Charleston
One week later

I had been prepped and sat almost naked in a small, cold chair, wearing only a flimsy, pre-worn but clean and backless hospital gown, in a small presurgical room surrounded with white cloth curtains displaying a pinkish floral pattern. For an instant, my brain relaxed, thinking a dire mistake had been made—a sadistic joke—that I really didn’t have cancer. But I was ready to go. Let’s get this show on the road.

My wife, Amy, sat in a similar chair next to me. She is small in frame, five feet, two inches tall, but huge in character. She’d never faltered in her strength since that dreadful “you have cancer” phone call from Dr. Simpson. When I got angry, she’d assured me all would be well. As my frustration grew, she’d encouraged me to continue searching for the right doctor for an answer. When I awoke at night sweating from a dream where I’d died, she’d hold my head close to her breast and calm my fears.

There were days I questioned the existence of God. But I did believe in miracles. Amy and I had met in college, went on one date, and were never apart again. I was confident a greater power knew the wife I needed and led her to me. So, I guessed I did believe in God.

She must have sensed my thoughts of her as she placed her hand on my leg. “You look calm.”

I was afraid but kept that fear to myself. “I’m calm when you’re with me. Thanks for being my wife.”

She smiled and kissed me.

I’d combed the internet, trying to discover every bit of available information about this “good kind of cancer”—carcinoid. I’d researched neuroendocrine tumors, or NET, as they are also called. I’d learned that folks diagnosed with this rare form of cancer were called zebras as each patient’s disease is idiosyncratic. Diagnosis with many patients was difficult, often delayed, as physicians had little experience or training with the disease in medical school. In fact, medical students are taught the expression, “When you hear hoof beats, look for horses, not zebras.” NET is rare; so doctors often searched for other, more common diagnoses when presented with a patient expressing NET symptoms.

So now I’d become a damn zebra. And, just as no two zebras have identical stripes, no two NET patients have the same type or location of tumors. Many have their origin in the small intestine, as mine had, while other common areas are the lungs and the pancreas. From these seemingly simple beginnings, they could spread anywhere in the body, but most commonly they loved to make their home in the liver.

Through the opening of the curtains, I saw sick people lying on gurneys and exam tables. I heard hospital workers talking medical-speak, a language I didn’t understand. I felt like I was in a foreign country even though the hospital was only a few blocks from my home.

My surgeon pulled back the cloth drape and smiled, seeming surprised to see my expression of calmness. He was a short, well-built man with a neck as thick as an ox’s. His voice was a deep bass, and for the fifth time, he explained the procedure and asked if I had any questions. I assured him I was ready.

He told me he would remove my primary tumor, affected lymph nodes, the tumors in my large intestines and additional ones in my small intestine, along with several feet of my colon. He doubted he could remove the liver tumors as they were too many and too large. I just wanted to get these wretched invaders out of my body and start living my life again.

He shared that the death rate from the surgery was extremely low but not zero. Infection and bleeding could be possibilities. I didn’t like hearing the words death rate. Amy flinched and began to cry. It was her first display of fear; she wanted to be strong. I was in the good hands of a brilliant surgeon in an excellent medical facility. But this procedure would be more dramatic than I expected.

The nurse strapped me on the gurney. I felt like the great river of my life was facing a winding bend, and my life would never be the same. I handed my necklace with the chunk of brick dangling from its end to Amy. The nurse attached an IV bag that began dripping its magic potion into my arm, and a peace transcended my thoughts as she rolled me to the operating room. I drifted into a deep sleep, hearing a male voice counting backward from ten.

My next memory was waking in a stiff bed, covered with only a white sheet and freezing. My abdominal area was pounding with pain. I excruciatingly lifted my hospital gown to inspect the damage. A red, inflamed incision that looked like the tracks of a Union Pacific railroad coursed my gut from two inches below my belly button to the lower tip of my rib cage.

Damn that’d make a great impression when I walked shirtless on the hot sands of Folly Beach. But who cared; I was alive!

During surgery a tube had been rammed through my nose and down my throat and was still there. I gagged and tried to spit it out but couldn’t. My throat throbbed with pain. That’s when I realized this plastic cylinder ran all the way into my stomach to empty its contents. I could barely breathe. This was an extreme invasion of my body, one I’d not bargained for.

My mind raced with fear. My sense of well-being was gone. I felt like I was in the middle of a nightmare, free-falling from the sky, wildly flinging my arms and legs. The worst-case scenario raced through my mind. Did the surgeon remove all my tumors? Did he cut my liver open? Would I ever breathe normally again? Would I be able to run my company or see my children become successful? Scary thoughts slung through my brain like boomerangs.

When I gathered my senses, I recognized Amy as she patted my forehead with a cool, wet washcloth. I struggled to speak, as the tube inhibited my voice. “Tell me about the liver tumors. Did the surgeon remove them?”

She smiled and continued rubbing my forehead. “They could not be removed, just too many and too large. But he’s confident you’ll be able to live a wonderful, normal life.”

For some crazy reason I didn’t believe her. I don’t know why because she never lied. But I didn’t. I turned to other family members who were there with us. I asked the same question to my oldest daughter. Same answer. I didn’t believe her either.

