This article ran in The Indianapolis Star yesterday. It was written by Tyler Trent.
When I started to have trouble breathing and began convulsing in my wheelchair the morning of Sept. 25, I thought for sure my roommates would return to find a limp dead body in my wheelchair.
However, after about eight minutes, my body returned to normal. Which meant I would take my morphine to battle my daily back pain from the ever-growing tumor on my spine. Without the pain medication I was basically unable to function. So, after double-checking that I could breathe normally, I went to class.
This probably leads one to ask themselves: Why didn’t you tell anyone?
One, I didn’t tell anyone because I love my school and learning at Purdue, and didn’t want to give that away.
Two, I didn’t want to scare my family. There was already a lot of conflict and tension at home about my determination to return to Purdue this fall with the tumor on my spine, and I didn’t want to add to that.
And, three, I didn’t know how serious it was.
After much Googling and common sense in class, I figured out that the tumor growing on my L3 spine was causing me to slowly lose the ability to use the left side of my upper body, as well as my legs. (Editor's note: L3 is the third of five lumbar vertebrae from rib cage to pelvis; they help carry the body's weight and allow movement.) The tumor paralyzed me from the waist down, but it wasn’t until my mom back home in Carmel saw that I wasn’t tweeting like normal that she realized something was wrong. So when my mom and Grandma came to visit and I had another seizure in front of them, my mom — out of concern, of course — insisted that I move back home. I was devastated, but deep down I knew it was the right decision. Unfortunately, the seizures were just the beginning of my medical problems.
I was also facing issues using the restroom, and after several tests doctors figured out that my kidneys were failing quickly, the result of almost four years of chemotherapy being pumped through my body.
In a quick turn of events for me, my doctors were telling me I had only a couple of weeks to live, and that I was going to have to live with tubes manually flushing my kidneys. These tubes would turn out to be a nightmare because half the time they don’t work, and we have to manually flush saline through my kidneys to get them working again. Unfortunately, the week of the Ohio State vs. Purdue game, this is what happened:
My tubes failed, and I had to be rushed to the hospital to undergo an emergency surgery to fix them. This was done without anesthesia. It was a nightmare come true; you can feel the operation happening but can’t stop it or scream out because of the pain. I have gained a new respect for veterans of war who had to undergo operations on the battlefield without modern medicine.
At this point you may be wondering: Where’s the gratitude? After all, isn’t that the title of this column?
Well, yes. Yes, it is.
I am extremely grateful that even though I had to endure that grueling pain and surgery, and later in the week spent an entire day throwing up and running a fever due to the surgery, I was able to attend that football game with my family and experience all the love and support. Not only from Purdue fans, but from across the nation, including Ohio State fans. While it’s hard for me to admit, props to Ohio State for their kindness and encouragement. It has been overwhelming (in a good way).
Though I am in hospice care and have to wake up every morning knowing that the day might be my last, I still have a choice to make: to make that day the best it can be. To make the most of whomever comes to visit, texts, tweets or calls me.
Yet, isn’t that a choice we all have every day? After all, nobody knows the amount of days we have left. Some could say we are all in hospice to a certain degree.
So why don’t we act like it? Where is your gratitude? With Christmas coming up, what are you thankful for? I had to write my will recently, and I’m just thankful I can give my family Christmas presents, maybe even for one last time. Let’s not forget that my doctors gave me three months to live almost two-and-a-half months ago. So why can’t we live grateful lives? Why can’t we make every day count like it’s the last?
To me, that’s what gratitude in hospice means.
![Tyler Trent listens to applause after he was presented with the Sagamore of the Wabash at a fundraiser luncheon for Riley Children's Foundation's Be The Hope Now campaign, Indianapolis, Wednesday, Nov. 28, 2018. Trent, who has the rare bone cancer osteosarcoma, is in hospice care.]()
When I started to have trouble breathing and began convulsing in my wheelchair the morning of Sept. 25, I thought for sure my roommates would return to find a limp dead body in my wheelchair.
However, after about eight minutes, my body returned to normal. Which meant I would take my morphine to battle my daily back pain from the ever-growing tumor on my spine. Without the pain medication I was basically unable to function. So, after double-checking that I could breathe normally, I went to class.
This probably leads one to ask themselves: Why didn’t you tell anyone?
One, I didn’t tell anyone because I love my school and learning at Purdue, and didn’t want to give that away.
Two, I didn’t want to scare my family. There was already a lot of conflict and tension at home about my determination to return to Purdue this fall with the tumor on my spine, and I didn’t want to add to that.
And, three, I didn’t know how serious it was.
After much Googling and common sense in class, I figured out that the tumor growing on my L3 spine was causing me to slowly lose the ability to use the left side of my upper body, as well as my legs. (Editor's note: L3 is the third of five lumbar vertebrae from rib cage to pelvis; they help carry the body's weight and allow movement.) The tumor paralyzed me from the waist down, but it wasn’t until my mom back home in Carmel saw that I wasn’t tweeting like normal that she realized something was wrong. So when my mom and Grandma came to visit and I had another seizure in front of them, my mom — out of concern, of course — insisted that I move back home. I was devastated, but deep down I knew it was the right decision. Unfortunately, the seizures were just the beginning of my medical problems.
I was also facing issues using the restroom, and after several tests doctors figured out that my kidneys were failing quickly, the result of almost four years of chemotherapy being pumped through my body.
In a quick turn of events for me, my doctors were telling me I had only a couple of weeks to live, and that I was going to have to live with tubes manually flushing my kidneys. These tubes would turn out to be a nightmare because half the time they don’t work, and we have to manually flush saline through my kidneys to get them working again. Unfortunately, the week of the Ohio State vs. Purdue game, this is what happened:
My tubes failed, and I had to be rushed to the hospital to undergo an emergency surgery to fix them. This was done without anesthesia. It was a nightmare come true; you can feel the operation happening but can’t stop it or scream out because of the pain. I have gained a new respect for veterans of war who had to undergo operations on the battlefield without modern medicine.
At this point you may be wondering: Where’s the gratitude? After all, isn’t that the title of this column?
Well, yes. Yes, it is.
I am extremely grateful that even though I had to endure that grueling pain and surgery, and later in the week spent an entire day throwing up and running a fever due to the surgery, I was able to attend that football game with my family and experience all the love and support. Not only from Purdue fans, but from across the nation, including Ohio State fans. While it’s hard for me to admit, props to Ohio State for their kindness and encouragement. It has been overwhelming (in a good way).
Though I am in hospice care and have to wake up every morning knowing that the day might be my last, I still have a choice to make: to make that day the best it can be. To make the most of whomever comes to visit, texts, tweets or calls me.
Yet, isn’t that a choice we all have every day? After all, nobody knows the amount of days we have left. Some could say we are all in hospice to a certain degree.
So why don’t we act like it? Where is your gratitude? With Christmas coming up, what are you thankful for? I had to write my will recently, and I’m just thankful I can give my family Christmas presents, maybe even for one last time. Let’s not forget that my doctors gave me three months to live almost two-and-a-half months ago. So why can’t we live grateful lives? Why can’t we make every day count like it’s the last?
To me, that’s what gratitude in hospice means.
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