On Monday, I entered the hospital for numerous tests. One of these was under a giant machine that measured my breathing capacity, section by section. The purpose supposedly was to advise the doctor how much of my lungs could be removed and still allow me to live. I was told that this was one of two machines like it in the United States and its results were figured by a computer in Minneapolis. I thought of all the people who have lung surgery without the aid of numerous tests.

It was ten-thirty that night before the doctor could get me scheduled for a tomogram. This took a separate X ray of my chest vertically each third of an inch from my neck to my stomach by computer. The doctor wanted the best possible information in advance on what he would find when he opened me up.

The day before surgery, an orderly came into my hospital room with a kit and asked my family to leave so that he could “prep” me for surgery. I was scared of what he was going to do to me. All he did was shave my stomach and back. A simple explanation, instead of technical terms, could have avoided the apprehension.

There was another unnecessary experience when I asked one of the assisting surgeons how much use of my right arm I could expect to lose. He answered that he did not know—which is where he should have left it. He then went on to volunteer that I should realize that I was facing the worst possible kind of surgery and that I had everything to lose and nothing to gain. This was not the type of surgery to repair or improve something. This was to go in and remove anything they saw that was cancerous, short of killing me.

He said, “You cannot come out any better than you went in. You can only come out worse. We are going to get rid of the cancer, and wherever we see cancer we have to take it out. We have no idea how far it is. If we have to, I’ll take off your whole shoulder. You could come out without a right arm.”

He had no reason to be that grotesque. That’s what was on my mind the night before surgery—the awful, negative things that he said. I suppose doctors think they’re preparing us for the worst. Where is the possible benefit? How can a cancer victim think positively if this is what he hears?

The anticipated morning of May 16 was here. As I was being wheeled down to surgery, my last recollection in my drugged state was the secure and warm feeling of seeing my wife, three daughters, sons-in-law, two brothers and my sister-in-law all there together and sharing this burden with me. I felt truly blessed!