(actually posted 1/29/09)
Last Friday was another set of three month scans. Along with routine blood work but also extra blood work to see if my childhood immunizations were wiped clean from the chemo. I am OK with getting needles, but the nurse that was inserting the needle and catheter in my arm was having a lot of trouble. Like, a lot.
She was wiggling around in the bend of my arm for about 7 minutes and i thought i was going to lose it. "Is it always this difficult to find a vein in your arm?" No, considering i am practically transparent and my veins resemble a google map. They moved locations and tried in my hand, also a no go. Then went into my wrist..."i see a juicy one!". I cringe just thinking about it. I don't want to hear the words "needle" "juicy" "blood" "plump" etc. when i'm being poked in the vein. My hands turned to an icy-sweat from all of the poking and horrific vocabulary. A heads up, getting a needle in the wrist is not ideal. There is not a lot of fat stored there and a needle/catheter on your joint doesn't make all that much sense to me...
But! Finally, it was in. Wrist and all, i just wanted out of that chair.
I was in for a CT Scan (for my lungs) and also a full bone scan. I arrived in nuclear medicine for my contrast injection. Even though the catheter was already in and all that was to be done was to inject the opening with the dye, everything felt so sharp in there. The bio hazard symbol on the syringe disposal unit was taunting me. No matter where i looked, that orange and black logo was waving a sharp-tipped "hello" at me. When she injected the contrast into my wrist i almost immediately felt the cool liquid running through my shoulder blade and back. It's a wild feeling to realize all that is going on inside of our bodies and how quickly it all moves.
While we are sitting there, watching TV on the couch, sleeping, etc. There is a mechanic-like process pulsing inside of our bodies. Constantly. I find it amazing that the most important things that we do (pump blood, process food, fight infections, and so on) are done without any real legwork on our end. I feel like at certain times of the day it should be required that we use our hands to squish our stomachs around to help ourselves digest. Some kind of effort on our part to help out.
But we don't have to, yet the majority of us continue to take that for granted and treat our bodies like garbage. I'm guilty, too. A lot of this thinking confirmed my desire to make a change and give my body a break. Let it know that i am here to help, too.
We spend so much time taking care of the outside of our bodies by shaving, getting our nails & hair did, washing ourselves, etc. It's so important to put that much care into the inside, too.
A good friend of mine (she doubles as a roomie) & I had been talking about doing a detox diet for a few weeks now. It's called The Master Cleanse, and by mentioning it to a few friends and family - it seems like a lot of people have heard of this before or know of someone that' done it.
***EDIT***
(sometime in October)
I started this post about a month ago and just never finished it. It has been sitting in "Drafts" for a while now. Was going to delete it but thought, hell - i'll just post it. So, we ended up doing the Master Cleanse and i am so glad that i did it. It is a fast - no food (even gum/mints), medications, etc. for a minimum of 10 days. Only the lemonade concoction, spring water, and senna tea. The drink consists of fresh squeezed lemons, spring water, organic grade B maple syrup and cayenne pepper. Although it may sound revolting, i actually liked the taste of it. Also, as a "treat" you can have a few cups of mint tea! It sounds minimal but really, it excited us. Funny how sometimes it takes an absolute clean slate to really appreciate things. I can go on and on about the entire process & routine but i've exhausted this topic by talking about it quite a lot. So I'll just recommend The Master Cleanse book by Stanley Burroughs.
It turned out to be a test on so many levels. The first two days were the worst, Shannon and I were so irritable and wanted nothing more than to murder Mike (roomie/friend #2) each time we smelled his dinner being cooked. So much that he had to eat in the bedroom so as not to be mauled by us.
***EDIT***
1/29/09
The drafts folder and i have been having an ongoing war. I, again, left this one hanging after attempting to finish it off. So much that we've entered a new year. Overall, the Master Cleanse was a memorable experience, I've never had so much mental clarity. It is amazing how much extra time you have when you don't have food to factor into your day. So much of our social events revolve around food. So to have a break was both refreshing and confusing. Some days i literally did not know what to do with myself. If anyone is thinking about trying it out, i say go for it. But go into it knowing that it is not easy and people will think you are psychotic. Know that you will be tested by yourself, peers, family and that god damn taunting refrigerator.
