Eleven: Patient and Partner

Tennessee Valley Cove May 16, 2009

Dan and I were like two fish swimming in the same river. We had the same information, but reacted to it differently. He was the patient, I was not. During all the research, the facts and my opinion were equally welcome and valued by him. It was his body, but he included me fully in the process leading up to the final decision, which was his alone. This togetherness, or blending of the patient is a remarkable stage, or experience, because in many ways I “became” the patient for periods of time. I was allowed to live in that light by him, and it allowed me to work my hardest towards the goal of his having a successful outcome. He would even have to point out at times, “I’m the patient,” or “It’s my body.” I didn’t mind because I knew it.

This blending felt strange, and it was an experience that I hadn’t had with a human before. It could be called closeness, but it was so much more. The separation between patient and partner occurs with the surgery and after, something the partner does not experience. The emotion bound us together while logically I knew we were two people; however, I wouldn’t be completely cognizant of the real separation until he was lying in the hospital bed.

My first instinct when he told me he had cancer was I wished it were me. Beyond that, my second line of thought was that his kids depended on him—fully grown, in their 20s and 30s, they still needed him. But it didn’t take long to get my wits about me and realize I did not want to be the patient, partly because I didn’t want to be sick, but too, because I knew I could be strong for him, stronger than I could for myself. As Dan would later say to his sister in law, he knew I would get in the way of the surgeon as he pivoted above him with the knife if I needed to.

Saying that I was not looking forward to the surgery was an understatement. It scared me. It was inconceivable that it would actually happen. No wonder Dan was in denial, for as close to reality and as engaged as I felt, it was unbelievable to me. If it were my body, I would choose Dr. Goetz, I repeated to him. It is the same operation, not matter who is performing it. Yes, Dixon was the hotshot, but Goetz must be pretty damned good too. I would want to see her face when I fell asleep before surgery, and her face when I woke up in the hospital bed, connected to tubes.

My own denial, I suppose, stemmed from fear of Dan’s getting injured or dying. I wanted to protect him like a mother does a baby. What would his body look like with all that tissue removed and a bag attached to it? Would his butt sag, look hollow? Would the bag get in the way of sex and intimacy? How would that change our relationship? I put that out of my head, remembering that the aim was to keep him alive for as many years as possible so we would have the rest of our lives together. Then, there was the fear of sexual dysfunction. A 10% risk, this could affect him for a short period or forever.

An opportunity. This was how I came to look at the whole experience. An opportunity to spend time together, to go through a life-changing, life-affirming process together, with many ways for me to show I loved him. He was open enough to break down and ask for reassurance. Not outside, to anyone at work, but to me. He was stoic on the face of the disease to the world, and later to the support group itself.

What arose from the blurring of the patient and partner, and sharing the experience was the realization that out of tragedy comes awareness. In our case, love and trust became clearer. One grows or grows up quickly in this circumstance. I understood for the first time what it meant to share a life with someone and be part of something larger than myself. It made me face the more difficult, crotchety aspects of my personality quickly, get myself in order.

What being drawn into this did, also, was to draw me out of the funk I had been in, mourning my cat’s death of a year earlier. It brought me back to life, and into the moment in a way I had never been before, as I was someone with the inclination for nostalgia, for things that existed and some that never existed.

While denial was one result, or function, of this state of affairs, mourning was another. Dan went through a mourning process early on, when part of him realized he would lose a chunk of his body, lose function, and lose the clear clean lines of his abdomen forever. He would lose the naked body he was born with, something taken for granted. Nothing would be the same after the surgery. The physical change, imminent, dictated emotional upheaval.

I am not saying that we got along perfectly. The night before our rescheduled appointment with Dr. Varma, I said to him that if I was responsible for the envelope, it would have made it to San Francisco the previous Friday. Then, I said, if I had any sense, I would put the envelope downstairs by the front door that moment. There was so much tension, not between us mostly, but around us. Sometimes it got released in a bad way. Exhaustion was part of it. Sometimes it felt like my skeleton was dissolving when emotional came pouring out.