A Slice of Life from the Cancer Ward

And an update on the biopsy procedure

When I was in the fourth grade, I spent a month in the Shriner’s Hospital for Crippled Children in Greenville, S.C., for a leg surgery that enabled me to walk and move without a significant impediment as I got older. The hospital had wards divided by age, and as I recall my ward had anywhere from 10 to 16 girls, ages 9 and 10. And it was a blast—we had movie nights, and gossip about the boys that we’d see during school time, and board games sessions when local college kids would come visit for their service projects and let us cheat, probably because they felt sorry for us. We had arguments about who got to choose what to watch on TV and a thriving economy in trading snacks. Other than the addition of being in and out of surgeries and therapies, and that we were an assortment of missing limbs and crooked spines and various defects, it was almost like a month of camp. 

I’m home from my first overnight stay in Ward 32 at Ninewells, which I described to a friend as “cancer camp.” (She suggested I work on the branding …). It’s not quite the same as my ward in Shriner’s—we all play games on our phones rather than cheating college students at board games, and we have our individual TVs and devices so there were no fights over whether to watch the French Open or The Masked Dancer. But with six women in my bay of the ward, some things are the same: trading magazines, sharing tips on the best food to order (and avoid), gossip about the nurses and the porters. 

And on a ward, you quickly learn intimate details about each other. You are right there when your neighbor gets her scan results, which are better than she was hoping. She tells you later that she is really trying to quit smoking and it’s so hard, and maybe this will be the boost she needs to quit for good. You are right there when the woman across from you is unwell in the night and the nurse comes and sits with her for what must have been at least 20 minutes and just listens while the woman talks about her grandchildren and great-grandchildren, as if she needs someone to hear the litany of their names in that moment to ensure they are real. 

Your other neighbor has a birthday on Monday—she is turning 77—and she is delighted to announce this to everyone who walks into the bay, along with a joke that she’s actually 21. Before she leaves her shift, the night nurse hand-draws a birthday card for her and tells the birthday girl that she might actually be 21 because she keeps getting up to so much trouble. 

The food offered at cancer camp isn’t very exciting, and the activities on offer range from frequent vital signs observation to the procedures and treatments that no one would volunteer for if they weren’t absolutely necessary. Even though the staff are amazing, and you’ve had good banter with your neighbor, no one wants to stay a moment longer than necessary. I’m grateful for the care provided, and grateful that I only needed an overnight stay and am back home. 

Trying to Hear Scottish with American Ears 

When the sweet little nurse who looked about 14 years old to my ancient, wizened eyes was checking me into the ward, she was going through the personal data and the health data and all the other questions you get asked in these situations. And then she asked: “Do you have winds?” Um … I’m not sure? What are winds? And then I thought she must be asking me if I had wind … which, for my American readers, is the term for abdominal gas. As in, am I farting? And I still wasn’t sure how to answer—I don’t think I am? But … maybe you have a reason for asking me, and you’re detecting something with your enhanced nursing senses? I was still staring at her blankly when she repeated, “Any winds? Any winds or sores we should know about to check?” 

OH! Finally I got it—WOUNDS. Did I have any wounds? Whew—I knew the answer to that question. No, no wounds. Just ears that after nearly eight years are still learning to hear Scottish properly!

Biopsy Update 

I had to go in overnight because they needed to check my bloodwork the night before the biopsy. All looked fine, and we were all ready to go early on Monday morning. I was nervous about a number of things going into the biopsy. Due to my spine issues, I wasn’t sure I could manage being in the position they would need. I wasn’t really looking forward to pain from the procedure. The site of that tumor is located near a bunch of nerves, creating some increased risk. The biopsy might create a wound that would add yet another thing to deal with for daily life.  And most of all, the biopsy might not yield a usable sample—what the doctor described as “failure.”

In terms of the procedure, I’m happy to report that all went well. The nurses were absolute pros in getting me into position without pain. One benefit of having sensation loss from the spinal cord compression is that I have a bonus dose of pain relief, and the entire procedure was fairly painless. The doctor felt good about an option to access the tumor without hitting any nerves; and not only did he succeed, he was able to do it by creating a very minimal wound. And best of all, he was happy about the quality of the samples that he was able to get. 

Now we wait, and pray, for the pathology report to see whether these were usable samples and whether they have receptors that indicate treatment options. 

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Love Your Nurse

What’s your favorite way to show appreciation for the nurse or health care worker in your life? If you are a nurse, how do you feel valued for the heroic efforts you are putting in day in and day out? Share ideas in the comments! And then, in honor of my night nurse who took time to draw a birthday card for a patient at the end of a 12-hour shift, do something kind for someone.