Through Crimson Eyes

by Level Dasher

Chapter 47: Rough and Tough

Mom paced back and forth around the room. I probably would have been, too, if I wasn’t stuck in my bed. Gramma had finally sat down after doing her own round of pacing.

“Harmony, dear, please. You’re wearing a groove in the floor.”

Mom sighed. “Sorry, Gram. I just need to know what’s going on.”

“We all do, dear. Just be patient. High Flyer will—”

“Got ‘em.” All of our heads turned when High Flyer came through the door. Much to our dismay, he wasn’t smiling.

“So, what’s the deal?” I asked. “Are you gonna put another tube up my nose or do I get a break?”

High Flyer sighed. “Neither.”

Mom and Gramma matched my expression when my eyes went wide.

“So… what exactly is the problem?” Mom asked.

“I’m going to let the doctors explain. They’re on their way right—” The door opened and a trio of doctors walked in. “—now,” High Flyer finished.

“Good afternoon, Crimson. We have some serious business to discuss.” The doctor lit up her horn and took the scan results from High Flyer’s wing.

“I… don’t really like the sound of that,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“Well, we found the source of the problem. There is indeed another blockage.”

I let out a sigh. “Does that mean I need more chemo?” I could already practically feel the mouth sores again as I licked the inside of my lips.

“No, it doesn’t—” My ears perked for a moment. “—It means we need to do surgery.” Then they dropped like weights.

“Surgery?” Mom asked. “We were told that surgery would be risky— that’s why Crimson was given more chemotherapy in the first place.”

“Well, unlike the first obstruction that was right at the transition between Crimson’s stomach and intestine, the new blockage is further down in his tract. This time there is an exponentially smaller risk of irreversible or fatal damage.” The fact that she said the word ‘fatal’ at all wasn’t encouraging, but I had to hear her out. “It’s also not a tumor— it’s scar tissue.”

Gramma stood up. “Scar tissue? From what?”

The doctor stood silent for a moment, then answered, “From the chemotherapy.”

I put my head in my hooves. “You’re kidding.”

The doctor shook her head. “Unfortunately, no. Because of the PTLD, you’ve had to have a number of different treatments of chemotherapy. Each of them has negative side effects, but some are more subtle than others. One that they all share is that they can damage your body— in this case, your intestinal tract.”

“Isn’t there something you could have done for that?” I asked.

“There is, and we did,” the doctor answered. “We put you on a gut protectant when we started your second therapy, and you’ve been on it since, but it seems that the amount of chemotherapy your body has been subjected to caused more damage than the medication could prevent. In this one place, your tract was consistently being damaged and repairing itself with scar tissue— your body’s natural healing process finally built up so much tissue that it caused the blockage that appeared on the scan.”

I laid my head back against my pillow and groaned. “Great. I did it to myself and I didn’t even mean to.” I shifted my head to look at the doctor. “So, what kind of surgery do you have to do?”

“It’s called an intestinal resectioning. We’re going to cut out the section of your intestine where the scar tissue is, and then reconnect the tract,” the doctor answered. “Like I said before, the risk level for this kind of surgery is much lower, but there could potentially be a little more to it, depending on your decision.”

My eyes widened. “Decision? What am I deciding?”

She started, “Well, we can either give you another NG tube—”

“NO,” I stated flatly.

“Crimson, let’s listen to the other option first,” Mom said.

The doctor nodded. “I had a feeling you would feel that way, Crimson, but your mother is right. The other option is that we would give you a regular gastrostomy tube, or a G-tube. We would need to create an incision in your abdomen that would go directly into your stomach and drain the fluids that way, as opposed to coming up your throat and out your nose with an NG tube.”

I hesitated. “That sounds a little freaky,” I said.

“Well, if it helps your decision,” the doctor responded, “we will be making several incisions anyway— the surgery will be done laparoscopically, which means we will perform the operation through a number of small incisions, instead of, well, ‘cutting you open,’ like what had to be done with your heart transplant. We will need a way to drain the excess fluids from your system post-surgery either way, but for the short-term; while your intestines heal, we will also need to drain your stomach fluids like we have been doing so your stomach acid doesn’t damage the healing tissue. If we use a G-tube, we would feed it through one of the incisions that we would already need to make for the operation. The only additional step would be creating a small incision in your stomach for the tube to be fed through. It’s not that uncommon for these kinds of procedures.”

That didn’t sound so bad. I really didn’t want another NG tube— this other option sounded okay to me. I sat for a moment and looked at Mom, then turned back to the doctor and said, “I think I’d prefer the Gastros… the G-tube.”

“Sticking with your original decision?”

“Yeah, the G-tube doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Sounds like a plan. The sooner we do the surgery, the better. I’ll let you know when there is time available. For now, you need to be marked NPO again, and you’ll remain that way for some time after the surgery. You’ll be getting your meds and nutrients through your PICC like you’ve been doing. When everything looks okay, you’ll get to try food again, but it may not be for a while. It will depend on how quickly your body heals.”