I've given this blog a new, inverted face. I'm going to try and make it a point to keep steady at releasing things via this cluster of binary goodness.
two
thousand
...nine?
01101000 01100101 01110010 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100111 01101111
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Don't show your face again
I’d like to preface this entry with a disclaimer, I’m a bit of a negative-nancy today.
I went for my routine blood tests and scans (bone, chest, ultrasound) last Friday. It should be a few days before I get my results back, until that time I’ll be doing my best to remember to breathe.
When I was still being treated at the hospital, I felt so safe there. When I’d be home puking up my innards, running a high fever, mouth shredded from chemo – and my doctor would tell me that I had to be admitted in-patient, it comforted me. I’d whine about it externally, but honestly it was comforting knowing that I was in route to be in the hands of people the cared and had the knowledge and calm demeanor to settle my rattling nerves. It was exciting to see which nurse would be mine for the night, always hoping for a favorite and catching up with them.
Cancer can make you feel independent and singled out but the hospital gives you a common ground. You’re surrounded with other families dealing with the same worries, and seeing the children was no longer as heart breaking for me as it was initially. And maybe that sounds cruel but I just mean that I looked at them more like allies rather than something so foreign and sad.
Having said all that, going back to that place post-cancer has had the opposite effect on me, which I didn’t expect at all. My sense of smell has heightened ten-fold since chemo. If someone has the slightest tinge of body odor or a warm, greasy scalp – I can smell it from across the room. The second I walk into that hospital I’m engulfed with scents that bring back uncomfortable memories. The bathroom soap, hand sanitizer dispensers, latex gloves, kitchen, paper towels – everything makes my mouth salivate in that about-to-throw-up kind of way.
When you are checked into the hospital, even for just scans, you are given a white band with your name and ID# to place around your wrist. When you walk through the halls with your family or visitors, I noticed that it’s common for other passer-by-ers to drop their eyes down to your wrist level to see who it is that has the unfortunate diagnosis of cancer. I’m guilty, too. I noticed that after people see your band, they will give you a smile and a tilt of a head with eyes that say “I feel sad for you, but I am going to treat you like a normal person and acknowledge you with this sincere smile”. Which is a nice gesture but actually infuriates me sometimes. Like smiling at someone with an obvious disfigurement or handicap. I think maybe this bothers me because society today is not normally as friendly under normal circumstances. Example, many times if I am just walking down the street or holding a door for someone I will smile and I find that it’s not uncommon to not get a “thank you” or a smile back in return.
I sound bitter today huh? This is obviously some kind of inner battle I have going on inside of myself. I thought it would help to put it to words. During my treatment I did my best to react to everything gracefully. In terms of my appearance, attitude, words, etc. In public I think I hid the fact that I was sick very well. I don’t like pity or “aw eyes” directed at me. So by looking “normal” in the hospital and wearing that wristband, it’s like my secret was out. That wristband is my gossip, my story. No matter how much weight I’ve put back on and how full my eyebrows and eyelashes grow in, I still have to wear that wristband each visit and people will know the truth. And not that I am ashamed of the experience or think that it is a top mission secret, but I think I am uncomfortable with the fact that this is something I can never get away from. Something that is out of my hands and not something I chose to participate in. I didn’t sign up for this.
I think what sparked all this hostility was learning about the health condition of a girl that my family became close with. Previous to cancer, she already had a full plate with other health complications. Her body didn’t handle the chemo well and she wasn’t able to go through with surgery to remove her tumor and the cancer has now spread. It makes me sick to my stomach and angry at how unfair all of this really is.
I think that attitude plays a huge part into the wellness of anyone with a beating heart, and it’s no different for someone with cancer. When I was battling cancer I gave it a somewhat non-chalant attitude. I basically covered my ears and made “La La La not listening” sounds. Kind of ignoring the fact that I had this beast growing inside of me with the power to demolish my existence in a short period of time. I filled my days with family and friends and read a lot of books, wrote a lot. Etc. Now that the cancer is out, I find myself finally being able to be angry about the experience. Like the attacker is out of sight and I am not afraid to tell him how I feel.
