November 2003
Michael
I now began in earnest to get ready for the lung surgery, even though I did not know what to expect at all. The surgeries I had had so far were merely scopes and resections, not full-blown invasive surgeries. I did not know how much surgery could hurt, and you really cannot know until you’ve had one. I went to see Dr. McKenna, who examined me again. During our talk he told me that he thought I had cancer, and if it was lung cancer that he would get it out. I told him again that I did not want to lose any of my lung unless it was absolutely necessary, and he assured me that he would comply with my request. He was very confident and seemed to know how this would come out. He was not into alternative treatments and told Marilu that I could get back to eating whatever I wanted after my surgery. I was learning to take what I could from doctors and not look for more than they had to give. Surgeons are a strange breed, anyway: They do what others only talk or write about. They have a certain bravado that I guess they must have in order to take other people’s lives into their hands confidently many times a week, fiddling with others’ insides.
While waiting for my day of surgery I continued to work at the office, but to be honest I was more involved in my health journey than ever. I so wanted to be healed, but I thought that even the life I was then leading was not so bad. My physical health was improving, the bladder cancer was in remission, and I would soon solve the puzzle of the mass in my lung. I felt like I could survive the lung cancer, just like I had survived the bladder cancer. And maybe I would be even stronger as a result. But the doubts persisted because so many others doubted me. Two cancers at once, how did I know there was not another one lurking somewhere? I’d had skin lesions that were pre-cancerous. What about my lymph nodes? And then how did I know that I would not get a recurrence of the bladder cancer? How did I know what they would find when they started digging in my lungs? I tried to stay positive, to visualize a healthy outcome. But knowing how I had abused my poor lungs, so damaged by smoking and God knows what else, made me scared.
One good thing was that my family was very supportive. Despite the anger I had felt toward my father, he supported me, as did my concerned mother. My daughters were very sweet, and my son worried about his dad. It was very important to me that my family understood what I was going through and how much I loved them. I did not want my children to suffer, but I held out hope that they could learn from my experience, and I think they did.
At this time I also went to an allergist, who tested me with thirty-two pinpricks on my back. No allergies that he could find, but he still had me come back for one test after another. Finally I asked him what exactly he was looking for; he turned to me and said that he was trying to determine whether I had emphysema. My grandfather had died of emphysema. I looked it up. Emphysema is a condition of dead air linings in the lung tissue. God, did I regret the smoking!
I went through an extensive preoperative routine that included visits to my pulmonologist, Dr. Wachtel, and my internist, Dr. Khalsa. Everyone assured me what a great surgeon Dr. McKenna was, and I was quite confident in his ability. Still, I regretted the fact that I was going to lose some or all of my lung. I felt like I would never be whole again, and I so wanted to be whole, to have a chance to live a long life. But there was nothing to be done but submit to the surgery. I had exhausted every logical alternative.
Marilu drove me to the hospital that morning at five-thirty a.m. Always so early to check-in. The endless repetitive questions, the plastic strap around the wrist, the bogus fully clothed weigh-in, and the hurried blood pressure test. After saying goodbye to Marilu and entering the pre-op area, I was led to a bed and hooked up to the IV and monitoring machines. I lay there listening to the interns and nurses making jokes about Dr. McKenna. It seems that McKenna was a country music fan, and they had rigged up a speaker so they could play a tune for him. They were laughing and joking and ignoring me across the room. I played a trick on them just to have something to do, to show them that I was there with them. At that time, inexplicably, I had an extremely slow pulse. My average was in the midforties, and each time I got tested the nurse would ask me if I was an athlete or something. As I lay on that bed I could see the pulse monitor, and if I lay real still I could slow my pulse below forty-five, at which point the alarm would go off and the nurses would rush over. Something to pass the time. I guess if I could get my pulse down that far I must have been pretty mellow in that operating room!
Finally the anesthesiologist came in and prepared me for the anesthesia. I knew that once he shot me up the surgery I had dreaded for so long would happen. Trying to calm my fears as he gave me my injection, I faded out to the sound of twanging guitars and the interns welcoming the surgeon.
In case I did have cancer, I had arranged on Dr. Block’s advice for part of my tumor to be rushed to a lab, where it would be subjected to several chemotherapies to determine the most effective one in case I had to follow up the surgery with chemo as a way to further ensure that the cancer did not spread. This was just another precaution, as I had only one chance to have my tumor examined before it was flushed down the toilet. I wish I could have seen it; it was part of me after all! But such curiosity seemed morbid to the hospital staff, and maybe it was.
From what I heard later, I know that the doctor went in through a couple of holes in my right underarm and, through a scope, found the mass and removed part of it. They hurried it to the lab, where a quick biopsy revealed cancer, bronchioloalveolar. Dr. McKenna went back in and removed the remainder of the lower lobe of my right lung and some lymph nodes. The margins were clean and there was a good chance that the cancer had not spread, that he had gotten all of it. The lymph nodes were biopsied and were shown to be clean of cancer cells.
