he had no fractures, but his skin –on the
right side of his body, from his face down to his finger tips – was peeled off,
exposing his flesh, as if he had suffered third-degree burns. It took a month
in the hospital (how he survived a month in a hospital is another story) before
new skin grew.
When he was finally released from the hospital, he went
straight into doing photography. One day while going through his files of old
negatives, he called me, and with grim expression on his face, and great drama
in his voice, asked me, “Do you remember that night that I had a motorcycle
accident?” “Yes, of course,” I answered. “And do you remember that I asked you
to look after my negatives?” “Yes, of course, I remember.” Those life-or-death moments are difficult to
forget. Just as I braced myself for possible bad news, John broke into an
impish grin, and said “Well, I’m sorry that I thought I was leaving you my most
valuable legacy – but there is nothing among my photos that is of value.” Relieved
that he was out of danger, we could now afford to laugh at how much we cared
and shared about each other, even with how little we owned.
Forty years later, as he said those words again, “Take care
of my negatives” I was not sure what to think – was he thinking that he was
near death once more, was he sharing our in-joke, was he reassuring me that
four decades later, his negatives must have escalated in value, what exactly
was his message? Confused, worried and anxious, I sat alone on the bench in
that empty hospital room, and turned to prayer.
It’s been a month and a half since that surgery. His PSA
level is down to .0003 (maximum is positive 4), and while it is still difficult
to get him to rest and take it easy, he is more patient with himself, and
willing to slow down, just one bit. This is what John has to say, after his
encounter with the Big C and his near brush with death:
Since my operation... I have had a different outlook in life...
Patience is now a virtue that I hold close to my heart... Savoring every moment
of whatever Life has to offer me... I watch young people in love and see old
couple enjoying the mall, little children playful and laughing... I see grouchy
old men too... I hope one day I won't be one... Learning new things which I
should have learned a long time ago... Luckily, I still have time left...
