August 7, 2015
According to David Eagleman, a neuroscientist at Baylor College of Medicine, when a person is frightened, an area in their brain called the amygdala becomes more active, recording an extra set of memories that go along with those normally taken care of by other parts of the brain.
“In this way, frightening events are associated with richer and denser memories,” Eagleman explained. “The more memory you have of an event, the longer you believe it took.”1
Twenty-four long hours after an army of Johns Hopkins health-care professionals had pinned me down and snaked an NG tube down my nasal passage and into my organs, the ileus that the tube was meant to clear was gone. The NG tube had done its job and had been removed at some point after I passed out from exhaustion. When I woke, Dr. Schaeffer, my surgeon, was sitting by Connie. Her face was soaked with tears. They told me I’d been asleep for a day, but if they said I’d been asleep for a week, I would have believed them.
Then Dr. Schaeffer held up a piece of paper in front of me. There was a happy face drawn on the top. It was the pathology report on my prostate from the Johns Hopkins lab. Dr. Schaeffer had been explaining to Connie that the surgery had been a success, and that the margins surrounding my cancerous prostate gland were clear of any cancer cells.
He believed I was cancer-free. Connie’s tears had been tears of joy.
There was only one “minor” lingering issue that I still had to contend with. My bladder had not yet fully recovered from the procedure, so Dr. Schaeffer could not remove the indwelling urinary catheter. Connie asked how long I would have to keep it in. Dr. Schaeffer gave us every postoperative patient’s favorite answer: “I don’t know, we’ll have to wait and see.”
We were not going to wait and see in Baltimore, however. A few days later we were set to fly back to Los Angeles, with one of us sporting a catheter bag strapped to his ankle. We did not complain though. We were both shell-shocked, to be sure, but our feelings were easily eclipsed by the good fortune of the successful surgery and healing. Another few weeks catheterized was a small price to pay.
Eventually, we got the thumbs-up from Dr. Schaeffer to have the catheter removed. For that, we went to a local Los Angeles hospital, where the nurse, despite her best efforts and the best of intentions, could not get the catheter out to save her life. She tugged and tugged at the hose, but it wouldn’t budge.
Yep. My worst nightmare.
The nurse called for the doctor, who arrived shortly thereafter and demanded that Connie leave the exam room. She protested. He insisted. I shared the concerned look now on her face.
“Mr. Tesh, this is going to be a little uncomfortable.”
Before I could recruit my panic hormones, the doctor put his foot onto the exam table between my legs. He grabbed the catheter hose with both hands and pulled with all his might. There was a popping sound and the catheter flew out and onto the ground.
“Done,” said the doctor. He smiled, then turned and exited the room. (Mic drop!)
I sat in stunned silence. No pain. No discomfort. No fainting. I was free. Free of the catheter. Free of cancer.