I put my head in my hooves and groaned. “Ugh. Alright.”

“I know you aren’t thrilled about this surgery, Crimson, especially since the chemotherapy is what created the need, but the treatments were not in vain,” the doctor said. “You already know that your first obstruction has been eliminated, but there is also very little residual cancer left throughout your body. What is left does not seem to be causing any harm, and as long as it doesn’t grow, you should be fine.”

“Well, that’s good to know,” I said.

“Yes, indeed,” the doctor replied. “We would just need to scan you every so often to make sure your cancer is in a manageable state. As long as it is, you won’t need any more chemotherapy. It’s actually rather common for ponies to live their lives normally with cancer, as long as it is kept at bay. This surgery might be the last major procedure you need to worry about.”

“That would certainly be nice,” Mom responded.

“Yeah, seriously,” I quipped.

The doctor nodded. “Well, then it’s settled. I’ll try to find the soonest time available for the surgery. For now, all you need to do is wait until that time comes.”

I sighed. “Okay. Hey, where’s High Flyer?” He had somehow slipped out of the room while the doctor was talking to us.

“I think he’s going to get something for you,” the doctor said with a smile. “We had some fun things come in for the patients just a little while ago. If he doesn’t come back himself, I’ll be sure to send him over.”

“Cool,” I said. “Thanks, Doc.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered as they walked out.

I sighed again. “Well, that’s a hassle. Then again, I’d kinda wanted to do surgery instead of chemo the first time around. If it’s even less risky this time, I should be fine.”

Mom smiled and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “You really are incredible, you know that? It’s amazing that you can take all of this rough stuff with so much ease. I’m worried sick over here.”

I shrugged. “Not surprising. You’re a worry-wart.”

That got a chuckle out of her. “And I have every right to be!” she answered.

“True,” I said with a smile.

High Flyer walked back in. “Hey, buddy. Sorry I snuck out while you were talking to the doctor. I thought you might like to see something after that conversation.”

I tilted my head at him. “Yeah, she said you were getting something for me…”

He smiled. “Indeed I was. Earlier today, one of the support foundations brought in some things for the patients.” He opened his wings and laid out some squares of cloth of a few different colors on my bed. “These are bandanas. Ponies tend to put them over their heads when they lose their manes. Yours should grow back in soon enough, but I thought you might like to have one anyway.” I looked over the colors: red, blue, green, yellow, pink, purple, black, and white. “They brought in some dolls, too— I had a feeling you wouldn’t want one, but I can go get a couple if you want to pick one of those instead.”

“Nah, I haven’t played with action figures for a while. This is cool,” I replied. I looked over the colors for another second. “I’ll take a bla— actually, I’ll take a blue one, for my dad. Besides, red and black is really overplayed.”

High Flyer chuckled. “Your pick, buddy, but it’s cool that you’re thinking about your dad. Good choice.” He gathered up the rest of the bandanas. “I’d let you take more than one, but they only brought so many. You actually just picked the last blue one— you got lucky.”

“Woah, good timing,” I said.

“Yeah, I wanted to make sure you could pick from the whole spectrum,” High Flyer replied. “You want me to tie it on for you? One of the other pegasus nurses taught me how. If you like it, I’ll show you how to do it, too.”

“Yeah, sure!”

“Alright, here, sit up straight.” He put the bandana over my head and folded it over a couple of times, tucking it in in certain places and tying it up in the back with his wings. “There we go. Whatcha think?” He pulled over my rolling table and opened up a slot where there was a hidden mirror.

I looked at my reflection. “Huh. Not bad,” I said, turning my head from side to side.

Mom let out a little chuckle. “You look like a thug from lower Manehattan.”

At that, I burst out laughing. “Ha, yeah, I can kinda see that.”

High Flyer laughed along with me. “I’m sure you could tie it somewhere else. Maybe your mom can figure something out, if she doesn’t want you looking like a thug.”

Mom smiled. “I’ll think of something. He can leave it where it is for now.”

“I’ll leave that up to you. Let me go hoof the rest of these out,” High Flyer said.

“Sounds good. Thanks,” I responded, flicking the back of the bandana’s knot.

“You’re welcome, buddy. Behave yourself,” he said with a laugh as he walked out the door.

“Yes, you little thug,” Mom said, rubbing my newly covered head. “You behave.” I chuckled, nudging her away.

Thinking about the surgery I was going to have soon, I took another look at myself in the table mirror and crossed my forelegs. You know… I’m no thug, but nopony can deny that I’m one tough colt.

Comments

[Dreams of Ponies]

Yeah, surgery is never fun... and the irony that treatment that was supposed to help Crimson actually caused more problems doesn't escape me, ugh.

But this bit:

“I’ll take a bla— actually, I’ll take a blue one, for my dad. Besides, red and black is really overplayed.”

Yeah, almost choked on my dinner. Well played indeed

[TheGreatEater]

8235925
Depends on if they have a good anesthesiologist, competent doctors, and what the surgeries for. Eye and throat surgery aren't that bad.