The Day Of

How it all went down.

Normally, from where I live in Los Angeles, it’s about an hour and a half to UCLA, where I was going to have my surgery. At 5am that drive was cut down to 22 minutes.

I asked my husband to let me drive his car there with him as a passenger. I’m an anxious passenger, and I wanted to be in full control of the morning and the entire hospital stay. This was a way to set that tone - I’m in the driver’s seat.

We arrived at UCLA Medical Center just before 5am and we immediately ran into our first issue - parking.

Parking has been the bane of my existence through a lot of these appointments; either it’s $37.95 a minute or non-existent.

I’d been to the medical center several times at this point, but never at “night” and never to the hospital portion of the campus.

As we arrived, there were absolutely no directions where to go, where to park, where to walk in for admissions, anything.

We found an empty valet stand, but we didn’t want to valet anyway. My husband wasn’t staying overnight, and there were some nice-to-have supplies like my favorite pillow in the trunk - just in case.

I circled the campus again and saw Garage 7, Garage 8, Public Parking Garage 9 - yet every entrance I went to was restricted access - card holders only.

It’s getting closer to my 5am check in time, and I’m getting nervous that I won’t find parking. My husband did the right thing (despite me hating it) and said to get in the passenger seat; he’ll drop me off at the entrance and go figure it out from there.

I walked into a grand hallway, seemingly recently refurbished. Marble and stone everywhere, but not a sign or directions to be found - great.

I wandered and saw a sign for Admissions to the right. I started walking to the right and realized it’s the end of the hallway with only locked doors.

A faint voice said, “Can I help you, sir?” I preferred “Young Man” from my first urologist, but OK - whatever.

Hiding behind a slab of rock is a security guard waiting to get off their shift in a few minutes. They flick their hand towards the same Admissions sign I’d seen 17 seconds earlier but with a little “it’s hiding in there” - what?

Oh, the sign that says go to the right should actually be saying “you’re here, come behind this wall to a hidden door for no reason”.

After months and months through various health systems, I was getting used to filling out the exact same forms 100 times. My first oncology appointment was a defining moment of frustration, but it’d gotten so routine by now I didn’t care.

For the first time in history, all those forms actually were saved in their system. Two simple signatures and I was done - head over to the waiting room for family and they find you and will bring you up to your floor.

When I walk into Maddie’s Room, it’s lit as my husband said. So many families and groups of people, not one or two sitting alone. Groups of 10 talking and chatting. All somber, but somber together. They were there not only to support their loved one about to go into surgery, but also support the others around them.

I’ve never had someone close to me with a type of cancer that requires serious treatment. I’d never sat in a hospital room wondering if a family member or friend was going to wake up from anesthesia.

My time there was quick and there was a woman yelling RICHAARRRDDDD. I always go by Rick and I know I’ve done something wrong when Richard gets brought out.

Here’s a form, here’s a bracelet, take it to the 3rd floor and go check in.

I head up and see there’s a line of around 10 people waiting to check in - oh great, I got here at 5 a.m. and now I’m going to have to sit around forever.

Well, that wasn’t the case - within a few minutes I’m being handed special sanitation wipes for my body and “anti-colonization” swabs for my nose.

Pretty straightforward things to do, but I realized very quickly that I’ve been shoved things, shoved towards a gurney with a curtain, and this was about to get very real very quickly.

My husband had to help me wipe my back, and then I re-read the instructions for the nose swab 8x. At the end of the day, not complicated, but I couldn’t imagine doing it by myself in that moment.

I threw on a gown and a lunch lady hair cap and sat down on the bed.

I looked at my husband, realizing that I’m going to have to depend on him for things over the next week, so I better be sweet - but also, this is something he’s going through too, and I want a final check-in for the “team”.

We hadn’t exactly had the smoothest ride leading up to surgery. We have wildly different ways of researching things and what type of information makes us feel grounded and sure.

Partway through the journey, we realized we had different preferred treatment options, and neither of us could completely understand how each got there.

All options on the table make choosing one for yourself very hard. Add a 3rd party to that, and you just have questions and doubts that seep in everywhere.

At some point along the ride, I had explained to him that my decision was more mental than anything, and my anxiety couldn’t deal with “leaving it in there” - despite many doctors telling me that’s not the best way to look at it.

He wanted the “easy” options with the least side effects. We actually romanticized the thoughts of a specific radiation treatment facility near San Diego near the ocean that would require us to move down there for a month. It turns the whole thing into a dream almost that you can forget afterwards –something both my husband and I did agree on.