If you return, I will kick your ass. (again)
Anyway, as you did for me – please keep positive thoughts for this girl and I will surely do the same.
PS,
Smile at a stranger today. If someone smiles at you, smile back. Say please, say thank you.
If there's one thing i've learned it's that one step at a time can make all the difference in this world...
Neil Armstrong said it best.
I went for my routine blood tests and scans (bone, chest, ultrasound) last Friday. It should be a few days before I get my results back, until that time I’ll be doing my best to remember to breathe.
When I was still being treated at the hospital, I felt so safe there. When I’d be home puking up my innards, running a high fever, mouth shredded from chemo – and my doctor would tell me that I had to be admitted in-patient, it comforted me. I’d whine about it externally, but honestly it was comforting knowing that I was in route to be in the hands of people the cared and had the knowledge and calm demeanor to settle my rattling nerves. It was exciting to see which nurse would be mine for the night, always hoping for a favorite and catching up with them.
Cancer can make you feel independent and singled out but the hospital gives you a common ground. You’re surrounded with other families dealing with the same worries, and seeing the children was no longer as heart breaking for me as it was initially. And maybe that sounds cruel but I just mean that I looked at them more like allies rather than something so foreign and sad.
Having said all that, going back to that place post-cancer has had the opposite effect on me, which I didn’t expect at all. My sense of smell has heightened ten-fold since chemo. If someone has the slightest tinge of body odor or a warm, greasy scalp – I can smell it from across the room. The second I walk into that hospital I’m engulfed with scents that bring back uncomfortable memories. The bathroom soap, hand sanitizer dispensers, latex gloves, kitchen, paper towels – everything makes my mouth salivate in that about-to-throw-up kind of way.
When you are checked into the hospital, even for just scans, you are given a white band with your name and ID# to place around your wrist. When you walk through the halls with your family or visitors, I noticed that it’s common for other passer-by-ers to drop their eyes down to your wrist level to see who it is that has the unfortunate diagnosis of cancer. I’m guilty, too. I noticed that after people see your band, they will give you a smile and a tilt of a head with eyes that say “I feel sad for you, but I am going to treat you like a normal person and acknowledge you with this sincere smile”. Which is a nice gesture but actually infuriates me sometimes. Like smiling at someone with an obvious disfigurement or handicap. I think maybe this bothers me because society today is not normally as friendly under normal circumstances. Example, many times if I am just walking down the street or holding a door for someone I will smile and I find that it’s not uncommon to not get a “thank you” or a smile back in return.
I sound bitter today huh? This is obviously some kind of inner battle I have going on inside of myself. I thought it would help to put it to words. During my treatment I did my best to react to everything gracefully. In terms of my appearance, attitude, words, etc. In public I think I hid the fact that I was sick very well. I don’t like pity or “aw eyes” directed at me. So by looking “normal” in the hospital and wearing that wristband, it’s like my secret was out. That wristband is my gossip, my story. No matter how much weight I’ve put back on and how full my eyebrows and eyelashes grow in, I still have to wear that wristband each visit and people will know the truth. And not that I am ashamed of the experience or think that it is a top mission secret, but I think I am uncomfortable with the fact that this is something I can never get away from. Something that is out of my hands and not something I chose to participate in. I didn’t sign up for this.
I think what sparked all this hostility was learning about the health condition of a girl that my family became close with. Previous to cancer, she already had a full plate with other health complications. Her body didn’t handle the chemo well and she wasn’t able to go through with surgery to remove her tumor and the cancer has now spread. It makes me sick to my stomach and angry at how unfair all of this really is.