Crazy.

Maybe I was too scared to believe. I desperately wanted to live a normal life, to walk my daughters down the wedding aisle and to be my son’s best man. I wanted to grow old with Amy.

I looked at my mother-in-law. I knew without a doubt—she never lied. George Washington had nothing on this woman. She could not tell a lie. She’d taken notes of the surgeon’s comments.

“You tell me and I’ll believe it,” I said, gagging.

She slowly pulled out her notepad and read: “Successfully removed the primary tumor, all affected lymph nodes and several feet of the small and large intestine. All tumors were resected except the ones in the liver. They should grow slowly, and Mr. Avery should expect to live a long life.”

My head collapsed onto my pillow. I could hear music streaming through the hospital’s hallway. Smooth jazz saxophone, playing “You Are My Lady.” The panic rushing through my body subsided. The throbbing pain in my gut eased for a few moments. I managed another deep breath of relief past the devious tube that assaulted my throat, touched my brick necklace, which lay on the table next to my bed, and closed my eyes.

～

My attentive nurse periodically interrupted my sleep the rest of the day to place her ice-cold stethoscope on my stomach and listen for gas—an exciting experience.

Later that evening, I awoke as she was changing the bag on my IV drip.

“And what’s your name?” I struggled to asked.

She smiled. Her smile was bright and seemed to capture pure joy. I needed some joy. My hospital room was a better place when she smiled. “Brooke Wyche. Do you feel any pain, Mr. Avery?”

“Only when I cough, sip water, move, or basically lift my eyelids.” Yes, I felt pain.

She placed her hand on my forehead. “You had quite an invasive surgery. Just press the morphine pump when your pain is unbearable.”

Her words were soft and peaceful. Small lines radiated from the corners of her eyes and edges of her lips. She carried herself with dignity and was quite fit. She must have exercised regularly. I figured she was around fifty.

“I don’t think this damn morphine pump works,” I growled. “I’ve been pressing it all afternoon.”

She managed a small laugh. “The morphine is metered so you won’t overdose. But I promise the pain will ease through the night. Just let us take care of you.”

I wanted to believe her encouraging words but wasn’t sure I could. I was in the hospital, a despised place and one I never wanted to be. And I didn’t like having to depend on anyone, much less a person I’d just met.

On the second day of my delightful hospital visit, my surgeon removed the brutal tube from my throat and showed me scans displaying where he’d removed several feet of my intestines and then reconnected the whole mess. He told me I’d be in the hospital for seven to ten days. He said it’d take that long for my intestines to regain proper function.

I committed myself to staying no more than four days. He told me walking would help my bowels start working again. So, I walked. And I walked. Around the nurses’ station every hour. At first, Amy had to assist me by holding my arm. But by the evening I walked by myself, pushing the silvery bag hanging from the IV stand. My nurse, Brooke, with whom I had begun to develop a relationship, laughed at my determination.

My room possessed a westerly view of the Ashley River. The sunset was magnificent. The evening sky was on fire, with bold purple and orange colors reflecting off the clouds. I imagined I could reach out my window and hold the golden hues in my hand. The brilliant scene soothed and relaxed me like one of Amy’s encompassing hugs.

As the sun slowly disappeared behind the horizon, Brooke entered my room. She sat down, which I thought was a bit odd since she’d been moving nonstop throughout her shifts. “From reading your file, I understand you’re an ex-coach.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Yeah.”

“And you look to be in good shape.”

“I work out.”

She slid to the edge of her chair. Her words were soft but direct. “I read in the paper you recently made a generous donation to the Komen run. Thank you for your support.”

“You’re welcome.”

She stared at me—quiet. Something was on her mind.

She finally spoke. “I was recently diagnosed with breast cancer. I’ll learn my course of treatment soon. You have a particularly unusual kind of cancer. If you don’t mind my saying it, I can tell how worried you are. All day, for some uncanny reason, I’ve felt compelled to tell you about a group of people who have helped me face my dark days.”

“Yeah,” I said, realizing I had raised the right side of my lip—my autonomic response when I’m not sure I want to continue a conversation.

But her face possessed a genuine glow of sincerity. “The group is called the Charleston Dragon Boat Club. Most of the paddlers are cancer survivors, just like you and me. Without them, I would have been lost.”

“What is a dragon boat?” I asked.

“It’s a forty-eight-foot narrow canoe that holds twenty paddlers. It’s rather majestic.”

“Like rowing?” I asked.

She seemed to relax and smiled. “No, each person holds a paddle, not an oar. It’s an ancient Chinese sport that dates back over two thousand years. I’ve never been athletic and was highly skeptical, but after my first practice, I was hooked. I thought that you, as an ex-coach and a cancer survivor, would relate.”

“What hooked you?” I’d always drawn upon an athlete’s motivation in my coaching.

“The fact that anyone can do it, even someone like me. All I needed was my drive and desire to be well. And it’s a sport of people working together and not one of isolation like running. I believe you’d like it.”

The buzzer in her lap vibrated.