I awoke in the recovery room groggy and in pain. I turned my head and saw Marilu sitting beside me. She told me that they had removed the tumor along with the lower lobe, and that they had gotten all of it. I was overcome with love and emotion. She looked so kind and gentle, so concerned, so loving. She had been through a lot with me in the short time we had been together. I grabbed her hand and thanked her for being there for me. We had talked about marriage almost from the time we had gotten together, but now it seemed we were through this horror show and heading for the exit. We had made it! And now I could commit, I could dare to love, and to think about the future. And so I rose up in my bed as best I could, strapped down as I was by tubes and wires, and asked Marilu to be my wife.
November 24, 2003
Marilu
Today’s the day. Monday, November 24, 2003. Michael’s lung surgery.
Neither of us slept well the night before, but even a few hours in each other’s arms felt like eight hours anywhere else. We moved about the house quietly so as not to wake the boys or the babysitter who’d slept over to drive them to school. I’d be picking them up after school, because with Michael’s six a.m. check-in and eight a.m. surgery, I was sure he’d be stable enough by three o’clock for me to take the boys shopping for what they needed for their school’s Multicultural Feast the next day. It was Nicky’s class that was putting it on, and he was representing Greece with an authentic costume we borrowed from the Hellenic Times, from whom I had received an honor in 1998 at their Hellenic Times Scholarship Fund Gala. Michael, the boys, and I had gotten into a family groove, and it was important to both Michael and me to keep our lives as normal as possible under the circumstances. Life is always action-packed during this time of year, but especially when you’re trying to balance school, work, the holidays, and saving a life!
I had packed the necessary waiting room goodies—books, magazines, chargers, healthy snacks, and so on, paying extra attention to bring additional big scarves and sweaters for anyone who might be homesteading with me waiting for news from Michael’s doctor. Cassia was set to be there as soon as she dropped Victoria off at school, and since it was her first time sitting vigil, I was sure she wouldn’t bring warm enough clothes for a cold November waiting room stay.
It was still pitch-black when we arrived at the hospital, but we were old pros by now at getting up early and speeding up the process of checking in, especially once Michael had filled in all of his Advance Healthcare Directive paperwork designating me the person in charge. It’s a big responsibility being the one who can make those life and death decisions, but neither of us would have had it any other way. I knew that Michael didn’t want to lose any more of his lung than was absolutely necessary, and he was trusting me to make sure Dr. McKenna honored his request. When we saw McKenna that morning, we both reminded him ad nauseam about being careful. He gave us the look most people give me when I’m snoopervising their jobs, but I didn’t care. I’m glad I’m pushy. And I had to say it out loud before Michael went under so that he knew I had his back. McKenna again reassured us that he’d do only what was necessary and went to scrub up. Michael and I kissed one last time before his anesthesia took effect, and there was no doubt in my mind that he would be okay. I could see our future in his face that still looked handsome, despite the ridiculous hospital shower cap they make surgery patients wear. I watched them wheel him away and said a little prayer before leaving the pre-op room to go pick my spot in the main waiting room.
By now many of the hospital staff and volunteers recognized us as regulars, and some even called us by name. One in particular was a huge Taxi fan and allowed me to keep my wheelie bag of supplies behind the desk while I power-walked the hospital corridors. I tried not to take advantage too often, but it was sure nice to be able to burn off some energy while Dr. McKenna did his magic. By the time Cassia arrived to sit vigil and wait for news with me, I felt revved up and emotionally ready to hear anything. The two of us watched the comings and goings of volunteers, medical personnel, and patients with hopeful anticipation, trying to read the expressions on each doctor’s face when he or she came to deliver the sad or happy news.
When the door swung open and there was McKenna, Cassia and I jumped up and practically leaped into his arms. With his cowboy swagger and poker face delivery, it was hard to get a reading right away, but I did hear him say, “It went well. It was cancer, but it was in a convenient spot. I only took what I had to. The small lowest lobe of his right lung. Clean margins. I got it all.” Cassia and I screamed, and through my tears I dared to ask, “Will I get ten more years with Michael?” McKenna scoffed, “Ten? I hope you like this guy ’cause you could get over thirty!” And when an uncharacteristically slight smile came to his face, I gave him a huge hug and lots of thank yous, no longer caring that I was invading his personal space.
He then went on to tell us that the cancer looked like stage 1A bronchioloalveolar lung cancer, not bladder cancer, and that he’d have the definitive results later this week, probably after the holiday. It was three days before Thanksgiving, after all, and I couldn’t think of anything I could be more thankful for. It was not bladder cancer. It. Was. Not. Metastasized. Bladder. Cancer.
McKenna said his goodbyes and told Cassia and me that he’d check-in later that day and that Michael was in the first post-op recovery room and would be moved to the second one, where we could go back and see him in an hour or so. Cassia had to leave before then, so when she headed out, I went to my Taxi buddy volunteer and told him the good news. I wasn’t quite trying to use the Force on him, but I wasn’t surprised when he whispered, “Wanna go back and see him? Follow me.”