But when I was able to articulate my personal mental health concerns about the anxiety, he was fully onboard.

Now, many months later on that gurney, I couldn’t have felt like I had someone supporting me and my choices more. I was previously worried that if we disagreed and I ended up on this gurney, I would see the doubt in his eyes and fear that he thought I was an idiot.

I’m looking at the “room” around me. I’m looking at my husband. The used antibacterial pads—where do they go? He takes them from me and just sets it down on the bed—he realizes it doesn’t matter—but I’m not there yet.

My anesthesiologist was the first person from the Prostate Pit Crew that came to speak with me. She was very nice, seemed smart, all of the things that should be reassuring. She laid out her plan. She noted on my chart that I have a certain gene mutation that makes my body hyper-metabolize things like pain killers so that she’d be monitoring my sedation closely. She re-asked all the same questions—no, I don’t have congestion—no, neither me nor my family members have had an adverse reaction to anesthesia that I know of.

I will say I’ve finally reached the age where everyone looks too young. She was a brilliant doctor, and I just saw “20 something” in her face.

Either way, she points towards the IV catheter on my hand and says we’ll give you a little something to relax you before we get back to the OR—great.

I honestly felt great in this moment, and my anxiety was relatively at bay. Despite this being the most terrifying thing I had ever walked into, I felt ready.

I’d done my research, I’d picked the best hospital system and doctor, I’d done my due diligence. Not only was I ready with information, but by this point, I’d trimmed off nearly 70 lbs. and gone from wholly inactive and sitting in front of a computer to being a gym rat on the elliptical 6 or 7 days a week and working with a trainer 2-3x on strength as well.

The months leading up to surgery, I practically lived in the gym, and for the first time in my life, I loved it. I felt like I was doing everything I could to make this surgery a success.

My doctor had given me as much time as I wanted to handle things, and I used that time to its fullest.

I’m from Middle Georgia and grew up on country music. Tim McGraw is “one of the good ones” (as of me typing this) and was only behind a few of the greats that I loved their music as much.

He has such a good catalog of music, but most people are familiar with Live Like You Were Dying.

I was in my early 40s,
With a lot of life before me,
When a moment came that stopped me on a dime.

Over the last few months before surgery, I lived like I was dying. To be clear, I never felt like this was a death sentence - for most, it’s not - but I definitely didn’t want to feel like I wasted my time or wallowed in my feelings. I wanted to actually feel something. So I did.

I went skydiving from 18,000 feet.
I went on a solo road trip to see the most stars I’ve ever seen.
I saw my mom right after she was diagnosed with dementia.
I met my best friend’s new baby (that’s my nephew, don’t say it ain’t - love you, Logan).
I started learning how to code iPhone apps.
I wrote an outline for a screenplay.
I did some fun drugs and some really fun drugs.
I saw friends for who they really are - and who they really aren’t.
I forgave mistakes big and small, even if the offenders don’t know they’re forgiven.

You can call it a distraction, which it definitely was, but it felt like what I wanted to do.

The Friday before surgery, I wanted to complete my Tim McGraw trifecta and ride a bull - mechanical at least. It wasn’t the first time for me in real or mechanical, but it’d been a long while and many sessions of physical therapy on my knees since then.

But - I’ve been getting so healthy - I’ve totally got this - and I did. It was a fun short ride. Probably not worth the 1:15 drive to Saddle Ranch Chop House, but I was surrounded by some of my dearest friends, eating fatty tourist trap food, getting thrown off a bull.

Two days off from surgery, and I’d completed my “bucket list”.

We try and go to another bar after dinner, but my heart really isn’t in it - we’ve done the fun stuff, now let’s get serious.

I spent the weekend before surgery getting our guest room ready with incontinence pads, laxatives, enough water to start a desert oasis. I’ve got Ensure, I’ve got Jell-O, I’ve got Apple Sauce - what else do I need?

I knew I’d be tossing and turning and wouldn’t be sleeping much, and the last thing I wanted to do was to make my sweet husband go through that too.

I’d been piling supplies up for months, cross-checking Reddit, UCLA, the Mayo Clinic, Substack. If someone gave me a list of things I need, I bought it. I had a pulse oximeter despite my always-worn Apple Watch having one built in. To say it was excessive was an understatement - but it made me feel prepared.

So as I’m sitting on this gurney watching as the anesthesiologist puts something to calm me in my veins, I almost said, “I’m fine actually - but when in Rome, get that injection.”

I say goodbye to my husband, and I can see the fear and anxiety in his face. I take a deep breath, and the nurses start pushing.

