Thursday
Then: Healing Glass
The following W.H. Auden lines are inscribed on his stone at Westminster Abbey: “In the deserts of the heart / Let the healing fountains start.”
Instead of traditional healing fountains, Mayo Clinic, where I had my surgery, now has healing glass. Thirteen huge glass chandeliers created by the amazing artist Dale Chihuly now hang in the new Gonda building there. It was impressive to me gazing at these swirling globules that something like glass could have the same calming effect as water.
While this book is mostly about how other people can help you fight a disease or get through a trauma, I still want to say that the mere knowledge that I was at Mayo Clinic gave me a lot of comfort and confidence to help my mental state. As you’ll read below, when I contrast what the feeling of place gave me from Mayo Clinic versus my diagnostic tests at the crappy Fairview Southdale Hospital in Edina, MN, I’m certain that believing in your place of treatment or healing (such as a church) is essential to a good outcome. If you have any doubts about your physical surroundings when tackling something tough, I suggest you walk. And find another place.
Mayo Clinic exudes ‘world-class’ but doesn’t wear it on its sleeve. Garrison Keillor said it best in Time magazine. He wrote that because Mayo is both a world-draw and a clinic for local residents, you’ll likely see some exotic shrouded 12th wife of a Middle Eastern poohbah sitting next to Ole and Lena from Podunk Minnesota.
I remember the 90-mile trip to Rochester the day before surgery in April, 2002. I was listening to the Sounds of Healing guided imagery meditation CD continuously, but I remember thinking about and yes, actually feeling, the buzz of worldwide mental effort honing in on me. Many of the people I write about in this book had asked for my schedule this day and the next morning of the surgery so they could direct and intensify their own praying. Also, I took solace in the fact that I knew I was on dozens of prayer lists across the country, and I even had a European contingent rallying for me. I knew that friends who didn’t practice prayer were sending their own kind of vibes my way. Jon MacRae had told me he was going to call on his own mystical wonderments on my behalf.
My few memories of surgery start with the prep room. It’s massive, because with 40 operating suites at Methodist Hospital, there were 40 flat slabs of poor souls laid out on gurneys flanking the side of the rooms with at least five or six staffers for each patient scurrying about. It’s no wonder you’re treated wonderfully, but childlike, due to these crowded conditions. Whenever new attendants arrive at your side for a step in the prep process, they look at your wristband and then ask you to state your name and the procedure you’re having.
The prep room scene could have easily been a movie set from an old film like Soyvent Green or The Matrix about evil bio-engineering.
On the gurney ride to surgery, only two things stick out. I had my portable CD player on my chest listening to Dr. Mitch Gaynor’s guided imagery CD, and as I traveled down the hallway, a passing doctor pointed to it and said: “That’s a good idea.” And the hallway. Think about a single hallway with 20 large operating rooms down each side. Imagine how long that hallway has to be. I don’t know about others, but you read stories about near-death and ‘going to the light.’ Well, that hallway was so long, that its end was merely a distant glow of light. In retrospect, I’m glad I had no thoughts of ‘going towards the light’ at that moment.
My next memory? I was back in the recovery room with my wife and friends Mary and John. The next morning, Jessie and Mark showed up, and I treasure their first expressions. I could see a mix of relief with a quizzical, slightly worried look at the apparatus surrounding me. My dad and his wife had brought them, and it was good to have the six of us gathered round. Count that seven, because on the wall shelf past the foot of my bed was flat Morrie. And the kids took great delight in being in on this plan to get the dog into the hospital.
To conclude my Mayo tales, I have to comment on my nursing care and my roommate. The nursing care was so exemplary that I wrote a four page letter to the nurses as my first act upon returning home. I have such admiration for that profession now. I was just one of a bunch of sad prostateless guys with white spindly legs sticking out of flimsy robes strolling their catheter coat racks down the hall. We were but a handful of the 1,400 guys a year losing prostates each year at Mayo. But all my nurses on every shift treated me with compassion, humor and patience. And every one was always quick to boost my spirits by saying that the next day would be a big step forward in feeling better. ¶ 1:43 PM
Instead of traditional healing fountains, Mayo Clinic, where I had my surgery, now has healing glass. Thirteen huge glass chandeliers created by the amazing artist Dale Chihuly now hang in the new Gonda building there. It was impressive to me gazing at these swirling globules that something like glass could have the same calming effect as water.