I think that attitude plays a huge part into the wellness of anyone with a beating heart, and it’s no different for someone with cancer. When I was battling cancer I gave it a somewhat non-chalant attitude. I basically covered my ears and made “La La La not listening” sounds. Kind of ignoring the fact that I had this beast growing inside of me with the power to demolish my existence in a short period of time. I filled my days with family and friends and read a lot of books, wrote a lot. Etc. Now that the cancer is out, I find myself finally being able to be angry about the experience. Like the attacker is out of sight and I am not afraid to tell him how I feel.
If you return, I will kick your ass. (again)
Anyway, as you did for me – please keep positive thoughts for this girl and I will surely do the same.
PS,
Smile at a stranger today. If someone smiles at you, smile back. Say please, say thank you.
If there's one thing i've learned it's that one step at a time can make all the difference in this world...
Neil Armstrong said it best.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
=)
…4, 3, 2, 1 – DONE!
Yeeesss sir, all of my chemo treatments are complete. I’ve finished up the last one this past week and even though the skin is peeling off of my lips and tongue as I type this, it feels great.
It’s been almost a year since my diagnosis (April 13 – Friday, the 13th…) and some people say to me “wow, can you believe it’s over already? this past year flew!” but for the first time I can say no, no the year did not fly by and yes I can believe that just about 365 days have passed. This year resembled tortoise speed and I couldn’t be happier that treatments are over.
A lot of people ask me what it feels like to get chemotherapy and the best way I’ve ever heard it put to words was by Melissa Etheridge (breast cancer survivor). She said it is like bringing your body as close to death as possible and then bringing it back to life, repeatedly. I feel like I’ve died and resurrected thirty times over, but at the same time – I’ve never felt more alive.
I can’t really say that this experience taught me a huge lesson in life and that now I won’t take everything for granted because I don’t really feel like I was ever a person who took things for granted. I’ve always appreciated the little things in life and the people in it. I am not sure why cancer happens and how certain people are selected to experience it but all I know is that it is unfair and really just another test in life.
I feel bad when people around me feel afraid to complain about a headache or something that they feel is tragic going on in their life. They immediately apologize to me and say that they know it is nothing compared to what I’ve been through. I don’t want my experience to trivialize anything that anyone is going through. Every one has their battles and this was mine. Maybe life’s way of evening things out is just by giving you more headaches than me ;)
Leaving the hospital was a mix of emotions. I wanted to throw the chemotherapy pole through the window and also hug every family and doctor that I’ve met during the past year. As thrilled as I am to be done, I really will miss certain things about going to that place…
Will not miss:
Hearing bad news about patients I’ve become friends with, nausea, the smell of the hospital sheets, daytime television (with the exception of Ellen), the teal blue containers that hospital entrees come in, collecting my pee for testing, seeing new patients’ hair slowly disappear, seeing new patients in general, mothers’ hands shaking, yellow vomit buckets, baby blue latex gloves, finger sticks and children’s band-aids, wheelchairs, cancer, etc. etc.
Will miss:
Seeing the friends we’ve made regularly (Kizzy, Elizabeth), success stories, not having to care about what I look like daily, a slew of favorite doctors and nurses, getting visits from friends and family, the sound of children laughing despite everything, having a lot of time to read books, etc etc.
Wow, I have a lot more “will not miss’s”. I think that’s expected though. Really the thing I will miss the most is all of the friendships I’ve made at that place. Everything that goes on in that place just feels so much more real than anything else. You are seeing families in the raw. Raw emotions, raw skin - raw everything. You have real conversations with people and you know it’s not the routine “oh good morning how are you doing?” when you know the person isn’t all that concerned with your reply. When you are in the hospital and are asked “how are you doing?”, they really want to know. You have everyone’s attention and in a way that feels good, not selfish.
Although I am done with treatments, I am not completely done with that place. I’ll return this Wednesday to remove the metaport from my chest. It is a quick surgery, only 30 minutes – no biggie. Each month I will have to return for blood work, every three months I will go for chest and bone scans. And each time I am sure I will be nervous and ready to throw up at the thought of bad news, but it is something I have to do. There are some people that are too afraid to return for their scans and believe that their treatment is over with on their last day of chemo and they couldn’t be more wrong. I personally knew a woman that was afraid to go for her scans and when the pain was too much to handle she finally went and by that time the cancer had spread and she was gone two months later.
