Death Be Not Proud Read Online Free PDF Page A

tests remorselessly going on. Finally, an injection of caffeine relieved him somewhat, and he had some medicaments by mouth. He asked the doctor for the chemical formula of one that, he said, “was, of all the concentrated essence of bitterness ever invented, the bitterest.” It was something quite simple chemically—and he was disappointed!
    A great number of intricate tests were necessary, including X-rays, an electroencephalogram, and visual field tests, all exhausting in the extreme, but necessary so that the tumor might be located as accurately as possible. The surgeon, when he went through the bowl of skull, wanted to hit the exact right spot. One of these tests, the ventriculogram first used successfully by the late Dr. Dandy of Johns Hopkins, actually entails drilling holes through the skull—of course it can only take place on the operating table before the actual operation. Meantime at least five doctors, all neurosurgeons, asked us questions. Any record of a blow? Any propulsive vomiting? Any chills or tremors? Any double vision, headaches, abnormal involuntary movements, dizziness, or disturbances in gait, taste, smell, or hearing? We answered, horrified, “No . . . No.” This vicious invader had given us practically no warning. Several of the doctors were Latin Americans; their English was imperfect, and it was a trial for Johnny to answer so patiently what they asked, and then be unsure that they understood the answers. Above all, what he suffered from was lack of water. He was allowed only a bare minimum of fluid, since dehydration would tend to decrease the pressure inside his head. Came more and other tests. Johnny said wearily, “All this red tape—why can’t those doctors get together?”
    After the violent headache the first day, the only thing that really hurt him was the haircut when Tony, the barber, shaved his skull the morning of the operation. This can be very painful when the razor scrapes against the grain. Johnny gave out a fierce “Ouch!” and grabbed for my hand. Then he asked how he could go back to Deerfield inasmuch as crew haircuts are forbidden there. He looked at his shaven skull. “Papa, they aren’t going to electrocute me, are they?” He tried to laugh, but his voice was a nervous little giggle.
    Johnny’s operation—this first operation—took place on Monday, April 29, 1946. He went upstairs at 11:10 A.M. and came down at 5:20 P.M. Brain operations take an eternity because of the laborious procedure necessary. One of the doctors told me that its effect on Johnny would be approximately that of the explosion of a .45-caliber bullet against the head. Those six hours were the longest Frances and I ever spent. A couple of nurses asked us with the deadly casualness that nurses have, “Is he your only child?”
    Between the Friday and the Monday I had tried to find out something about brain tumors. I prodded through several texts full of the frightful jargon of medical writers, and consulted Traeger almost hour by hour. Let me pay tribute now to the steadfastness of this splendid physician, with his tough, cheerful, realistic mind, and his intense devotion to Johnny, who acted as a kind of chief of staff for all the other doctors during the entire illness. A tumor is a growth. What I asked about first of all was whether or not Johnny had cancer. All cancers are tumors, but not all tumors are cancers by any means. By one definition, Johnny did have cancer; by another, he did not. That is, a brain tumor (though it may strike the spinal cord in some rare cases) never metastasizes, i.e., spreads through the body to attack liver or bones or what not. It is not like a tumor of the breasts that may become a tumor of the lung. But if malignant, it will spread within the cranium itself like a spot in an apple until the brain is destroyed. Therefore, it must be removed at once. Also, inasmuch as the brain rests within the hard shell of skull, there is no room for expansion; if a