Five More Minutes, Mom

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Todd had been tired all week. His normally refreshing walk home from work had been leaving him exhausted lately. He was sure he was getting the flu. After a nap on the couch that afternoon he asked his brother to give him a lift to the store from some cold medicine.

Somewhere between the car and the pharmacy Todd stopped breathing. Todd's esophagus had become completely blocked by a tumor that had been growing for quite some time now. Emergency workers managed to get him intubated and rushed him to the hospital. Doctors would soon learn that, in addition to this nearly-always-fatal cancer, Todd had leukemia. Two for the price of one. Lucky.

Sometime before his first of several big operations, my brother Geoffrey and I visited Todd. The room was dark and Todd had machines to breathe, eat, and even circulate blood for him. We stayed for a few minutes and gave our best wishes but, really, the situation was pretty grave and Todd was totally unable to speak.

"OK, let's get out of here and give Todd his rest", I said just before falling into the door frame and onto the floor, face first.

I had passed out. The next thing I remember I was telling a nurse, who I thought was my mother, "I don't want to get up. Five more minutes, Mom".

"I don't want you to get up either. Just stay put", she said, "that's a pretty big bump on your head."

Since that day more than 15 years ago, I have fainted in countless hospitals and doctor's offices. I even fainted once (no twice) while lying totally flat on my back. The doctor said he'd never seen that in 30 years of practicing medicine.

After several operations, chemotherapy, radiation and two bone marrow transplants, Todd made a full recovery and now works as an electrician in Austin, Texas.

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