TUPAVIEW: APRIL SHOWERS

By Mike Tupa

The descending gloom of darkness fills my heart with dread for another night of unrelenting pain. Suffering will provide my only companionship in the world of moon shadows and street lights.

I lie on my rock-hard bed and cringe like a whipped baby at the urge of having to get up, knowing my head will be pounded by a blast of painful dizziness, and that the 20-foot walk from my bedroom to my couch will cause me to desperately gasp for air, not unlike a beached whale unable to roll itself back into ocean.

I continue to struggle several minutes to catch up on my breath, which eventually and reluctantly yields to my efforts. But the pain is nonstop. The pain would not be denied. My body refused to purge the agony.

I endured through this reality for the better part of a week late in April. I kept believing I would get better the next few hours, the next day. I tried multiple kinds of OTC pain pills, lotions, liquid medicines to try to ride out this perfect storm of suffering.

My food intake during that two-week period averaged less than 800 calories a day — and I struggled to choke that down, mostly through15-ounce cans of cold macaroni and cheese or pork and beans, about once a day, and from an old apple pie in my fridge. I really had no appetite for those things, but I knew I had to continue to take in some nourishment.

Drinking water became a chore, but I forced myself, believing perhaps that was the key to unlocking the infernal stomach-related issue that had driven me to the most intense, loneliest, throbbing pain of my life. It became a matter of survival of my conscious self — I refused to give up completely but continued to be pounded unmercifully.

Finally, toward the end of what would be a two-week period in which this situation came to a head, I knew I needed immediate medical help while I still had the presence of mind to maintain control of my medical fate.

So on Monday morning April 28, I called Bob Pomeroy to ask for his assistance and he graciously picked me up and drove me to the Jane Phillips Emergency Room. This also was the day the rainstorms really began their assault on this part of Oklahoma.

The rest is an odyssey of people caring, of medical expertise and resources, of mercy and compassion, of wisdom — and, above the blessings of God, both directly and through the good hearts of other people,

That morning and afternoon at the ER they drained around eight liters of standing liquid off my kidneys. One of the doctors said it would be a record amount in his career.

My urination had all but been almost totally plugged up for two weeks. As I lie on the bed in the E.R. intense pain settled in my lower back. I couldn’t lie still. I had to roll to my side — and that provided small relief until some pain medication took effect.

But then the looming question remained — were my kidneys permanently damaged?

Many can rightfully ask, why did I wait so long to seek help?

I don’t know if I could provide a logical answer to completely satisfy this legitimate query.

Part of it, I suppose, was that due to a lack of meaningful rest and nutrition, and being under the constant bombardment of pain my thought processes weren’t at their best.

But I never supposed I might not need some external help. I just kept putting it off.

When I was a teenager, we had no money to see doctors. My mom made about $1.50 an hour as a cleaning lady. That wasn’t even enough to put enough food on the table or to pay utility bills consistently. We didn’t have a car. We didn’t have a telephone. We never bought new clothes. Mom had to worry that the $5 bill in her purse would be enough for groceries for the next week prior to her next payday.

Seeing a doctor for illnesses or things like that was a luxury of which we didn’t even talk.

If we got sick, we toughed it out. We put up with it, if I had a temperature of more than 100 degrees I still went out and delivered my paper route.

Mom did the best she could as our family “doctor.” She also instilled in us a great faith in the ability of our bodies to heal themselves of many conditions if given a chance.

I recall mom scraped together enough money to get me in to see an ear specialist — whose office she cleaned — due to a hearing issue.

He was very kind and I’m sure worked at cost or less. He gave mom an order for prescription-strength ear drops for deep ear cleaning. I had to lie on my side for hours to let that medicine eat its way through the tremendous buildup of wax and dirt. It hurt. But mom made it bearable by sitting near me and reading out loud some Sherlock Holmes mysteries. 

In the end, mom in no way could afford the surgery needed for a permanent solution, but what she did proved to be a blessing for a lifetime. My hearing damage halted itself and now, at age 69, I don’t require any kind of listening assistance. My hearing proved good enough to get me into the Marine Corps. 

