Dr. Hickman is a kind-looking man, whitish hair, glasses, older than my dad, definitely, but hard to tell by how much. He smiles when we arrive. Dad brought me down in a wheelchair, guided by one of the nurses from my floor. Dr. Hickman smiles and reaches out to shake Dad's hand, but pauses with me. A strong hand on my shoulder, instead. Even though he'll be putting in my catheter (his catheter?), he hasn't scrubbed yet, and he's cognizant of my condition. The rules are clear: nobody touches my skin unless they've washed their hands first. No exceptions.
"Pleased to meet you, Robert," he says. "That's my name, too. Great name."
He nods toward my father.
"It's good of your brother to come down, too."
We laugh together. It'll be cool. Nothing to worry about. Dr. Hickman is busy talking and cleaning, going through the specifics of the procedure for us. Nurses set equipment out onto tables set on wheels. Dad helps me onto a long table. My shirt comes off. Somebody points out the catheter itself. Looks simple enough: just a long, thin, white plastic tube that ends in a Y. Some kind of plastic clamps or something -- one red, one white -- on each end of the Y.
Gloves snap into place, and surgical masks, and a bright light shines overhead. We're quickly into this thing. Dad's still here, which is good, and although it seemed like a flurry of activity with nurses in and out of the room, maybe it was just the one nurse all along. My chest is wiped down with a cold swab. It is smeared orange. Several white towels are draped over my chest, horizontal, vertical, horizontal. I try to sit up, but Dr. Hickman is calm, soothing, lay down, son.
Like other doctors before and after him, he says "little stick here" before injecting a dose of anesthetic. Maybe a couple of little sticks. Like bee stings.Then "tell me about England," or "crazy weather lately," or "so what kinds of things do you and your brother do for fun," or any number of distracting conversations until the anesthesia sets in and the prep work has been finished and there's no turning back.
It's a simple procedure. Dr. Hickman could probably do these in his sleep. And everybody is right when they say I won't feel a thing, don't even know when he's cut into my chest except that the blood spilling out tickles a bit.
And f***!
Nobody mentioned the pressure. Or maybe they did but I just ignored the whole thing. Maybe I heard the simple part: two incisions, insert catheter here, done.
Holy f***ing crap!
Of course the catheter doesn't get from the middle of my chest up to my collarbone by itself. There's flesh there, and tissue. It feels like Dr. Hickman is f***ing kneeling on my chest, both hands and a knee and a small truck, pushing that six foot wide galvanized steel pipe up through my torso.
I'm gasping for air. Am I gasping for air? I must be. There's a large circus elephant standing on my chest. Two. Five. How could it not be hard to breath?
"You're doing great, Robert, just ... a little ... more. There. All done."
He smiles, unsnaps his gloves, removes his mask, smiles again, this time so I can see it. He explains that it will probably be sore for at least a couple of days, what with the pressure and all, and maybe some bruising, something to keep an eye on.
"Thanks," I say. "That wasn't so bad."
I happened upon this page when I was looking for information on Dr. Hickman - I am kind of writing my leukemia story too. I had it when I was very young, no more than two, so most of what I have to piece together is from what others tell me. I just wanted to tell you how helpful your story is, especially in knowing I'm not alone. I mean, I know I'm not alone, but this makes the fact a lot more real. And I'm glad my memory of Dr. Hickman coincides with yours!