I had been in the second post-op room many times after Michael’s cystoscopies and other people’s surgeries, but I had never visited the inner sanctum that looked almost like the scene in Coma with its still bodies, blue lighting, and complete silence, save for the beeps of the monitors. There were no other patients near Michael’s bed, and he was still out cold, so I quietly tiptoed over and sat on the edge of his bed. Despite the oxygen tube in his nose, the bandages covering his obvious wound, and the various medical apparatus attached to his body, he still looked like a sleeping god. And seeing him in that state reminded me of my mother in the hospital, so many years ago, trying to survive the best we knew how at the time, and only wished I knew then what I know now. I could have inspired her with the same knowledge Michael discovered to save himself.
I sat there staring at his handsome face for about fifteen minutes, when he started to come to. His eyes blinked and then began to focus. I quietly said, “Hey, baby. It wasn’t bladder cancer. It was stage 1A lung cancer. The good one. And McKenna got it all. He said I’ll have you around for at least thirty years.” He smiled and slowly slid his hand to mine, swallowed to clear his throat, and said:
“Will you marry me?”
Of course I said, “Yes!”
I couldn’t wait to tell the boys the double-great news. Michael was going to be around for a long time and we were going to get married. Nicky was right—it wasn’t a question of if; it was only a matter of when.
I brought the boys to the hospital to visit Michael on Tuesday after their school’s Multicultural Feast was a huge success. And by Wednesday, barely fifty hours after his operation, Michael was going home. On Thanksgiving, he was still recuperating and could barely eat, but by Friday he woke up feeling stronger and more resolved than ever to live a healthy, long life. He was feeling so good, in fact, that that evening he was feeling frisky enough to have sex—four days after major surgery. What a guy!
Michael
Having trouble breathing and groggy from the drugs and the oncoming pain, I laid on the bed hooked up to monitors with a breathing tube hanging out my nose and a mass of gauze on my chest. The light in the room was nice, no windows, a warm glow. So when I looked at Marilu, and we both realized that we had come through this together it was natural to ask her to marry me. I croaked it out as best I could, and when she heard me she cried and touched me. She told me that my daughter Cassia had been out in the waiting room and would be so happy to hear the good news later on. The nurses then pushed my bed into my suite and hooked me up to the machines again.
I passed a few days in the hospital, and then it was time to be discharged. I was not sure I was ready, but the policy was to get the patients discharged quickly. Marilu took me home that afternoon and I took to my bed. The next day was Thanksgiving, and I managed to eat with the family. But that weekend I got a terrible cold. As I lay on the bed I felt the vacuum in my right lung, a hole in my chest. I closed my eyes and could visualize the empty space, with webs of blood vessels and nerve endings dangling in the void. The empty feeling persisted for a year as the middle lobe grew down and gradually filled in the space. But some lung capacity was lost forever and my famously low pulse rate changed to a more normal range in the sixties. No more messing with the nurses with that trick of mine!
I was so glad to be home, to be with Marilu and my family. All of our kids were happy to know that Marilu and I were engaged; it seemed like such a natural conclusion to such a dramatic journey. Normal for me had become a place of balance, a peace with myself and my body. Marilu told me that Dr. McKenna said that I could last thirty more years, and I was determined to give it a go. And with Marilu by my side I knew that I would get what I needed.
Marilu
Michael and I have been together for more than thirteen years now, married for more than nine, and his cancers have been in remission for more than twelve. Twelve years of glorious health. Every time he sees a doctor and gets another “all clear,” I thank God and marvel at my husband’s amazing ability to have changed his normal and saved his life.
Our wedding on Thursday, December 21, 2006, was a family affair: my sister Christal was my maid of honor; her nine-year-old musically gifted twins, William and Christopher, played cello and violin; Michael’s brother Rob was his best man; his twin brother, Marc, officiated; my brother Lorin gave the wedding speech; Nick and Joey gave me away; and Jackson, born the day of Michael’s and my first date, was the ring bearer. In addition to the standard wedding vows, I promised Michael that I would always pack for him, help take care of his dog Pablo, and love his children like they were my own. And Michael vowed he would agree to cohost our annual Henner Family Christmas, at least try to be on time, and to always follow the rules of the Total Health Makeover.
When I am asked to speak on various health topics at events all over the country, no matter what I am there to lecture about, after telling Michael’s story, it’s the only thing anyone wants to discuss. People are shocked and want to hear more. You can see from the look in their eyes that they have not heard most of this information before, but feel that, for maybe the first time, they are hearing some truths.
There is currently what I call the tsunami of health. Nothing can stop it. People are demanding answers. And thank God there are people like Dr. Neal Barnard from PCRM (Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine), Nelson and Dr. T. Colin Campbell, authors of The China Study, and of course, Dr. Soram Khalsa leading the way. What I learned from so many wonderful sources in the seventies is becoming mainstream now, and I couldn’t be happier.
And I couldn’t be happier sharing my days with a beautiful extended family, two college boys who are not brats, and a healthy, happy relationship with the fearless love of my life.