A Health Update
Anthony R. Candela
A week ago as I write and around 10:00 a.m., I got a buzz-on. Time passage is difficult to track when you’ve been put into hospital gowns, interviewed and debriefed by a number of professional healthcare staff, and finally, wheeled down a hall, up an elevator, and into an operating room.
The urologist treating my BPH (enlarged prostate) is both experienced and amiable. I instantly liked him. The nurse anesthetist who I met for the first time after my gowning explained how I would be hooked up to a drip and well, disappear. Then, a breathing tube would be inserted. When the body and brain are shut down as much as general anesthesia causes, more than a century’s experience dictates the use of some form of life support. The tube would be removed before I awakened, she told me, leaving behind only a sore throat.
The other nurses did things like taking my vitals and cataloguing my belongings which were safely delivered to my room after recovery.
A little more than two hours after I chuckled and told the nurse anesthetist my ears were buzzing, I found myself in the recovery room. Some time later, maybe an hour or so, they wheeled me to the room where I would stay overnight. At my request, they allowed me to walk the last 10 feet from the gurney to my bed. I felt fine. That was the last time I would be upright for around 18 hours.
During the procedure to “shrink” my enlarged prostate, the doctor performed a Holmium Laser Enucleation of the Prostate (HOLEP). He used a laser to remove excess tissue that causes blocking of urine flow through the prostate and also pushes on the bladder. When the deed is done, the center of the prostate has been partially hollowed out (as-if carving out an orange). This reduces the overall volume of the gland which in turn alleviates the problems experienced by the urinary tract, the bladder, and me.
I have nothing but the highest praise for everyone at the NY-Presbyterian (AKA Columbia Presbyterian) outpatient and inpatient hospitals. Luckily, I never felt bad throughout my stay, so I was a “good patient.” My roommate, a 22-year-old man with some type of mouth cancer, wasn’t quite as comfortable. Fortunately, he was treated and heading home soon after me.
While in bed, a tube connected to my left forearm ran across my body to a pole standing about 5 feet to the right of my bed. There hung the bags of drip (saline and other medicines) going into me. A catheter fed my urine into a tank that the urology team and nurses could view visually. They came to check on me a few times during the evening and overnight. Each time, the doctor told me my urine looked fabulous. I told him that was the best compliment I’d ever received.
There was one more test to pass before they would let me go. I had to pee strongly on my own at least a few times. Sometimes, one derives joy in strange ways. After an anxious hour praying for the urge, I had a perfect potty performance, Something I’d been doing since infancy. My discharge was assured.
Hopefully, this series of events signals that the saga which began four months ago with excruciating pain is on the wane. It is a far cry from the state I was in on Xmas Eve when I landed in the Emergency Department of the Allen Hospital, the uptown annex of NY-Presbyterian.
The final test is currently under way. I have to take it easy for two weeks and then increase physical activity for another two. For about a week, I will take MiraLAX and for a few days, a medication for bladder health. I am wearing drip-pads, but haven’t needed Tylenol as there is barely perceptible residual pain. I have follow-up visits in a month.
A final word about how I was treated as a blind person. The short answer is wonderfully. The staff is uniformly smart and curious, the latter being most important since it means they ask for your guidance when unsure. My nurses were caring. The day-nurse showed me how to work the TV remote control, made sure I could manage my meal tray in bed, and walked me up and down the hall on discharge morning to jump-start my system. She spent time reviewing my discharge instructions and assisted me to initial them. It was clear that the staff cross-communicated as there was little confusion. This hasn’t always been the case in my experience with healthcare professionals, but that’s another story. For now, the news seems good. My fingers are crossed.
Saying aloud what should not remain silent.
Books by Tony…
Stand Up Or Sit Out: Memories and Musings Of a Blind Wrestler, Runner, and All-around Regular Guy
A memoir about life lessons learned, especially through sports
Vision Dreams: A Parable
A sci-fi novella about how a dysfunctional society forces people to go to extremes, including four blind people who seek out artificial vision.
What Should Not Remain Silent
A sampling of moments in the author’s life between June 2021 and April 2024 and the essays he felt compelled to write about them. The pieces in this book illustrate his reactions to a wide variety of issues, from disability to diversity and inclusion to war, peace, and politics.
https://www.dldbooks.com/anthonyrcandela/
Or go to Amazon, then Books, then Anthony R. Candela to purchase it.
The book is available in paperback, hardcover, and e–book formats.
Tony Candela has worked as a Rehabilitation Counselor, supervisor, manager consultant and administrator for more than 45 years in the field of blindness and visual impairment. His work currently includes the development of blindness professionals. He is a “retired” athlete, loves movies, sports, reading, writing, and music, including dabbling in guitar.