Tuesday: February 14, 2012 (Part Three)

It took awhile to clear the anesthetic haze. Mary Lou arrived in the recovery room after being debriefed by Dr. Clair. The attendants finally pushed me back to my room with a morphine drip and a button to push for an extra kick of dilaudid.

I tried to get settled. My room is nice. It's in a new wing of the hospital, a building that, from the outside, has always reminded me of the Wynn casino in Las Vegas. With its big screen television and attractive wood molding, the room would be reminiscent of a hotel suite were it not for the hospital bed and medical equipment.

Maybe this is how Howard Hughes lived when he holed up in the Desert Inn all those months. I checked, but did not find, any television channels playing “Ice Station Zebra.” Nor did I make a bid to buy the Clinic. I knew beforehand it was not for sale.

It did not take long for the pain-numbing stuff they gave me in surgery to wear off. The dilaudid button got pressed ... repeatedly. The pain had arrived and my life began to unravel, making Mark a most unpleasant person. A four-hour surgery will do that to you, I guess.

The drugs, thankfully, sent me drifting in and out of sleep. But I made it clear to doctors and nurses and anyone else within earshot that skipping radiation was not an option. They said they would make arrangements to get me there and they did. They put me in a gurney and wheeled me through a maze of corridors and elevators and let the Big Machine do its tricks.

Back in my room, my head full of strong drugs, I slept as best I could.

This crisis, which I'm told was more serious than originally thought, appears to have passed.  The guilt has not. I have no one to blame for this but myself.

Good job, Mark.