Letter: Follow up from Pepe LeDeau

A little over a month ago, Dr. Carter at St. Patrick’s, spent three-and-a-half hours on my left lung surgery. It still hurts, but not as much as that next night in ICU. I had to cough up some mucus, if not, you get sick. The nurse sat with me for an hour, she kept saying it’ll come, it’s getting closer – even holding my hand at times. I couldn’t have done it without her. The pain was intense, but after that I knew it could be done.

Had two nurses that night, watched the last game of the World Series with them. I find baseball boring to watch, but it wasn’t with these two beautiful ladies.

Next morning, the security of ICU ended. My new nurse loaded me up in a wheelchair, with that coat rack thing with wheels on it. It carried the pain drip, I.V. bag and a variety of unknowns to me. I had two chest tube drains, a catheter, that damn heart monitor with all it’s little sticking things. Seems like there was a lot more. The elevator was full, a man with a sandwich in his hand, helped her get me in there. I was scared and wondered what’s next.

Well, I ended up with a room right across from the nurses’ station. My new home for the next eight days.

I met a nurse who used to guide for Shane Erickson, said he couldn’t make enough money to raise his family, so he became a nurse. He helped me with that damn constipation.

One little gal is Renee Campbell’s niece. I’m sure she helped me with something. Another nurse was raised on a ranch near Stanford. She and her partner, they make a special team; they patched me up when I tore one of the lung drain tubes off. It made an air sucking sounds. They called a doctor and within 10 minutes had me hooked up.

My 67-year-old doctor Carter stopped by my room every morning; he had his entourage of three of four people with him each time. It takes a big team to do the surgeries they do. He’d answer my questions and tell me to keep moving, so I did. My vocal cords were damaged by the cancer. I asked him if I could ever yell at the dog again. He said no, you’ll be the dog whisperer.

Then there was Max, a nurse from the Ukraine. He had an accent that was hard to understand and a nervous, jerky way about him. He took some getting used to, but he cared and bent over backwards to help me. He was good.

Jesse, she befriended me and I her. She’d come to my room two to three times per shift, even though I didn’t push the button. Some kind of special connection. When I was discharged, she wouldn’t let anyone else push me down to the waiting room, front door lobby.

If this letter showed the care and concern of everyone I encountered, I accomplished my mission.

I start chemo some time next week, that will be another story.

The immediate support group has also been totally awesome.

Thank you!

-Pepe-