Yup, you just had to see that photo. I know it's gross, but it's necessary in telling the story. A close-up of the polyp that was surgically removed from my right vocal fold. That 8millimeter bugger right there is responsible for my hoarseness and vocal fatigue. Heaven knows how many voice projects I've been denied because of this pea-sized lesion. Now, I'm rendered speechless, one less talker in the world. Post-operative instructions suggest that I observe a week of absolute vocal rest to give the tissue in the larynx a good time to heal. It also suggested that it might take as long as 10 weeks for my voice to regain its original power and quality. The household is going to be awfully quiet for a long time.
I'm just glad I got it out of the way. I could recall the jitters I got days before the operation last Saturday, July 28, 2007. I was told that if I'm to contract a cold and a fever then the surgery will have to be moved to a later time- a luxury I cannot afford. It doesn't help that my wife had a cold and a fever as the date of the surgery was fast approaching. She was so sick that she can't accompany me to the hospital last Friday when I checked in. It was of no consolation too that my sister, a radiologist doctor, had a full-blown flu as well. I found myself alone in my hospital room the night before my operation, save for my assistant whose talents are limited to menial tasks such as buying me a snack or watching over my valuables when I'm whisked away for pre-op evaluation. You can't blame me for sounding ungrateful. He screwed up my social health insurance validity when he pocketed the money I gave him to pay for my monthly contributions. But that's a different story for another day.
So there I was, wondering why I was in a decrepit government hospital. Then I remembered that my doctor was the Chairman of the ENT (Eyes, Nose and Throat) Department of this medical center, the Jose Reyes Memorial Hospital. He assured me that although the environment leaves much to be desired, I may take comfort in the fact that they have new and up-to-date equipment for my kind of surgery. This trivia he relayed to me while warning me against wearing my watch when checking in the hospital lest it be stolen. How assuring.
And up-to-date indeed. I was summoned from my room for a pre-operative laryngoscopy, and after going through the agony of having that rod rammed down my throat (bringing me to tears and a comical episode of gagging fits) I was told to go back and do the whole ordeal all over again because the damn DVD recorder refused to live up to its name the first time. Sheesh.
By 11pm I was instructed not to eat or drink anything. This was pretty pointless as the effects of an earlier imbibed half a tablet of Midozalam was starting to manifest itself, beckoning me an audience with the Sandman. I then drifted to sleep.
I woke up to the big day, and somehow it didn't start right. But, considering the luck I've had while in the hospital premises, I didn't find this much of a surprise anymore. Rookie of a resident ENT entered my room and announced that he had been tasked to insert a Butterfly IV needle into a vein in my hand. This he did... about three times. For someone who works in a government hospital that never runs out of patients, I'd have expected him to have had lots of experience in sticking them things. Just when I fall under that category of people who have an irrational fear of needles, this had to happen to me.
Later I was wheeled towards the operating room. I think half of the Midozalam was administered through my IV and I felt it physically coursing through my veins. The pain was undeniably excruciating, as if some sci-fi creature on a joyride got under my skin. All of a sudden, I was enveloped in darkness.
After coming to in the Post-operative Recovery Ward with an oxygen mask on my face, I was wheeled back to my room where my wife was waiting for me. A little later, my sister arrived, a face mask on her mouth to keep her viruses to herself. Seeing these familiar faces made me so happy I wanted to scream, but we know that's impossible. I was told that I was out for three hours. As the aenesthesia wore off, the soreness in my tongue established itself. Upon checking in the mirror I saw the visible traces of the pressure the metal laryngoscope exerted on my tongue during the procedure. It resembled the sharp end of a primitive spear, its edges unglamorously serrated.
After hours of not doing anything and wishing to be discharged immediately, my doctor showed up and described what happened during the procedure. He described the polyp to be angiomatous- blood vessels were feeding it hence its growth (angio meaning blood vessels). My body must have thought it was part of my physiology, it being there for so long, and directed a few capillaries to sustain it. Bizarre, but this is pretty much normal. It only posed a problem during the surgery when the bleeding didn't show signs of letting up. He had to cauterize it and left a burn mark. A laser would have been the more appropriate, state-of-the-art approach, but if you've been following the events in this story, well....
By the time he told me that I may pack and head home, the hospital's cashier have already closed shop an hour ago. So I didn't have a choice but to suffer in silence as I stayed for another night by myself as my wife had to head home and watch over my son.
By 8AM the next day my wife was in the cashier's office to settle the bills, and her jaw dropped when she was told that their system is not computerized, which is why she had to come back after 3 hours as they manually put the invoices together and summed it all up. She was so mad she told me that if she only knew, she wouldn't have mind paying triple the amount for a more efficient hospital. I finally got home by lunchtime.
In spite of all the tragedies and inconveniences I've been through I still couldn't help feeling good about everything. It was a trying time, but the prayers from my Mom and Dad and my Father-in-law suffused me with strength and courage. I'm just glad that this chapter in my life is over. I was welcomed at the door with a "day-dee" from my 1 year and 5 month old son who's just beginning to learn how to talk. He'll have to do all the talking in the house for now.
30July07/ Manila, Philippines
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