A year ago, I found myself facing surgery for a cancerous nodule on my left lung. Here is a fractured recounting of what I remember the procedure was like.

By Gary Dickson, Editor

It was one of those cold, foggy January mornings in Siouxland. One that found you cursing the drivers no matter what state they were from for not using their turn signals. The evildoers caused you to wait for the stoplight to change at least one more time. Annoying bastards.

And I was already irritated because I was headed for a date with the surgeon’s scalpel at St. Luke’s Hospital on the hill in Sioux City.

I parked the car in the parking garage across the street and gave my keys to Nancy, my long-suffering spouse who was accompanying me to St. Luke’s. After getting checked in at the front lobby, where a kind woman made sure I hadn’t been around anyone with Covid the last week or that I’d had that particular virus. Another lady confirmed my insurance information to make sure the medical center was going to be paid. As well as the surgeon, anesthesiologist, scrub nurse, radiologist, dental hygienist, welding instructor, philatelist, and car detailer.

Well, I might be exaggerating a bit because I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since midnight, except some sips of water and three heart and blood pressure meds. So, you can leave off the welding instructor from that list.

After check-in, I started to wander aimlessly down the hallway towards the emergency room until Nancy and a nurse caught up with me and escorted me to a bank of elevators. The door to one slid open and I spread my arms across the doorway and stuck my head in peering left and right into the cavernous space.

“Is there room for all of us in here?” I said in my best Boris Karloff voice to the elderly couple waiting inside for my wife and me to join them. They may have been having second thoughts about riding the cage when they saw my wide eyes and shit-eating grin on my face. I turned around and gestured towards my wife and the nurse. “Come on in,” I yelled, “I think there’s room for the entire team!”

“Would you behave yourself, Gary?” Nancy half asked half commanded. “I apologize,” she said to the now nervous-looking older couple and the annoyed nurse in the elevator. “He’s such an amusement to himself and he gets so ornery when he hasn’t been fed. Plus he’s having surgery today and he’s stressed to the max about it, too.”

“Just wait ‘till I start to howl,” I said to no one in particular. “I may even speak in tongues. Oh, but that wouldn’t do any good, I’m not Pentecostal. But I am half Swede and half Scot and half German and some French.”

The elderly man and woman were both staring at me as if they’d just seen a rainbow-colored donkey.

“Say, did you all know that I’m a therapist? Actually, I’m a retired Licensed Mental Health Counselor,” I assured them. “And after surgery, I’m going to set up practice — maybe across the street from this hospital. I’ll do conversion therapy for part of my practice. Converting Furries back to human beings.”

“You know what Furries are, don’t you?” I asked leaning towards the couple in a semi-conspiratorial manner.

“Of course, you don’t. You’re Earth People. Furries are kids who’ve been brainwashed by liberal parents into wearing costumes all day. Like squirrel, rabbit, badger, fox, possum, and wolverine costumes. The schools have been having to accommodate the little fuzzy bastards by placing large litter boxes all over the classrooms and hallways. Then their teachers must talk to them in animal sounds. It’s really dreadful, I tell you!

“Well, I take them to the mall, probably to that new arcade with all the flashing lights and whistles and such, just to remove them from their environment. Eventually moving them over to the Hy-Vee grocery store on Hamilton Boulevard where we feed them donuts and pastries and Pop-Rocks.

“It’s all a little complicated, but I’ve shown it’s very successful. Fun for me as well. Especially the Pop-Rocks.”

By now the elevator had stopped and the door had opened, much to the relief of the elderly couple still in the elevator car squeezed into the corner. The nurse pushed me out then she and Nancy began dragging me to a room with a small, portable hospital bed. I got undressed and put on a hospital gown. Another nurse came in and got an IV started in my arm and asked me questions. I started to tell her about Furries, but Nancy gave me the ol’ Skunk Eye so I held back, promising myself to fill that nurse in later.

After about 15 or 20 minutes of questions and checking of vitals by the nurse, she stepped out briefly and came back in with a beefy-looking male, whom I assumed was another nurse. He was probably an enforcer of some kind, enlisted after the elevator nurse warned the staff on the floor of my possible shenanigans.

“Howdy stranger,” I said in as friendly a manner I could muster given my lack of any food. “I’m the Lone Ranger. I’m also a retired Licensed Mental Health Counselor. Do y’all have any personal problems you’d like to share?”