I’ve been given a second chance at life and I intend on keeping it. God forbid the cancer should ever return, I intend on getting a third chance. Please people, if something hurts – go get it checked out by a doctor. I don’t care how minor you think it is. Even though my case was a success I could have a lot more usage in my arm if I had went to the doctor three months earlier when the pain had first started. If you tell me something hurts, I am going to yell at you to go see a doctor. A lot. Thank me later. :P
I will be having a benefit/end of treatment celebration and I’d like everyone I’ve ever met in my life to come. The plans are still in the works but I will be posting the info on here when I have it, and also sending out evites. Please come! Even if you read my blog and I don’t know you, you’re invited too. Details to come…
This blog has been a great friend to me throughout my ordeal. It’s nice to have a place to vent and know that people that care about me are reading and staying updated on my journey. I do intend on keeping this blog and updating it here on out, but how often I am not sure.
30 weeks of chemo and seven surgeries later, I am here closing out my countdown. This bump in the road has certainly left some marks on my body, but I think scars can be a beautiful thing. They’re proof of everything I’ve felt but wasn’t able to put to words, proof of success, and proof that experiences in life really do have a long lasting impression.
Thank you to everyone who supported me endlessly throughout this experience. The love I’ve felt is almost overwhelming, I feel very lucky. I promise that I will be there for you, too.
Yeeesss sir, all of my chemo treatments are complete. I’ve finished up the last one this past week and even though the skin is peeling off of my lips and tongue as I type this, it feels great.
It’s been almost a year since my diagnosis (April 13 – Friday, the 13th…) and some people say to me “wow, can you believe it’s over already? this past year flew!” but for the first time I can say no, no the year did not fly by and yes I can believe that just about 365 days have passed. This year resembled tortoise speed and I couldn’t be happier that treatments are over.
A lot of people ask me what it feels like to get chemotherapy and the best way I’ve ever heard it put to words was by Melissa Etheridge (breast cancer survivor). She said it is like bringing your body as close to death as possible and then bringing it back to life, repeatedly. I feel like I’ve died and resurrected thirty times over, but at the same time – I’ve never felt more alive.
I can’t really say that this experience taught me a huge lesson in life and that now I won’t take everything for granted because I don’t really feel like I was ever a person who took things for granted. I’ve always appreciated the little things in life and the people in it. I am not sure why cancer happens and how certain people are selected to experience it but all I know is that it is unfair and really just another test in life.
I feel bad when people around me feel afraid to complain about a headache or something that they feel is tragic going on in their life. They immediately apologize to me and say that they know it is nothing compared to what I’ve been through. I don’t want my experience to trivialize anything that anyone is going through. Every one has their battles and this was mine. Maybe life’s way of evening things out is just by giving you more headaches than me ;)
Leaving the hospital was a mix of emotions. I wanted to throw the chemotherapy pole through the window and also hug every family and doctor that I’ve met during the past year. As thrilled as I am to be done, I really will miss certain things about going to that place…
Will not miss:
Hearing bad news about patients I’ve become friends with, nausea, the smell of the hospital sheets, daytime television (with the exception of Ellen), the teal blue containers that hospital entrees come in, collecting my pee for testing, seeing new patients’ hair slowly disappear, seeing new patients in general, mothers’ hands shaking, yellow vomit buckets, baby blue latex gloves, finger sticks and children’s band-aids, wheelchairs, cancer, etc. etc.
Will miss:
Seeing the friends we’ve made regularly (Kizzy, Elizabeth), success stories, not having to care about what I look like daily, a slew of favorite doctors and nurses, getting visits from friends and family, the sound of children laughing despite everything, having a lot of time to read books, etc etc.
Wow, I have a lot more “will not miss’s”. I think that’s expected though. Really the thing I will miss the most is all of the friendships I’ve made at that place. Everything that goes on in that place just feels so much more real than anything else. You are seeing families in the raw. Raw emotions, raw skin - raw everything. You have real conversations with people and you know it’s not the routine “oh good morning how are you doing?” when you know the person isn’t all that concerned with your reply. When you are in the hospital and are asked “how are you doing?”, they really want to know. You have everyone’s attention and in a way that feels good, not selfish.