I rested my head on my pillow and grimaced with pain as I raised my arms above my head. A signal I routinely used when I was ready to end a conversation. “Well, I need to get out of this place first. I’m just looking forward to a majestic bowel movement.”

She laughed. “It’ll happen soon enough. We paddle on Saturday mornings in the Ashley River. Think about giving it a chance. It’s changed my life. You may be surprised.” She closed the door as she left the room.

I smirked.

I had no intentions of getting into a long, narrow boat with twenty amateurish, unhealthy losers and flipping over in the rushing tide of the Ashley River.

On the third day, Brooke beamed as she firmly pressed her stethoscope against my belly. “I hear rumblings,” she said.

“Excellent, that means I can go home.”

“Not until you have a bowel movement.”

“Great, now my life now revolves around a trip to the bathroom.”

“Yes, it does,” Brooke said as she patted my arm. “I brought you a book to read about the sport of dragon boating. It was written by our coach, Jamie Barker. My email address is on the back cover. Message me when you get home. I’d love to introduce you to my wonderful teammates.”

Although we’d only known each other a few days, Brooke and I had developed a rapport. I wanted to learn more about her disease. I was reluctant to ask questions, but a small voice told me I should.

“Are you doing okay with your recent diagnosis?” I asked.

She gave a long, slow sigh and stood still. Her eyes, crystal blue like the Caribbean Sea, penetrated mine. “I’m scared to death. Of dying, having radical surgery, losing my hair, and especially of being demeaned by looking like a freak. You’ve probably never experienced those kinds of insecure feelings.”

Little did she know that even before my diagnosis, I avoided, like the plague, every situation that could have the smallest potential to place me in a humiliating position.

I felt awkward. But I understood how she felt. I rarely opened my thoughts to anyone but Amy. But for some reason I felt comfortable talking with Brooke. “Could I share my experience?” I asked.

Brooke sat down. “Sure.”

“When I was first diagnosed, I constantly worried about dying. I’ve never been particularly religious, but I began praying. Just give me time, Lord. Please allow me to see my daughters married, play with my grandchildren, that sort of thing. And I thought having cancer was damned unfair. I had friends who’d had affairs, ate like hogs, never exercised . . . and I’d lived right. I mean, come on! Why didn’t they get cancer?”

Brooke laughed.

“I immediately went through the stages of grief that Kübler-Ross describes, starting with denial and anger. Recognizing these emotions was key, as I can bite off the heads of a lot of innocents in a heartbeat. I tried to channel my anger, although I wasn’t always successful. I began driving aggressively to my office while listening to extremely loud music. Stupid? Yeah. But I had to deal with my aggression and anger before I arrived at my office and eviscerated all my employees.”

Brooke shook her head as if she could relate to every word.

“And then I started bargaining. Okay, God, I’ll go to church if you cure me. I’ll stop swearing and do good-Karma things. Anything. Just cure me. It didn’t work, so for a brief period I went back to stage two—anger. It felt good, and I’m pretty good at it. But after a few days, I finally gained some insight: all I could do was the best I could do. Denial be damned. So, I let the anger go.”

Brooke stood and gave me a hug. “Thanks.”

Little did she know I’d never opened up like that before to anyone other than Amy and would probably never do so again. And I’d never totally let go.

She firmly instructed me, as she left my room, to immediately inform her if I passed gas or had a bowel movement. I determinedly assured her she’d be the first to know when this great miracle happened.

While dwelling on having a bowel movement and getting the hell out of this hospital, I forced myself to do a little reading. This sport, dragon boating, did look interesting. I read of a legend about an old Chinese patriot and poet who was banished by the Chinese king for having too much power with the people. The poet drowned himself as hundreds of local fishermen raced in their boats in an attempt to save him, to no avail. They beat their drums and splashed their paddles in the water to prevent the fish and water dragons from eating his body.

And this woman wants me to do this sport? But I kept reading and found inspiring comments from seemingly normal people who had participated.

“We all work together as one.”

“The perfect race is rewarding.”

“It lets you escape.”

“Each individual athlete and the team, as a unit, must fuse their physical, mental, and spiritual parts.”

And another woman’s comment was consistent with Brooke’s: “Dragon boating has totally changed my life.”

Several people called the experience “a celebration of life.”

Unusual comments from participants of any sport. Maybe when I’m well, I’ll check it out, I thought. It might be fun watching these bunches of amateurs splash around in the river.

The morning of day four arrived, and I felt an urge. My stomach growled. I slowly stepped with trepidation into the bathroom. Eureka! A bowel movement. And—it was exciting. In fact, I was so excited, I immediately pulled up my pajama pants and ran out of my room, down the hallway, and to the nurses’ station. As I made my grand appearance, I yelled, “I had a bowel movement!”

Three of the four nurses on duty began laughing, but Brooke looked alarmed. In my excitement rushing to their station, I’d ripped out my IV; all she could see was the blood spurting from my arm and onto the hospital’s floor. Brooke hurriedly reinserted the damaged IV, cleaned the blood from the floor, and informed the doctor of my moment of triumph.

That day I went home.