I’ve had procedures like colonoscopies before, and I always remember the countdown - this time just a gentle opening of my eyes, and I’m in a whole new world from where I came from.

Not in pain, but far from comfortable. I can see a tube coming out from under the sheets - I dare not look what that is. Beeps all around from all the leads and wires hooked up to me.

If this was my first rodeo, I probably would have been freaked out, but I realized in that moment that “the worst is behind me”. While not over, I knew this discomfort would transform to pain, but for now, in this moment - I did it. I didn’t back out, I didn’t reschedule 100 times. I prepared, I was ready, I did it, I was proud.

My husband is shortly brought into my “room” (more on the quotes later).

My team starts buzzing around the room.

“Hi, I’m Sue, I’ll be your primary nurse.”
“Hi, I’m Monica. I’m your care provider (such as a better name than orderly).”

As they leave, my husband tells me that he had talked to my surgeon - everything went great - I was a champ - nerves were spared - all good news. I was so relieved, thinking that this nightmare was done and that once I got home, I could turn this into a dream like our fantasy of easy treatment at the beach.

And that’s when the pain started.

A resident doctor pokes his head in to introduce himself, tell me that he works with my surgeon, and that he’ll be checking on me - again, that 20-year-old face - eek - but again, a brilliant person that you can’t judge by age or looks alone.

The first thing he says to me is that this is a recovery room - recovery comes with pain - don’t be a “big man” and not hit that call button - that’s what it’s there for.

I sat there for a moment after he said “recovery room” and realized that this room I thought was a stopover was actually my bed for the entire stay. There I had two solid, but movable walls and a screechy old curtain to keep me, my pain, my catheter, and my dignity in check.

We sit through the next few hours intermittently getting “refills” from Sue and the team. Medications that were supposed to last 4-6 hours were feeling closer to 45 minutes, and the frequency was making me nauseous.

Tylenol Pill > Dilaudid IV injection > Oxycodone pill > Lather, Rinse, Repeat

OK - I wasn’t exactly prepared for this, but they don’t know my body and my gene mutation, and I don’t want to go into a coma or overdose.

I start to self-moderate the pain meds, then the pain gets worse. I can’t really move that much without hurting. My back hurts - my shoulders (that weren’t cut) hurt. I can’t get comfortable. If my legs are too high, my back hurts; too low, and my knees hurt.

What I wasn’t completely aware of was that during laparoscopic surgery, they “inflate” your body with CO2 in order to make their work area a little easier to get around. They deflate you, but there will always be some residual gas that needs to work itself out one way or another.

I’d read about this in my research and even read that the gas can be painful - I didn’t realize how much of an understatement that was going to be in my case.

On one of her check-ins, Sue highly recommended walking immediately. Everyone had told me that in the lead-up. Walk. Walk immediately. Walk as much as you can. That’s what gets the gears moving.

I pressed on the bed, hoping to have the strength to sit up, let alone go for a short walk around the recovery wing.

Nope. No. Full stop. No. Not happening.

I’m 6’5”, currently 205 lbs, built my entire body up to the best state of my adult life, and I can’t push myself up enough to sit up.

I kindly informed her that it wasn’t happening, and we continued on.

Did I mention that tube coming out of me… that was a catheter that I needed to be careful with that I had finally lifted the sheet to see. I will say, the catheter is the least notable portion of the journey. Relatively painless, just annoying and gross.

All of this was too much thinking for the day I’d gone through, but finally, a good suggestion - Xanax, something I already had a prescription for and was used to. I knew my dose - perfect - at least I can calm down and maybe get some sleep.

My husband wasn’t planning on staying in the room overnight because we have two cats with medical conditions that require an injection twice a day and specialized prescriptions.

You go home - I’ll try and sleep - see you in the morning, Love you!

As he gets just out of earshot.

SHIFT CHANGE!

New nurse - new care providers - new everyone - who have to immediately chat and cackle and catch up.

The nurse’s desk is about 20 feet from my “room” - without a semblance of soundproofing. That desk seemed to be a central hub for the comings and goings - so the other 10 guys around me (it seemed we were all urology patients) had to listen to all of their conversations. This also meant I heard every whine and yelp, every request for food, every blood pressure check, every single word reverberated around me.

This couldn’t be forever, could it? Is this just what it’s like?

Eventually, things did start settling down eventually in the middle of the night, but that lead-up was torture.

I got in my routine with the call button, and finally, the pain was relatively manageable. One more Xanax, and I finally get 2 hours of sleep.