To me the incredible women and men doctors that have treated me for various things were the line of final resort after I felt I had done all I could.

Should I have sought help prior to that crisis Monday? Certainly. But in my stubbornness and lifelong practice of pain tolerance I tried to wait it out.

I finally realized Sunday night late I could go no further without help.

I believe the initial diagnosis was renal failure or something in that area. To the credit of the medical staff, the decision was made to try to relieve the immediate pressure to get a better assessment of my condition.

After draining my kidneys and inserting a huge catheter (ouch!) they admitted me to the hospital. Within about 24 hours — thanks to the care and expertise of the medical specialists, the diligence of the nurses and their assistants, the prescribed treatment and God’s blessing — my kidney function had improved about 80 percent and my potassium level had been cut almost in half.

Within the next couple of days, my kidneys were rated as optimal, or the next best thing to it. 

What a miracle!

By Friday afternoon, my hospital stay ended and I came home — still with catheter in place (ouch!), hopefully not for long.

What a miracle!

I remain profoundly grateful for the many kind nurses and others who poked and prodded me, took my vital signs and offered me many smiles and kindness. Sometimes I wasn’t the ideal patient, but I’d like to believe I attempted to be courteous and upbeat much of the time. 

Meanwhile, the outpouring of concern from the community was staggering and much more than I believe I deserved. Many members of my church visited me in my hospital room, including Walter Young, Howard Wilson, Byron Johnson, Brett Huskey, my Bishop Ryan Vaclaw, Brendon Swisher and others.  Many people gave up their time to take care of some vital chores. I appreciated the visit of some wonderful people from the community, including Bob Pomeroy, Becky Burch, David Austin and Marty Schoenthaler. I hope I’m not leaving anybody out.

After eight liters were drained off my kidneys, I went into flush treatment with a constant liquid flow to continue to irrigate impurities. That lasted a couple of days. I assume more than 30 big bags of the solution went through my body.

I won’t say my few days in the hospital seemed surreal or overwhelming. It was just a time and a place I needed to deal with this phase of my life’s journey.

The memories do squeeze together a bit — the shots — really just pinpricks — in the stomach in the middle of the night, the vital sign monitoring at all hours, the parade of delicious meals, the wonderful room cleaners that reminded me of my mom and the contacts with others whose primary focus was to try to help me. 

I spent many of the hours watching old movies on TCM. Somewhere, sometimes in the middle of night I watched a Herman Hermits movie about a race dog, a Red Skelton tearjerker called “The Clown,” “A Man for All Seasons,” and other enjoyable flicks. 

Unfortunately, I didn’t do as much on my computer as I would have liked (my cord wasn’t long enough to reach the wall), prompting me to offer one word of advice to those that might be a guest of the hospital — bring an extension cord.

While I’m battling hard to recover from the tremendous loss of energy and well-being sapped from my body, I faced another major issue — with the encouragement of people in my church I decided it was finally time to get rid of my junky old furniture and buy a couple of new pieces. But along with that, a few of my fellow faithful devoted many, many hours of time and sweat to taking out the old stuff and do a major reorganization of my stuff, including throwing out several hundreds of pounds of old books, clothes, papers and other stuff, and cleaning the carpet.

Meanwhile, I’m trying to slog through the more subtle challenges — physical, anxiety, spiritual and emotional — of recovery. I really don’t know how it will work out until the catheter is taken out. For now, a cane might be part of my future — mainly because of two shot knees.

More than 40 years ago I devoted more than five years of my life to distance running. Oh, how I could cut through the wind back then! I recall some of my Marine Corp buddies who watched me try out for a coveted spot on the base running team (I made it as one of the five male finalists) from Beaufort, S.C. and commenting how effortless my style seemed.

The price I paid for those years of running more than 5,000 miles in about 54 months has been a painful one in my latter years. But I wouldn’t lessen by one mile my memories of clip-clopping along a lonely trail and feeling the power surge through my legs and well-synched lungs. 

Enduring those hot, muggy, exhaustive afternoons with steely focus and determination helped build in my toughness and resolution to deal with my health challenges in the senior years. 

