The thing is, I had to undergo a lung lobectomy, a phrase I could not spell, let alone pronounce, a few months ago. Though it sounded oddly elegant, almost like a ballet move, in reality it was nothing so graceful, because a small cancerous tumour was spotted unexpectedly in my lung, which I had to deal with, to the best of my ability.
My wonderful medical consultants in Portugal, Dr Diana Repolho and Dr Daniel Duarte, called it an incidental finding, which sounded like a casual discovery, you know, the kind where one stumbles upon an old photograph in a forgotten drawer. Except this one came with X-rays, CT scans, PET scan, bronchoscopy, biopsy, operating rooms, anaesthesia, and a collection of tubes one never knew could exist inside you.
My family rallied around and, within weeks, I found myself in London, under the capable care of Dr Tom Routledge, a calm and quietly brilliant surgeon, who explained that he would remove the tumour, along with the bottom lobe of my right lung, through something called a single-port robotic surgery. Apparently, it is a landmark technique where everything is done through one small, two-inch incision.
The operation went smoothly, but when I woke-up, my universe had altered because my every inhalation had to be negotiated, and each exhalation celebrated. The simple act of breathing had turned into one big performance, where I had to be endlessly coaxed and cajoled into, well, drawing a breath.
Dr Routledge popped by later to watch me cough up some bloody sputum. However, with a serene smile that all surgeons have mastered, he announced that I was recovering very well. This was obviously a medical code for – you’ll feel like you’ve been run over by a small train, but that’s absolutely normal!
Then he patted my head and told me to rest. Probably for the first time in my life, I obeyed orders and rested as my world shrank to hospital corridors, gentle footsteps, and the comforting beep of monitors. Friends called and sent flowers and messages filled with kindness and my doctor cousins flew down from America to provide some welcoming concern and optimism.
Meanwhile during my convalescence, a sense of calmness settled, and I began to notice things that I had taken for granted earlier, like the refreshing warmth of the morning sunlight, the sound of birds outside the hospital window and the reassuring rhythm of my own heartbeat.
Six weeks later, last Tuesday, I returned home. And today I feel that though my right lung is smaller, my gratitude has grown exponentially larger, anchored by awe for science, skill, and second chances. Therefore, I want to take this opportunity to tell those of my dear readers who might be walking their own corridors of recovery, take heart. You will get better. Soon!
“Can you rate your pain on a scale of one to 10?” asked my doctor yesterday.
“About seven. But …” I said, clutching my stomach.
“Are your stiches hurting?” she interrupted.
“…But my sense of drama,” I continued slowly.
There was a small pause.
“…Is a solid 10,” she laughed uproariously.
Joining in was painful, so I smiled back gratefully.
