By the time Dr. Stevens came into the room, my kiester was numb with cold.
He shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Stevens. We found blood in your urine. Looks like you’ve got a stone.”
I could have told him that and saved a lot of time.
He asked me a series of health questions then reached for a rubber glove and a jar of petroleum jelly.
I knew exactly what was coming. My last prostrate exam had been at least six years ago by old Doc Johnson.
“Bend over and relax,” he said.
Really? I thought. Right here? Right now? I glanced over and saw Maggie trying to stifle a grin. It was bad enough having a guy probing my private parts, but to do it in front of my wife!
I bent, he probed, and at least his words were a comfort. “Slightly enlarged, but normal for a guy your age.”
“Swell,” I replied, wiping the goo from my behind.
There’s just no such thing as dignity in a doctor’s office.
“Now we’re going to do a cat scan and an x-ray to determine where the stone is located and its size.”
The cat scan machine reminded me of the one that James Bond was strapped into in Goldfinger, with the deadly laser heading for his crotch. Thankfully, neither the scan nor the x-ray was lethal and I returned to the exam room with all my parts intact.
After another wait, Dr. Stevens returned and escorted us to a screen. He punched some buttons and a fuzzy image appeared. “There it is,” he said, pointing to a tiny blip on the screen. “Looks like about 4.4 millimeters.”
He changed the image. “Guess what? We found another one on the other side and it’s even bigger --- about the size of a 9mm bullet. I’m sure you can relate to that.”
I was stunned. “But how could that be. I haven’t had any pain on that side at all.”
“I can’t answer that. Just lucky I guess.”
At that moment, I didn’t feel that lucky.
He led us back to the exam room. When we were seated, he pointed to a four foot chart on the wall showing a man with all of his inner plumbing exposed.
“The two stones are about here and here,” he said, pointing to the little tubes that went from the kidney to the bladder.
“What we will do is perform what’s known as a cysto/urteroscopy. We’ll go in through here.”
The ‘here’ that he had indicated was the tip of the chart guy’s winkie.
I nearly fainted.
He must have seen the expression on my face. “It’s not a big deal. You’ll be asleep during the whole procedure. We’ll insert a stint and use a tiny surgical instrument to break up and remove the stones.”
With the words, ‘insert a stint,’ my hiney involuntarily puckered.
“We need to get those out right away before they start affecting your kidneys. I’ll have Sharon schedule a time for your procedure at St. Luke’s. One more thing before you go. We need to do an EKG. It’s routine. We always do one before we put you out.”
The first gal that had taken all my vitals stuck gooey tabs all over my body, hooked wires to the tabs and turned on a machine. I saw little squiggles being printed on a roll of paper. The whole thing took about five minutes. Little did I know how that five minutes would change my life forever.
The procedure was scheduled for two days later. The doc gave me a prescription for some pain pills and said he’d see me at the hospital.
During the first sixty-five years of my life, I had never set foot in a hospital except to visit friends or family. While I was on the police force, I had spent the night three times, the first was when two goons tossed me off the roof of a parking garage and I landed on the umbrella of a tamale cart. The second was when I drove a car bomb into Loose Park Lake and nearly drowned, and most recently, when I took a bullet in the arse.
All of these were unplanned visits and I was just there for observation.
This was totally different.
I had two days for my imagination to conjure up what it would be like to have tubes and stints violating my private parts. I tried to put the inevitable out of my mind, but no matter how hard I tried, the visions kept forcing themselves back into my consciousness.
I tried reasoning with myself, remembering the quote by Keith Caserta, “Worry is the interest you pay on a debt you may not owe.” It certainly made sense, but it really didn’t alleviate my anxiety.
I was in the midst of this mental turmoil when I got the call. It was from Dr. Stevens.
“Walt, we’re going to have to postpone your surgery. Your EKG showed some anomalies in your heart and our anesthesiologists won’t put you under until we know more about what’s going on.”
For the second time in two days, I was stunned. “What --- what kind of anomalies?”
“You have a very irregular heartbeat. You will need to see a cardiologist before we can proceed. Do you need a referral?”
I thought for a moment, and was suddenly overwhelmed by the notion that somehow fate intervenes in our lives, and that everything happens for a reason.
Just a few weeks ago, a woman came to my office asking for my help. It was my first big case after opening Walt Williams Investigations. When it was all said and done, it turned out that that woman, Dr. Elizabeth Crane, a cardiologist, was my half-sister. A coincidence? I think not.
“Uhhh, no. I think I’ll talk to Dr. Elizabeth Crane with the Mid America Heart Institute.”
“Perfect!” Dr. Stevens replied. “I was going to recommend that office to you. They’re the best in the Kansas City area. I’ll send your test results over there. As soon as we get some answers, we’ll reschedule your procedure.”
As soon as I regained my composure, I called the Heart Institute office and told them I wanted an appointment with Dr. Crane. After a long pause, I was told that I could see her in three weeks. I remembered she told me that she only worked three days a week. I thanked the lady and said I’d call back. I had Dr. Crane’s private number.