Hopefully, my kidneys and related functions will continue to bless me as I continue to forge forward on this thing known as my destiny.

I remain highly grateful for the talents and opportunities God has bestowed on me.

Along with that my well of appreciation for the support and service of others at this phase of my life and during this crisis remains deeply profound.  I thank Becky Burch for running the local sports website we began last August. Neither of us gets paid for this, but Becky bears the brunt of the hardship because she’s forking out a lot of gas money out of her pocket in order to photograph your athletes in action. I highly pray those who have an inclination to do so might purchase some of Becky’s photos on our website or make a donation to help her defray expenses.

Regardless of all that, this has been a labor of love by both of us to make sure we can provide many kids and coaches public coverage they would otherwise not have, as well as pass along helpful information.

I thank those men in my church who have given up many hours this past week to help sharpen up my apartment, including junking some old furniture and setting up new furniture that I bought.

Bob Pomeroy spent many, many hours last week with me in the emergency room to help bring relief during some great pain and anxiety. He also has taken time from his incredibly busy schedule — pretty much all of it devoted to helping others and making Bartlesville a better place — to give me rides. During my days in the hospital he brought me a treat to brighten the experience,

The McKay family in Utah supported me with both support and generosity. They had been close friends and neighbors of my sister and have been among my staunchest comrades since.

David Austin also visited me in the emergency room and checked in on me regularly. From more than a dozen early-morning trips to drive me to the Tulsa Airport to our legendary lunches at Dink’s, David has been a stalwart and practicing friend of the first order.

As my week went on the hospital I fell into the daily routine. Chained to the catheter, my bed became most of my universe — except for bathroom trips or following the requirement to get up twice a day and walk to prove that I could. Within reach always was my computer — whose power cord was too short to keep plugged in — and my phone, both on the hard-to-adjust movable tray. I kept my black bag and personal possessions on the bed alongside me. Other implements strewn around my space included a power razor, a spray bottle of after-shave lotion, writing pen, writing notebook, and cups of water.

On Friday the hospital time ended. Following a quick tutorial on how to empty the catheter bag, I somehow pulled on the less-than-clean clothes in which I had shown up at the hospital, gathered my stuff and left, via wheelchair express by one of the nurses. Bob drove me to my apartment, where I spent the next few hours going through boxes the brethren in my church put at my feet to throw away more than half my stuff. The mental and emotional exertion tired me. I chucked out stuff I had held on to more than 20 years, including Barnsdall High School’s 1997 football roster, several pounds of Christmas cards, thank-you letters and other memorabilia, each piece evoking a happy or meaningful memory.

The Wood family put me up during the weekend while I waited for my new twin bed and loveseat to arrive. They treated me wonderfully, allowing me to stake out a comfortable corner chair in their living room in order to do computer work, make phone calls or just relax, my catheter bag always close by. They fed me great — although my appetite lacked some of its normal zest — shared some good TV time and chats together and let me sleep in a guest room. I pulled out all the blankets and cover sheet in order to keep pressure off my knees and midsection.

The sky appeared bright and sunny as I left the hospital on Friday — unlike earlier in the week when I looked through the slats of my fifth-floor hospital room and saw quiet explosions of lightning illuminate the sky over sleeping Bartlesville.

The drama had ended for now — a miracle consisting of both humanity and heavenliness had rescued me. Profound gratitude — tempered by the concerns of recovery, carrying around the catheter, getting my apartment reset up and contemplating it might be time to surrender to a cane — fill my mind and heart.

The wonder of people’s unselfish kindness toward me fills my soul with emotion and awe. Thanks to all who helped me out directly but also to all those who included me in their thoughts and prayers. 

On Monday I celebrated my 69th birthday — which coincided with my 29th Anniversary on the day I left Oroville, California to begin the cross-country (1,900-mile) drive to Bartlesville. It was part of my unscripted life. I vowed as a youngster to God I would try to serve Him however He wanted. He has guided me on a fantastic journey.

I pray that, on balance, I have been an asset to the community and that I might continue to try to be so.

Mike Tupa