While this book is mostly about how other people can help you fight a disease or get through a trauma, I still want to say that the mere knowledge that I was at Mayo Clinic gave me a lot of comfort and confidence to help my mental state. As you’ll read below, when I contrast what the feeling of place gave me from Mayo Clinic versus my diagnostic tests at the crappy Fairview Southdale Hospital in Edina, MN, I’m certain that believing in your place of treatment or healing (such as a church) is essential to a good outcome. If you have any doubts about your physical surroundings when tackling something tough, I suggest you walk. And find another place.
Mayo Clinic exudes ‘world-class’ but doesn’t wear it on its sleeve. Garrison Keillor said it best in Time magazine. He wrote that because Mayo is both a world-draw and a clinic for local residents, you’ll likely see some exotic shrouded 12th wife of a Middle Eastern poohbah sitting next to Ole and Lena from Podunk Minnesota.
I remember the 90-mile trip to Rochester the day before surgery in April, 2002. I was listening to the Sounds of Healing guided imagery meditation CD continuously, but I remember thinking about and yes, actually feeling, the buzz of worldwide mental effort honing in on me. Many of the people I write about in this book had asked for my schedule this day and the next morning of the surgery so they could direct and intensify their own praying. Also, I took solace in the fact that I knew I was on dozens of prayer lists across the country, and I even had a European contingent rallying for me. I knew that friends who didn’t practice prayer were sending their own kind of vibes my way. Jon MacRae had told me he was going to call on his own mystical wonderments on my behalf.
My few memories of surgery start with the prep room. It’s massive, because with 40 operating suites at Methodist Hospital, there were 40 flat slabs of poor souls laid out on gurneys flanking the side of the rooms with at least five or six staffers for each patient scurrying about. It’s no wonder you’re treated wonderfully, but childlike, due to these crowded conditions. Whenever new attendants arrive at your side for a step in the prep process, they look at your wristband and then ask you to state your name and the procedure you’re having.
The prep room scene could have easily been a movie set from an old film like Soyvent Green or The Matrix about evil bio-engineering.
On the gurney ride to surgery, only two things stick out. I had my portable CD player on my chest listening to Dr. Mitch Gaynor’s guided imagery CD, and as I traveled down the hallway, a passing doctor pointed to it and said: “That’s a good idea.” And the hallway. Think about a single hallway with 20 large operating rooms down each side. Imagine how long that hallway has to be. I don’t know about others, but you read stories about near-death and ‘going to the light.’ Well, that hallway was so long, that its end was merely a distant glow of light. In retrospect, I’m glad I had no thoughts of ‘going towards the light’ at that moment.
My next memory? I was back in the recovery room with my wife and friends Mary and John. The next morning, Jessie and Mark showed up, and I treasure their first expressions. I could see a mix of relief with a quizzical, slightly worried look at the apparatus surrounding me. My dad and his wife had brought them, and it was good to have the six of us gathered round. Count that seven, because on the wall shelf past the foot of my bed was flat Morrie. And the kids took great delight in being in on this plan to get the dog into the hospital.
To conclude my Mayo tales, I have to comment on my nursing care and my roommate. The nursing care was so exemplary that I wrote a four page letter to the nurses as my first act upon returning home. I have such admiration for that profession now. I was just one of a bunch of sad prostateless guys with white spindly legs sticking out of flimsy robes strolling their catheter coat racks down the hall. We were but a handful of the 1,400 guys a year losing prostates each year at Mayo. But all my nurses on every shift treated me with compassion, humor and patience. And every one was always quick to boost my spirits by saying that the next day would be a big step forward in feeling better. ¶ 1:43 PM