“Walt, so good to hear from you.”
“Dr. Crane, sorry to bother you at home.”
“Please, call me Liz. After all, we’re family. What can I do for you?”
I told her the whole agonizing story.
“My goodness! We certainly can’t wait three weeks with your condition. I will schedule you for an echocardiogram and as soon as the results are in, I’ll meet you at my office. The hospital will call and tell you when and where to report.”
“Thank you so much.”
“No thanks necessary after all you did for me. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
The hospital did call. I reported as I was told. A technician assured me that the echocardiogram was painless and was the same thing that is used on a pregnant woman to see the new baby in her womb, only he would be looking at my heart.
The next day, I got a call from Liz Crane. She had the test results and was ready to see me. Again, Maggie drove me because the kidney stone attacks were coming on a regular basis. It wasn’t fun being me.
When the three of us were seated, I could see the concerned look on Liz’s face.
She listened to my heart through her stethoscope. “Walt, I have the results of your EKG and echocardiogram. It appears three things are going on. First, you have Afib.”
“A what?”
“Afib. That’s short for atrial fibrillation. With this condition, your heart’s upper two chambers quiver rather than squeeze the blood out in a normal pattern. This leads to an irregular and sometimes rapid heartbeat. Some people have symptoms such as lightheadedness or shortness of breath. Have you experienced anything like that?”
“No, not at all. I had no idea there was a problem of any kind.”
“Walt, it’s a serious condition. It affects the heart’s ability to fill with blood as it should. Blood clots may form and that increases the risk of stroke. Untreated, it can also lead to heart failure. The good news is that it can be controlled.”
I was in a daze. “You said there were three things.”
“Yes, you also have a prolapse in your mitral valve which is causing the third problem, mitral regurgitation. What that means is that the valve between your heart’s upper left chamber and lower left chamber doesn’t close properly. When that happens, blood leaks back into the left atrium. This too, can lead to blood clots and the possibility of a stroke.”
“So can that be fixed?”
“Yes, with open heart surgery your mitral valve can be repaired or replaced and you’ll be as good as new.”
The news hit me like a freight train. “Open heart? As in cracking open my chest?”
She nodded. “It’s a common procedure these days. I have a wonderful surgeon that I’ll refer you to. But first things first. We have to get rid of those pesky kidney stones. I’ll call Dr. Stevens and we’ll get you rescheduled. As soon as that’s over, we’ll talk more about your surgery.”
On the way home, I tried my best to process what Liz had just dumped in my lap. If my imagination had been active thinking about kidney stones, it was on overload as I thought about the surgery that lay ahead. My old heart was broken and I had to get it fixed.
Maggie had been unusually quiet. Undoubtedly she was struggling as well. This wasn’t just about me. Her life would also be turned upside down.
As if in answer to my question, she reached over and squeezed my hand.
“We’ll get through this --- you and me --- together.”
CHAPTER 7
On the night before my kidney procedure, I was plopped in front of the TV with my sweetie by my side. I was hoping that the crime drama we were watching would take my mind off my impending procedure, but it just wasn’t working. My imagination was going full blast as I envisioned poor Mr. Winkie being prodded, probed and skewered.
The station had just gone to a commercial when I heard an ungodly ruckus out in the hall and a knock on the door.
When I answered, my dad, Bernice and Jerry came trooping in. Jerry was carrying a boom box from which Mick Jagger was wailing.
I can’t get no – satisfaction
I can’t get no – girl reaction
‘Cause I try, and I try and I try
I can’t get no
I can’t get no
Thankfully, he shut the thing off.
“We just stopped by to cheer you up and wish you well,” Dad said.
“Under the circumstances,” Jerry interrupted, “I thought something by the ‘Stones’ would be appropriate.
“How thoughtful.”
“In honor of the occasion, I changed some of the words to fit your situation. Would you like to hear them?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not really,” he replied, clearing his throat.
I can’t get my – stream a going
Though my bladder’s – overflowing
But I try, and I try and I try
I can’t get my
I can’t get my
“Stop! I get it. Enough’s enough!”
I could tell I hurt his feelings. “Thanks, I really appreciate the effort.” He seemed to brighten up a bit.
Eighty-nine year-old Bernice, who was teetering on the brink of dementia, put her hand on my arm.
“Walt, are they going to put you under?”
“That’s what they tell me.”
She shook her head. “I heard that some folks just don’t wake up --- but I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
“Gee, thanks, Bernice. You’re such a comfort.”
With that illuminating exchange, Maggie stepped in. “Thank you all for stopping by,” she said, shooing them toward the door. “Walt needs to get some rest. He has a big day tomorrow.”
Dad turned and gave me a hug. “I just wanted to tell you that I love you --- you know --- just in case.”
“Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it, but this is no big deal. I’ll be just fine.”