6AM SHIFT CHANGE!!!!

All the commotion, all the patients start being woken up. People that were previously on clear liquid diets can now eat regular food, and they are all talking about how they can’t wait for 6:45 a.m. to roll around and the cafeteria to open up. All the commotion, all the frantic, all the anxiety, all the nerves start rolling back in, and just at that moment, I see the eyes of my husband, who has come to join me again.

I confess that not only is this moment the toughest of my life overall, that was literally the toughest night of my life. Between the drugs, the sounds, the anxiety - it was overwhelming.

For this first time in this process, tears started flowing, and they weren’t going to be controlled. There was no sucking it up and being a big man - this was an emotional breakdown caused by 2+ years of worry, months of planning, and now chaos surrounding me with no respite.

I tell my husband - as soon as Sue is back, I’m going to go for a walk - push through the pain - whatever I have to do.

Sue shows up, and I tell her I’m ready - she knows better than me, but plays along and suggests we get a fresh round of pain killers in me before attempting.

She was right…

She helps me up about 45 minutes later, and wooooohhhhhhhh. Damn. I have a very creative vocabulary, and some interesting words were said inside and outside my head.

But - I do it - I’ve got my rolling cart that all my cords are connected to - I’ve got my catheter and bag - let’s do this.

I get about 3 feet outside my curtain and rip a very nice fart.

Ooohhhhhh, that’s why they wanted me to walk, to get the excess gas from surgery out.

I make a lap around the nurses’ station with Sue by my side - victory - but I’m so tired at this point. The previous week I was running 9 miles on the elliptical without stopping and now I can barely go 40 feet without wanting to collapse.

I get back to my curtain, sit on the side of the bed (for the first time) and say to Sue - give me 45 minutes and let’s go again. She knows immediately that I’ve had enough of this place and I’m suited up and ready to GTFO of here.

I’m sitting on the side of the bed with my head in my hands, I’m trying to do some structured breathing. I’m thinking about all the things I want to do when I’m finished with recovery, I’m really trying to just make sense of what just happened and what my future looks like.

At this point I know the nerves were spared, but what about incontinence, what about erectile dysfunction? We were weeks or months (or possibly years) from knowing how well my functions sustained through surgery - what’s it going to be like.

No. None of that matters. Just get home to your well-prepared guest room.

As I’m waiting for Sue to make her next round I’m hearing a loud conversation across the curtained hallway. An older gentleman had come in the previous day about the same time I did and his whole family showed up - despite it being 2 people max with him in the room. You could tell he was tired so most of the conversation centered around getting him comfortable.

He was some type of VIP, most likely a doctor or other professional, and they were profusely apologizing about not having a room with a door for him - if he wasn’t getting a door, I definitely wasn’t getting a door.

He was obviously feeling better today because the conversation was non-stop. I’d already heard them talking all morning, but it was just getting more and more incessant and annoying.

On top of the general disruption of peace, it was also clear this was a “high-achieving” family. Multiple members were doctors or nurses - a family business of sorts.

Now, I love most doctors and appreciate their skills and what they bring to the world, but I’ve found in families like this it also comes with a heavy dose of entitlement. My redneck ass has never met someone better than me and you better not try. You are not entitled to me being nice to you if you’re being an asshat.

I’m breathing and trying to get ready for my next walk and the conversations are getting louder and louder.

ENOUGH!

I wanted to scream “Shut the Fuck Up”, but I chose a nice, understated (but audible) “shhhh”.

Not a single decibel was dropped. Not a single member of the family even broke their sentence let alone the syllables that they were speaking.

You have at least 10 men - in pain - within earshot - most without family or friends by their side - and you’re talking and chatting in your very annoying sing-song bad valley girl accent - LOUDLY.

OK, that’s it.

“If you heard that shhh and you’re talking, it was directed at you”

0.000124ms my curtain flings open and I see an early 30’s woman staring at me in my gown and catheter and bluntly asked “Can I help you?”.

I notice she’s in scrubs and it all clicks, that’s her dad - she’s the problem.

I am not a wallflower - anger is not an emotion I have a hard time finding. I’m a kind person, I’ll help you change a tire on the side of the road at 3am - but I’m not always the nicest.

In this moment, in this place, in this time, with the last 24 hours under my belt - I earned my entitlement - I earned my attitude - I earned my peace and quiet - and this obnoxious woman was not going to get in the middle of that.

“First off, lose the fucking attitude. Second, you’re being too loud, there are supposed to be 2 people in there and I hear 5 voices.”

