unless there’s nowhere else to go.
Tumors are perversely fascinating in their capacity for evil. They may be the only organic substance that left unharmed and given nourishment lives forever. In laboratory conditions, they survive and survive. With Matt, the initial combination of chemical agents (each combination is called a protocol) proved ineffective. After several administrations of it, a second protocol was tried, and that too proved ineffective. Matt’s tumor became classified as resistant, an especially malignant life force. The third protocol showed results, however. The mass shrank 50 percent, and surgery (which would formerly have killed Matt, so large was the mass to start with) now became possible.
The surgeon explained that the operation would take eight hours. Matt would lose the diseased rib and maybe one rib to the top and bottom, depending on what the surgeon found. The principal risk was that the tumor had grown so close to the spine that in removing the tumor the surgeon might accidentally cut a nerve—or else the artery that supplies blood to the spinal cord—and Matt would be paralyzed.
“What are Matt’s chances of that happening?” Fear made the question a whisper.
“Chances?” the surgeon had responded. “I do my best. I can’t give odds. What happens to each patient happens to him one hundred percent.”
So Matt, with utter calmness, allowed himself to be prepared for surgery. The nurse who took his heartbeat and blood pressure readings was astonished by how relaxed Matt’s vital statistics made him seem. David, Donna, and Sarie walked beside Matt’s bed as he was wheeled toward the surgical area. Then the family was told to go to a waiting room.
5
The waiting room. A horror in itself. Plenty of televisions and magazines, but everyone stares at the floor.
An eight-hour operation, and the major risk is paralysis, but the surgeon is optimistic and says he’s going for total cure. So you know when three hours into the operation you get a message to meet with the surgeon, something’s horribly wrong—and when not one surgeon but three of them join you in a consultation room, you know that whatever’s wrong, it’s worse than you can imagine.
“We ran into troubles,” the first surgeon said.
“You don’t mean he’s paralyzed!” Donna said.
The second surgeon shook his head. “Not that at all.”
“Then …?”
The surgeons didn’t respond.
“For God’s sake, tell us.”
“The tumor may be inoperable.”
“ What? ”
“It metastasized,” the third surgeon said. “It’s not just on his rib.”
Metastasized. When David later repeated that word to friends and business associates, he was amazed by how many didn’t understand what metastasized meant. To spread. The tumor had sprouted seeds. Roots were growing throughout Matthew’s lung.
“No!”
“The metastases are so close to the spine I don’t think I can get them all,” the first surgeon said. “I’ll probably have to take several more ribs than I hoped.” The surgeon exhaled. “And all of his lung.”
David ached.
“The point is, if I don’t get every offshoot from the tumor, several other tumors will start to grow, and in areas where I can’t operate without killing him.”
“He’s going to die?”
The second surgeon nodded. “I’m sorry. You have to be prepared for that possibility.”
“But isn’t there anything we can do?”
The surgeons glanced at each other.
“The tumor’s been resistant to chemotherapy,” the third surgeon said. “The only thing I can think of is to really give it a dose, I mean a humongous dose, of chemicals. To go for a bone marrow transplant.”
David vaguely recalled having heard the term before, but he had no idea what it meant.
“It’ll take too long to explain right now,” the second surgeon said. “The treatment’s severe, much worse than the chemotherapy your son’s already received. It’s risky, but in many cases, especially
Tumors are perversely fascinating in their capacity for evil. They may be the only organic substance that left unharmed and given nourishment lives forever. In laboratory conditions, they survive and survive. With Matt, the initial combination of chemical agents (each combination is called a protocol) proved ineffective. After several administrations of it, a second protocol was tried, and that too proved ineffective. Matt’s tumor became classified as resistant, an especially malignant life force. The third protocol showed results, however. The mass shrank 50 percent, and surgery (which would formerly have killed Matt, so large was the mass to start with) now became possible.
The surgeon explained that the operation would take eight hours. Matt would lose the diseased rib and maybe one rib to the top and bottom, depending on what the surgeon found. The principal risk was that the tumor had grown so close to the spine that in removing the tumor the surgeon might accidentally cut a nerve—or else the artery that supplies blood to the spinal cord—and Matt would be paralyzed.
“What are Matt’s chances of that happening?” Fear made the question a whisper.
“Chances?” the surgeon had responded. “I do my best. I can’t give odds. What happens to each patient happens to him one hundred percent.”
So Matt, with utter calmness, allowed himself to be prepared for surgery. The nurse who took his heartbeat and blood pressure readings was astonished by how relaxed Matt’s vital statistics made him seem. David, Donna, and Sarie walked beside Matt’s bed as he was wheeled toward the surgical area. Then the family was told to go to a waiting room.
5
The waiting room. A horror in itself. Plenty of televisions and magazines, but everyone stares at the floor.
An eight-hour operation, and the major risk is paralysis, but the surgeon is optimistic and says he’s going for total cure. So you know when three hours into the operation you get a message to meet with the surgeon, something’s horribly wrong—and when not one surgeon but three of them join you in a consultation room, you know that whatever’s wrong, it’s worse than you can imagine.
“We ran into troubles,” the first surgeon said.
“You don’t mean he’s paralyzed!” Donna said.
The second surgeon shook his head. “Not that at all.”
“Then …?”
The surgeons didn’t respond.
“For God’s sake, tell us.”
“The tumor may be inoperable.”
“ What? ”
“It metastasized,” the third surgeon said. “It’s not just on his rib.”
Metastasized. When David later repeated that word to friends and business associates, he was amazed by how many didn’t understand what metastasized meant. To spread. The tumor had sprouted seeds. Roots were growing throughout Matthew’s lung.
“No!”
“The metastases are so close to the spine I don’t think I can get them all,” the first surgeon said. “I’ll probably have to take several more ribs than I hoped.” The surgeon exhaled. “And all of his lung.”
David ached.
“The point is, if I don’t get every offshoot from the tumor, several other tumors will start to grow, and in areas where I can’t operate without killing him.”
“He’s going to die?”
The second surgeon nodded. “I’m sorry. You have to be prepared for that possibility.”
“But isn’t there anything we can do?”
The surgeons glanced at each other.
“The tumor’s been resistant to chemotherapy,” the third surgeon said. “The only thing I can think of is to really give it a dose, I mean a humongous dose, of chemicals. To go for a bone marrow transplant.”
David vaguely recalled having heard the term before, but he had no idea what it meant.
“It’ll take too long to explain right now,” the second surgeon said. “The treatment’s severe, much worse than the chemotherapy your son’s already received. It’s risky, but in many cases, especially
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