Surgery for kidney tumor successful

Yes, it was cancer.

That’s called not burying the lead.

Tomorrow is the one-month anniversary of my kidney surgery, which I wrote about before taking a hiatus. Doctors found a tumor incidentally when looking for something else, and it was caught early.

When I wrote about it, I wasn’t expecting the outpouring from my wonderful readers, friends and college sorority sisters. It was overwhelming. I was blown away. I loved every note, email, card, phone call, Facebook message and text. I can’t thank you enough for the prayers and support, which helped me get through it all. My family was there every step of the way, too.

I got to the hospital at 5:30 a.m. July 31, and the adventure began soon afterward. My mother and husband were with me, sitting in the 20-degree waiting room.

Several patients were called at the same time, and we followed a hospital employee, in paradelike fashion, down and around hallways.

It was like a little party in pre-op — partly because of my nervous energy, partly because I interview everybody I meet.

First I played musical beds. After I disrobed, put on the gown, stuffed my belongings in a plastic bag and got comfy in my heated bed, there was confusion about which of two beds I was supposed to be in — A or B. I switched beds, but after a nurse and employee had a discussion and looked at “the board” again, I was asked to switch back. I successfully made the transfers without mooning anyone.

I asked what procedure the person in the other bed was having, and I was told a foot amputation.

Well, I told the nurse, I’d just gotten a pedicure. “You could have saved money if you’d waited,” she said, joking.

One nurse was named Candy, and I learned that she was a former paralegal, 44 and a grandmother of three — they call her Candygram. How cute is that?

My husband and mother were taking notes because that’s what my family does in these situations. But my husband, a journalism teacher and former newspaper editor, was editing over my mother’s shoulder, even though she is an excellent speller. He corrected her spelling of blonde to blond for the description of Candy’s hair. She is a blonde, because that’s a noun. I digress.

When my anesthesiologist, Dr. Hardin, came in, I told her she was beautiful. My husband wrote that she had a floral surgical cap on and long eyelashes, which resulted in a conversation among my mother, the doctor and me about eyelash extensions, the cost and where she got hers done.

Kidney, smidney. This was important stuff.

Chad came in with his University of Tennessee surgical cap. I found out he lives in Conway, not far from my husband and me. Surgical nurse Beverly, whom my mom called “funny nurse” in her notes, came in to talk to me, too. I heard about her grown children moving back in with her. I got IVs in both arms, which is how it’s done when you’re having the da Vinci robotic surgery.

My doctor came in, marked my left side with an X and prayed with me.

My husband noted that surgery started at 8:19 a.m. At 9:35 a.m., the doctor said he had finished, “and it couldn’t have gone better.” He got all the

tumor, and he said his entire team commented on how easy it was to see my kidney. “We don’t get to operate on many skinny people,” my husband quoted him as saying. Skinny is a relative term, but I’ll take it.

The next thing I remember is waking up as I was being moved from a gurney to the hospital bed in my room — and the pain. After I got hooked up to the morphine pump, I asked for my lipstick. All was well with the world.

Let me just say, the morphine pump is one of man’s greatest inventions — right up there with the printing press and the chocolate fountain. I was going to be tough and not push the pump, until I laughed the first time at a story my brother told, and I cried from the pain.

The nurses were all great. When I told the one who drew my blood at 3 a.m. that she had pretty white teeth, she said she wished everyone was as happy as me that time of morning.

I was released on the following Sunday, and I was happy to be home. Late that Monday afternoon, my wonderful doctor called. He said the “bad news” was that it was cancer, but the good news is, the chance that I’m cured is 95-99 percent.

Today is my birthday, by the way. My family keeps asking what I want, but I can’t think of a better gift than getting to celebrate being alive.

Senior writer Tammy Keith can be reached at (501) 327-0370 or tkeith@arkansasonline.com.

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