“Uh . . . no, I don’t think so, sir. I’m here to help Beth here wheel you up to the O.R. suite. My name is Jason, by the way.”

I eyed Jason closely and gave him the thumbs-up sign with my hand that didn’t have an IV stuck in it. “Good for you, Jason By-The-Way,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll get through this operation A-OK. Have you ever had surgery before? I mean this is kinda major. I hear they’re gonna cut into your groin. A double-hernia repair, isn’t it?”

I saw Jason wince a bit and then start to cough.

“No, no, Mr. Dickson. You’re the one having surgery! Isn’t he Beth?”

“Don’t let him rattle you, Jason. Of course, he is,” Nurse Beth said with considerable assurance.

“Gary, would you knock it off!” Nancy shouted. “These two nice professionals need to get you to the operating room. Now stop fooling around!”

“Okay, fine, have it your way. I’ll see you after my acid trip, darlin’. Don’t let ’em sell any of my body parts on the Black Market, all right?” I shouted over my shoulder. “Take them down to that high-rent butcher shop on Fourth Street across from the Ho-Chunk Building.”

“Dammit, Gary!” my Bride said. “That’s not funny! Well . . . not THAT funny. I’ll see you after surgery. I love you!”

And away we went, down the hall, up another elevator to the floor with the surgery rooms. Beth and Jason wheeled me into a cold room with several medical folks standing around doing medical things like looking at computers, adjusting dials, etc. Two people slid me over to another table or bed. It wasn’t nearly as comfortable as the one I had been on.

I got another IV in the other arm and introductions began. Nurses, surgical techs, nurse anesthetist, anesthesiologist, the surgeon, etc. The anesthesiologist explained I was going to be put asleep so I wouldn’t feel any pain. I told him I sometimes screamed and farted in my sleep and asked if that would bother him.

“Probably not,” he said.

“Well, if I get too loud or too stinky, just wake me up and ask me to turn over. I usually will stop,” I reassured him.

“Oh, I don’t think we’ll need to do that,” the anesthesiologist said with a comforting smile.

“There was just one thing, well, make that two things, I wanted to ask everyone before you get started,” I said quite loudly for all to hear. Everyone stopped what they were doing.

“And what is that, Gary?”, the surgeon said.

“First, has EVERYBODY washed their hands?”

There were lots of yeses and sures, and I have, and Yups. Then silence.

“I mean it, now. If you haven’t, please go out to the washroom or scrub room and wash ’em good,” I ordered. “Don’t be embarrassed if you haven’t. We’re all friends here, right? Just like family? Be sure and get underneath those nails. We don’t want any infections in here.”

Silence. Some throats clearing and a cough. Then the surgeon said, “I think we’re good on the handwashing front, Gary.”

“Okee-dokee,” I chirped. “The last thing I want to ask is do you all know I’m a retired Licensed Mental Health Counselor that has been working on converting Furies back to a natural human lifestyle?

“Hah! I’ll bet you didn’t know that. You’ve heard of Furries in our schools, how liberal parents brainwash them into wearing animal costumes all the time and how schools must adapt to their demented needs by providing litterboxes for the little bastards?

“You haven’t?

“Well then, maybe some of you have some personal problems you’d like to talk to me about, too.”

I could see the anesthesiologist smiling as he nodded to the surgeon. He then began to twist a dial or inject a syringe, or something attached to my mask. Or was it to an IV? They were a sneaky bunch, that’s for sure.

“Hey there! What in the name of Carl Rogers are you doing? Shoo! Quit that! I’ll tell your mother what you’re doing. How about I tell you a jo . . .”

---

EDITOR’S NOTE: I stayed in the hospital for two weeks following surgery, even though the surgeon originally told me a week before cutting on me that I’d be there just “two or three days.” He was such a jokster! The surgery was also successful and I didn’t have to have any chemo or radiation. I see an oncologist every four months for a surveillance check-up, including a CT scan. As of today (1/18/24) I’ve not had a return of the cancer.

Unfortunately, I went through four oncologists in 11 months at June E. Nylen Cancer Center in Sioux City. It had nothing to do with me, I’m sure of it. The cancer center is just unable to keep oncologists – especially if they are from another country. So I switched to Avera Oncology in Sioux Falls where I expect to be able to see my oncologist more than once.

---