Russ's Ravings: The Happiest Guy In The Cancer Center

Editor's note: The following is Patch Field Editor Russ Crespolini's, hopefully, weekly column. It is reflective of his opinion alone.

Hello world, I am back at a keyboard (temporarily until my full return in a couple weeks) and I wanted to write a column and let everyone know I was doing ok. And, because it has been requested, share some details of my experience with brain surgery.

For those of you who need to catch up, in January I had a tumor removed from my pituitary gland at the Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York. You can catch yourself up on my story here:

• Russ's Ravings: The Doctor Called To Tell Me I Have A Tumor
• Russ's Ravings: Your Life Flashes Before Your Eyes
• Russ's Ravings: A Tale Of (At Least) Two Tumors
• Russ's Ravings: The Horrors Of Waiting Mitigated By Laughter
• Russ's Ravings: 'One Slip, And You're Toast'
• Russ's Ravings: I'm not Okay. And That's Okay
• Russ's Ravings: All I Want For Christmas Is Brain Surgery
• Russ's Ravings: I'm Glad I Am The One Who Is Sick
• Russ's Ravings: Things I Want My Daughter To Know 'Just In Case'

There are a lot of things people say to you to prepare you for surgery, I've had several over the course of my life. But nothing quite as serious as this. No one had ever drilled up into my nose, sliced open some bone and mucked around inside my skull before.

While the doctors did quite a bit to prepare me for what the procedure itself would entail, there were many details I was not privy to. Some because we didn't know what would happen post-op and some because they just never mentioned them.

When I woke up in recovery, my throat was sore from the breathing tube, I felt foggy from the anesthesia and I couldn't breathe very well due to a pair of stents shoved up my nostrils that were crusted over with blood. But I knew that would be the deal. I expected the IVs and I expected the stinging feeling that often accompanies them.

What I did not expect were the half dozen bleeding screw holes ringing my scalp from the halo device they used to lock my head in place for the procedure. I did not expect the arterial line (that is inserted into an artery to monitor blood pressure directly and in real-time and to sample arterial blood gas). And I did not expect a foley catheter.

These were distressing developments.

I also had an increased pulse rate and was being given some pretty hefty doses of morphine which made me flushed and sweaty.

I can honestly say I was extremely uncomfortable. Probably more so than I had been in my entire life. This includes the time I lost my bathing suit in a big wave at Point Pleasant. But I smiled and tried to even tell my family a few jokes. Later that evening, right before I was transported up to the neuroICU my nose started bleeding around the stents. A helpful person from transport saw me and grabbed a paper towel and did what most people do when they see a bloody nose. He squeezed it.

Right where I just had surgery.

I can tell you honestly it was the first time in my life "almost passed out from the pain" was a reality. But still, I understood the person was just trying to help so I smiled and tried to make jokes.

Up in the neuroICU I was placed in one of five rooms that were astoundingly modern and well appointed. Across the hall from me was a patient named Bob. Bob was extremely confused and spent most of the night threatening to murder the staff and demanding at the top of his lungs to see the pharmacist.

This concerned me because in my weakened state if Bob came into my room bent on smothering me I wasn't sure I could stop him. But still, I smiled and joked with the nurses about Bob.

Soon after I settled in, I was able to look at my phone. And there they were.

The emails, the texts and the posts. From my friends, from my family from my colleagues and from my readers.

I can’t tell you what a feeling it was for me in that moment of isolation, the weakest probably I have ever been physically in my life, to see that. To feel as if I mattered.

I cannot say thank you enough for giving me the strength to get through that night.

A few hours later, when one of my surgeons checked on me he remarked to the staff that I was the happiest person they had ever seen have this kind of surgery. And the staff agreed.

I suggested maybe it was because I was an idiot.

But he said in all seriousness he believed it was a big part of my bouncing back faster than anticipated from the procedure. Don't get me wrong, this was no picnic. When the arterial line and catheter came out I longed for the guy to squeeze my nose again. And the nurse who removed them looked about 13-years-old so when she removed them I expected Chris Hansen from "To Catch A Predator" to come out of the bathroom.

"Why don't you take a seat. Tell me why you lifted your gown to the young lady."

And yes, I was in for a long recovery process that would be frustrating (but that is the story for another column). But the truth is there are several reasons that I was as happy as they described.

The first is the tremendous support I had from everyone reinforcing my positive attitude. The second is that despite my sarcasm, I truly do try very hard to live my life profoundly grateful for what I have.

And last, as I was waiting for surgery in the pre-op area I saw a little boy, about 10, waiting for his surgery.

I thought of him and his parents and my heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

And I thought of my parents riding out the night before at the hotel with me. My father and I ordering too much food at the diner in what could have been my last meal. As a parent myself, knowing the worry I feel for my own daughter, seeing that little boy gave me a new appreciation of what I was putting my own family through.

So if that little boy has to have surgery at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center, I have no reason and no right to be anything but upbeat at 41.

A few hours after that my neurosurgeon came in to tell me two things. The first was that the tumor they had removed was not cancer. Yes, I still have Cushing's Disease and I will have to deal with that and keep up with testing and treatment for the rest of my life. But I do not have cancer.

The second was she cleared me to go home to my daughter. Two days early. Yes, I would have to be monitored constantly and go for adjustments and follow up appointments but I would get to see my little girl and be in my home again.

I don't know anything about that little boy who was next to me in the pre-op room. But I can only hope his outcome was as positive as mine. For him and for his loved ones.

I owe so many people a debt I can never repay for their love and support. Thank you for helping me heal. And I look forward to sharing more of my journey (and other thoughts) when I am back at my desk for good.

PS. I am still working through my backlog of messages. I will get back to everyone as soon as I can.

Russ Crespolini is a Field Editor for Patch Media, adjunct professor and college newspaper advisor. His columns have won awards from the National Newspaper Association and the New Jersey Press Association.

He writes them in hopes of connecting with readers and engaging with them. And because it is cheaper than therapy. He can be reached at russ.crespolini@patch.com