Although I am done with treatments, I am not completely done with that place. I’ll return this Wednesday to remove the metaport from my chest. It is a quick surgery, only 30 minutes – no biggie. Each month I will have to return for blood work, every three months I will go for chest and bone scans. And each time I am sure I will be nervous and ready to throw up at the thought of bad news, but it is something I have to do. There are some people that are too afraid to return for their scans and believe that their treatment is over with on their last day of chemo and they couldn’t be more wrong. I personally knew a woman that was afraid to go for her scans and when the pain was too much to handle she finally went and by that time the cancer had spread and she was gone two months later.
I’ve been given a second chance at life and I intend on keeping it. God forbid the cancer should ever return, I intend on getting a third chance. Please people, if something hurts – go get it checked out by a doctor. I don’t care how minor you think it is. Even though my case was a success I could have a lot more usage in my arm if I had went to the doctor three months earlier when the pain had first started. If you tell me something hurts, I am going to yell at you to go see a doctor. A lot. Thank me later. :P
I will be having a benefit/end of treatment celebration and I’d like everyone I’ve ever met in my life to come. The plans are still in the works but I will be posting the info on here when I have it, and also sending out evites. Please come! Even if you read my blog and I don’t know you, you’re invited too. Details to come…
This blog has been a great friend to me throughout my ordeal. It’s nice to have a place to vent and know that people that care about me are reading and staying updated on my journey. I do intend on keeping this blog and updating it here on out, but how often I am not sure.
30 weeks of chemo and seven surgeries later, I am here closing out my countdown. This bump in the road has certainly left some marks on my body, but I think scars can be a beautiful thing. They’re proof of everything I’ve felt but wasn’t able to put to words, proof of success, and proof that experiences in life really do have a long lasting impression.
Thank you to everyone who supported me endlessly throughout this experience. The love I’ve felt is almost overwhelming, I feel very lucky. I promise that I will be there for you, too.
Monday, January 14, 2008
My last surgery
My surgery has been completed for almost a month now. I was a little hesitant (and exhausted) to update, but I think it’s about that time. I’m going to add a slight disclaimer to this entry, when I update I try to stay light and add some positivity. But this surgery was no picnic and I don’t plan on sugarcoating all that much. It friggen' sucked.
The morning of the surgery we drove into the city very early. My sister woke up bright (dark) and early, and drove to our house to accompany us. When we walked outside to get into the car, every light was on inside of our neighbor’s house and her ADT alarm was going off. I was still sleepy but remember feeling really awkward about it. A few years ago her house got broken into (hence the ADT system now) and ever since I’ve felt really nervous about walking to my back door late at night. It’s silly but when coming home in the dark I actually pop my car key out and place it in between my knuckles in case the thief should return. I just KNOW he’d be terrified of a twenty-something year old girl with beefy guns and a Volkswagen keychain in between her fierce knucks.
Off track huh? The whole point was that I still feel bad about not calling the cops or sticking around until the ADT patrol came or something. Regardless, I had my own battles to worry about that day.
We got to the hospital and I was given my brand new stiff papery gown. Even though it was extremely uncomfortable, I was happy that it was new for once. A few months ago I watched a special on TLC called Crazy Sexy Cancer, and one of the girls that is featured was getting her regular scans done. She approached the huge stack of gowns and said something along the lines of “…a lot of people have used these gowns, I bet they are old.” She pauses, thinking for a moment…and says, ”I wonder how many of those people are dead now.” I can honestly say that I’ve had that exact same thought all too many times. Hence, my excitement over a crisp gown.
Meghan met up with us at the hospital to wait which was really nice. She was such a sleepy lamb that day. If anyone knows Meghan, you know that this is a rarity. (<3 best way possible!). I think I was just about as calm on this day as the day of my big arm surgery. But the thing that had me shaken was the thought of the epidural.
