Anesthesia
A medical biopsy
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In my previous post, Decisions, I experienced a misdiagnosis by a doctor who believed I had a giant cell tumor. I disagreed with this doctor and went for another opinion the following day. This was the third and last orthopedic to exam my leg.
At this point, a bone biopsy was needed. My suspicion of cancer became a reality every time a test result came back negative. The first time I heard “growth,” I knew I had cancer. My pain was my guide, and I have moments where I can’t comprehend how an illness can control your life. I felt imprisoned by my body. I went from everyday walking to complete wheelchair dependence. I was determined to walk again using MY leg.
The first orthopedic I saw was on the conservative side and warned me that a biopsy could have complications that could lead to emergency surgery. Indeed, surgery requires more time to think about, but I couldn’t wait any longer for a diagnosis. Ibuprofen was keeping my pain at a tolerable level, but the inflammation was always present.
The third orthopedic I saw has extensive experience with bone cancer. He felt confident performing a bone biopsy and walked me through the surgery. I asked questions until I was content, and the transparency he showed gave me confidence.
“What are the chances of something going wrong with the biopsy?” I asked.
“Very low, but if something doesn’t look right or I am not comfortable, I will stop the biopsy and refer you abroad myself.” He replied.
His response was honest, sincere, and all I needed to know to go ahead with the biopsy. I felt comfortable with this doctor and wanted him on my team. Keo also felt comfortable, and we scheduled the bone biopsy for the next day. I fasted the night before and was ready for my surgery the following day.
I had my wisdom teeth removed about ten years ago, and it wasn’t a helpful memory. It was a simple procedure, and I knew why I was having it done. When I began to sign papers giving consent for my biopsy, it all started to sink in; I would experience my first major surgery.
We were assigned a hospital room, and Keo pushed my wheelchair while I read the signs guiding us to the room. We entered, and both simultaneously said, “WOOOW.” The décor consisted of a flat-screen TV and beige leather couch. The room was located on a high floor where a picturesque view of the Dubai skyline shined through the windows. It felt like we checked into a hotel room, not a hospital. Keo placed our valuables in the safe and put our belongings in the closet. We wanted to stay organized in case we needed to stay the night.
It was time to change into my hospital gown, which is when the hotel feeling went away. I was scared. My heart rate increased, making my heart thump heavily in my chest. I kept thinking of the papers I signed and the stories I read of people dying from anesthesia administration due to incorrect dosage.
Keo helped me get into bed; we had about two hours before the surgery. I didn’t expect to cry, but it seems like crying was part of my routine these days. Keo scooted into bed with me and held me close. He rubbed my head and said, “I’m going to be here the whole time. When they take you to surgery, I will be with you, and when you wake up, I will be waiting for you.”
I needed a distraction for the next two hours, and even though we had a flat-screen TV at our disposal, we decided to watch Netflix on my phone. The show, Friends, always puts us in a good mood. We watched a few episodes together and laughed until the nurse came in and said, “It’s time to go now.”
I was taken to the operating area in my bed. I like to notice patterns around me and focused on the ceiling as I was rolled through the corridor. I counted the lights and spaces between every light but lost track by the time we arrived. I saw many new faces, and each time a new person came, they cross-checked my hospital band and chart information with one another. I wonder how many times the nurses said, “Ana Janine Hernandez-Diaz.” Dubai is home to people from all over the world. I heard my name in different accents like Arabic, Australian, Scottish, and Spanish.
The anesthesiologist was the last person I remember speaking to before going to sleep. I had been preparing for surgery from the night before, but I didn’t feel ready. I told Keo goodbye and was taken into the operating room. Nurses surrounded me in blue uniforms whose eyes were the only reminder of having just met in the check-in area. Three nurses transferred me to a flat, cold, metal operating table where a large round light hung above me. I was covered with a warm blanket that reminded me of how much I used to love removing my clothes from the dryer during winter. I would run to the couch and snuggle with my laundry until the heat was gone.
I started thinking; Maybe I can reschedule… the pain isn’t that bad. But, the truth was… my pain was that bad. I told the anesthesiologist that I felt scared, she told me it was normal. An IV was placed in my arm, and I started to feel sleepy.
“Okay, Ana, I want you to count backward from 100,” she said.
With tears in my eyes, I started, “100,99,98…” and that was that…I fell into a deep sleep.
I thought five minutes had passed when I gained consciousness. I imagined waking up in the middle of surgery with bright lights blinding my view, but that didn’t happen. I kept hearing my name and phrases in Spanish, “Ana, me escuchas? Puedes abrir tus ojos?” The medication makes you feel a bit confused, so it’s normal to feel like you’re dreaming. I forced my eyes open and was happy to confirm that I was in the hospital.
I met the man with the Spanish accent, “Ana, hola! Soy Juan, hablas español, verdad?”
“Hola, sí. Hablo español.” I said confirming that I speak Spanish.
“How are you feeling?” Juan asked.
“I’m okay…is it over?” I asked
“Yes, the surgery is over, and the doctor will stop by to check on you shortly.” He replied.
I felt a bit drunk and lightheaded. I looked for Keo and started to panic when I didn’t see him. The biopsy is a short standard procedure, but being mindfully absent gave me a bit of stress.
“Do you remember how you woke up?” Juan asked.
“Yes, you were saying my name,” I said.
“No! Earlier,” Juan said.
Juan told me that I had woken up in a shock a bit earlier and started pulling at my IV, so they had to sedate me for a bit. I laughed and felt embarrassed. I must have been dreaming I was part of the X-Men team and needed to escape.
I wanted to see Keo and started to cry, thinking that maybe he didn’t know where I was, but Keo appeared a few seconds later. I was relieved to see him, and I was rolled up to my room to recuperate.
We checked out of the hospital that night, and I wasn’t feeling much pain, but as soon as the painkillers wore off, I realized I had a long road ahead.
I was told my test results would be ready in about a week, but to my surprise, we received a call the next morning, July 24, 2018. The doctor phoned to say that my results were in and needed to see me as soon as possible. My sample had been expedited. I would finally know what was causing my femur distress. I wasn’t ready, but are you ever ready to receive medical news? Today was my little sister's birthday, and my mother was landing from DC to help care for me as I healed from my biopsy.
I wanted to see my mother and have her protect me from the news I was about to receive. She always had a plan B, C, and D because there was always a backup plan. She’s a single mother, and I’m the oldest. A plan to care for my siblings in case of an emergency was part of our relationship. I needed her to tell me what my next step would be in an emergency, but I had to face my fears. I had to know what was wrong. I told the doctor I would arrive in the next hour.
Using crutches to lift me was more challenging than expected. My leg felt disconnected like dead weight. I broke out in a sweat. I was deadlifting my leg. I had to move extra slow because one wrong movement sent shooting pain from my upper thigh to my ankle bone.
Keo and I made it to the car and didn’t speak much until we reached the hospital. We both were in shock. The results were ready in less than 24 hours. Our world was about to change, and I just wanted to rewind and push pause.
I was pushed in a wheelchair to the doctor’s office. He entered and said, “We have your results, and I have the best of the worst news, “You have Primary Bone Lymphoma.”
Keo looked at me for elaboration on the diagnosis I was given. I looked at the doctor, took a deep breath, and said, “You mean I have cancer?”
