andrisky,thenI’djustputintubestodrainherbacked-up
pipes. I’d aim to do what might have sounded like a
contradictioninterms:apalliativeoperation,anoperation
whose overriding priority, whatever the violence and
risksinherent, wastodoonlywhatwaslikelytomake
her feel better immediately.
She remained quiet, thinking.
Herdaughtertookherhand.“Weshoulddothis,Mom,”
she said.
“Okay,” Douglass said. “But no risky chances.”
“No risky chances,” I said.
Whenshewasasleepunderanesthesia,Imadeahalf-inch
incisionaboveherbellybutton.Itletoutagushofthin,
blood-tingedfluid.Islippedmyglovedfingerinsideto
feelforspaceto insertthefiberopticscope.But ahard
loop oftumor-cakedbowelblockedtheentry.Iwasn’t
even going to be able to put in a camera. I had the
residenttake theknifeand extend theincisionupward
untilitwaslargeenoughtoseeindirectlyandgetahand
inside.Atthebottom ofthehole,Isawafreeloopof
distended bowel—it looked like an overinflated pink
innertube—thatIthoughtwemightbeabletopullupto
theskin and make intoan ileostomy soshe couldeat
again.Butitremainedtetheredbytumor,andaswetried
to chipit freeitbecame evident thatwe were risking
creating holes we’d never be able to repair. Leakage
insidetheabdomenwouldbeacalamity.Sowestopped.
Heraimsforuswereclear.Noriskychances.Weshifted
focusandputintwolong,plasticdrainagetubes.Onewe
inserteddirectlyintoherstomachinordertoemptythe