As my geriatric support group trudged down the steps to their respective apartments, Jerry turned on the boom box and Mick Jagger’s raspy voice filled the hall.
I can’t get no
I can’t get no
Soon after, I tucked in bed, but hard as I tried,
I didn’t get no
I didn’t get no --- sleep!
Bright and early the next morning, Maggie and I checked in at St. Luke’s Hospital. Normally, this would have been an outpatient procedure, but due to my goofy heart, they wanted me admitted in case something went south.
When the gal at the clinic called and told me when to report, she mentioned that Dr. Paula Polson would be doing my procedure.
“What happened to Dr. Stevens?” I asked.
“He’s not available today. Dr. Polson is scheduled for surgeries. She’s one of the best. You’ll love her.”
I couldn’t believe it. I looked at the business card from their office and eight doctors were listed. Only one was a woman. I had a one in eight chance, and I drew the woman.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not a sexist. For thirty years, I worked in real estate, an industry that is dominated by powerful women. While on the force, I would have taken Ox’s wife, Judy, over most anyone else in the precinct as my partner. I had no doubts that Dr. Polson was a wonderful surgeon --- BUT, given the nature of this particular procedure, I would have been much more comfortable with a guy probing my private parts. I guess I’m just old fashioned.
After filling out some paper work, I was whisked off to a prep room where I was given one of my favorite gowns and told to strip.
I climbed onto a bed as instructed and soon one nurse was taking my vital signs while another was inserting an I.V. in my arm.
When all that was done, Maggie was escorted in and we got to meet Dr. Polson. She assured us that everything would be fine and we were ready to go.
Maggie kissed me good-bye and I was wheeled into the operating room.
In addition to all of the instruments and medical paraphernalia, the first thing I noticed was that there were at least five female nurses standing by.
One of them placed a mask over my face and told me to just breathe normally.
I knew what was coming and I had decided to go out my way.
As I heard the ‘hiss’ coming into the mask, I started singing the old 1954 ballad by The Spaniels.
Goodnight, sweetheart, well it’s time to go
Goodnight, sweetheart, well it’s time to go
I want to hold you -----
I couldn’t even get through one chorus, but before I faded into oblivion, I saw the faces of a half-dozen women staring at my crotch.
There’s just no such thing as dignity in the O.R.!
The next thing I knew, Maggie was by my side and Dr. Polson was at the foot of my bed.
“Good news and not so good news,” she said.
I hate it when people say that.
“The good news is that we got the stone that has been giving you all the discomfort. The bad news is that the other one was just too big and we couldn’t get our instrument up to it. I inserted a stent that will enlarge your ureter and we’ll try again in about a week. You also have a stent in your right side. I’ll take it out when we get the other stone.”
“So what are these stents?”
“They are tubes that run from your kidney to your bladder. There is a little coil on each end. Sometimes when that coil touches the wall of your bladder, you may have the sensation that you need to go to the bathroom. That’s natural. There’s also the possibility that you’ll have bladder spasms, but we’ll give you some medicine for those. I’ll see you in a week.”
“Swell!”
I had hoped that things would get back to normal.
A woman who suspected her husband was having an affair, hired us to follow him and confirm or refute her fears. This was a job that required hours of boring, mind-numbing surveillance, which meant sitting still in the car.
Kevin picked me up and we found a spot where we could watch the husband’s office.
Every tim
e I moved, one of those god-awful stents poked my bladder, which in turn made me make a dash for the Quick Trip just around the corner. After the third time, the guy at the cash register started giving me dirty looks, so I bought a candy bar.
When I returned to the car after my fourth trip in an hour, Kevin had seen enough.
“Walt, for heaven’s sake, go home. With all this running around you’re worthless as tits on a fish, plus, you’re going to blow our cover.”
He was right, of course. I called Maggie and she drove me home.
So much for normal.
I never thought I’d say that I was looking forward to an operation through my weenie with six women looking on, but that’s exactly how I felt. I couldn’t wait to get those damnable stents out of my body. The good news was that I would be put out again.
Since I had been through the procedure once, I knew what to expect, and because I had accepted and made peace with the fact that preserving my dignity was a losing battle, I decided to give the girls in the O.R. a little surprise.
In the prep room where they tell you to strip and give you a gown, they also give you socks with little rubber soles to keep your feet warm and keep you from slipping.
All of us receive unsolicited junk mail from charitable organizations asking for donations. Many of these contain address labels and other seasonal stickers. I had just received a Christmas mailing from the Wayside Waifs which had stickers with holiday greetings.
On the day of my procedure, I cut one out and put it in my shirt pocket. In the prep room, after putting on the rubber footies and the gown, I slipped the sticker from my shirt pocket into the top of my sock. I was covered with a sheet and when they were wheeling me from the prep room to the O.R., I slipped the sticker out of my sock and stuck it firmly onto Mr. Winkie.
Lady Justice and the Broken Hearts Page 4