“There’s only two people in there.”

Give these people a voice-over contract because they can sound various ages and genders on command - it’s so impressive.

She starts to reprimand me and inform me that this is a hospital - no shit, Sherlock. Are we in America too?

You’re in a recovery wing - shut the fuck up - now. Unless you’re a patient or helping a patient - fuck off. Now. Actually, 30 seconds ago is when you should have fucked off.

I don’t (yet) know who this woman was or what, if anything, she did at the hospital - but all the thoughts went through my head.

What if there’s a shift change and now she’s my nurse - fuck that - life finds a way.

She clearly sees that she is wildly under-matched for the level of vitriol and snark that is possible from my body in this moment with the pain killers and emotions running chaotically through it. There were no limits to my vocabularic creativity and manifestation in that moment. I was ready to make her cry in shame.

As she flees to the safety of her own curtain, I start hearing beeping. Sounds had been going off all night, but this was much closer - it was in my room - it was me.

My body was so off-kilter that I had gone into tachycardia, and my heart rate was over 180. Within milliseconds, I saw what was actually possible there.

The charge nurse manager rushes in, then the care provider shows up, then my primary nurse, then the resident. I hit all the alarms, I guess.

My first words were “I want her name”. I was ready to be full Karen and talk to her manager - but for some reason, this seemed like a pretty legit reason.

The lead nurse had a presence about her. I hadn’t met her in the visit, but I already trusted her more than anyone else around me.

I told her I have bad anxiety, and that woman just wouldn’t shut up. The woman and her excess family were quickly ushered away from the wing, and apologies for not taking care of them earlier started.

I looked at the lead nurse and I said “give me 5 minutes, and I’ll get the heart rate down” and I did. I sat there, I did my breathing exercises, I focused on the things that matter like seeing my cats and being in my house, and I did it. My heart rate dropped slowly, and then by the end of 5 minutes, the chaos was over, and the team was closing my curtain.

Sue came back in to apologize. I hate when people apologize for someone else’s behavior - this was not Sue’s fault - but she was going to be my way out.

OK Sue - let’s walk again. We did another walk, it’s actually getting easier. The gas is coming off a little and I have a little more energy.

My resident doctor walked by as I’m out and about and I looked him in the eye and said “I’m ready” - he got it and the paperwork started.

An hour or so later I’m wheeled out with a few oxycodone, a QR code with instructions on how to clean myself, and a hope and a prayer.

My husband and I made the now nearly two-hour ride home in traffic. He’s avoiding every bump in the road, every crack, every crevice - but it’s not exactly helping.

We made it home - uh oh - I’m way worse off than I expected, I can’t exactly take care of myself and the guest room seems miles away compared to our primary bedroom.

Plans changed quickly, my husband reorganized the supplies. I apologized knowing that he wasn’t getting sleep and tried to get comfortable.

Over the next few days it’s a dance between knocked out or in pain. The more I move the less the pain is, but it’s a cycle and I just want out.

We realized quickly that there wasn’t enough oxycodone to last me, Tylenol doesn’t work for me, and I’m just going to sit here miserable until I’m not.

The next morning, my husband tried to get a refill for me but had to wait on the surgeon to approve it. Spoiler alert: the approval came the following Monday.

But… as the days went by, the pain lessened. The gas did truly start to evaporate, and most (but not all) of my pain with it.

I could finally see the light, so to speak.

7 days post-surgery was my scheduled catheter removal. It’s wild how time dilates and expands when you’re going through a lot. It felt so fast while everything else crawled by.

Once again - the catheter was more annoying than painful, but it’s a very obvious visual sign that you just went through some serious shit.

Getting the catheter out, they fill your bladder with water, remove the catheter, and then make sure you can urinate normally - I did - yay.

Another long car ride back home, along with every bump and turn, this time noticeably easier.

Each day from there got better. There were many two-steps forward and one-step back, but I got there - I did it - I got through the toughest week of my life.

It had been just over two years since my physician’s assistant found a “bump,” and in that time, I’d transformed myself into a person who can handle this - and did.

I’ve always struggled with self-esteem and confidence, but there was something about this process that made me want to talk about it where other guys don’t - if I can be strong and get through this with my head above water, I can also pass that strength along.

I’ve discovered people past and present in my life that I didn’t know were diagnosed; it’s something people keep very secretive - men don’t want to talk about the potential of their dicks not working.

But I firmly decided that I didn’t want this on my mind and that the last thing I wanted was to die from cancer, let alone be sick with it… and I made sure that wasn’t the case.