After a really long wait, we went down to the operating floor. The anesthesiologist came in and of course, unsettled me. Not only was I shaken from my last experience but why on Earth is it that every anesthesiologist I’ve met with comes off as the strangest human being on the planet? They all remind me a little of Dwight from The Office (the show). Just characters that make you very uncomfortable, but at the same time you know that they know how to do their job well. Does the job attract a certain breed that get off on sending beings off into a comatic state? They always find a way to look at you oddly right before you drift off, too. They may as well sing you a demonic lullaby and shout “bwahahahha” right before falling asleep.
A team of three people came in to perform my epidural and my family was asked to leave while it was performed. They had a fairly large lady wheel a tiny table in front of me and place a towel on it. Kind of like a pillow. She asked me to lean my head and arms down on it. It kind of alarmed me, I got the gist that she was there to hold me down in case I were to freak out during the procedure. I didn’t really plan on jolting around while they had a needle in my spine, but hey – whatever works! The first step was to inject me with a sedative to calm my nerves and my body. As soon as they injected it all three of them immediately looked into my eyes, I guess waiting for my pupils to dance or something. I felt nothing, and so I avoided their faces by awkwardly looking around the room and at the ceiling. Was about to whistle when one of the Dr’s said “huh, not feeling anything are you?” “nope.” So they gave me a 2nd injection and that did the trick. I really don’t like that I am getting so immune to all of these medications. Anyway I felt woozy and the large woman placed her arms over my head and upper body. I don’t remember a pinch at all but I do remember an extremely uncomfortable aching feeling jittering all around and up my back. Not so much pain but more-so where you want to kick the person causing this feeling and just scream “STOP!” A little like electric volts. I remember groaning and felt the woman’s weight pressing down on my body. It was over before I knew it and they left the room. I was scared to lie down on my back, thinking I’d push the spine catheter in further but I soon realized that my torso was completely numb. What a godsend, pregnant momma’s, have no fear. Epidurals are amazing. (Kim, Jaclyn – you were right, thank you.)
Shortly after it was the same routine that I am kind of familiar with now. Kissing the family goodbye, being pushed in my wheelchair down the hall, passed “surgery room 1” “surgery room 2” etc., all the while the person wheeling me is slapping five with his co-workers and laughing about some inside joke that I’ll never know the meaning of. I got into the stark white room and practically ran to the surgical table. I just wanted to be put out already, I always avoid looking at the screens around the room. Yeah, lots of video camera’s in there. Odd. Maybe I’ll make it onto Discovery Health. That would maybe make a small dent in my med bills. Maybe...
What felt like seconds later I awoke, thankfully without the breathing tube in. No real “episodes” this time, thank god. However waking up in that recovery room was no picnic. Anyone who told me that this would be a piece of cake is living in opposite world. And I did expect that.
Before you can be released from the recovery room you have to be able to rate your pain somewhere between 3 and below. This usually takes an hour and includes a few injections of dilotted or whatever else they want to drug you with. It took about 4 hours to get my pain under control and more doses than I can count. Near the end I could tell that the nurse was getting frustrated and so I said “three” even though I really meant eight. I thought I handled pain well until this surgery.
When something hurts, it is easy to dull it with some pain meds or by simply not moving the part of your body that is in pain. When your lung hurts, tough luck. You can’t not breathe. Shortly after I gave the fibbed “OK” they wheeled me off to my room. Yeah, MY room! The one I always end up in, even after my arm surgery. I’m being serious, this made me really happy. Being a nurse, we thought it best that my sister spent the night with me. My parents stayed down the street and Michelle and I camped out in my bedroom #2. I barely slept that night and can honestly say that I have never felt so much pain in all my life. Each time I took a breath it felt as if an exacto knife was shifting in and out of my lung. My ribs felt tight and almost as if they’d snap if I breathed too deeply. Because of this, I formed a bad habit of taking frequent baby breaths, rather than normal long patterns of breathing. For my entire stay I felt like I was breathing through a straw. Asthma felt infantile in comparison to this. I remember waking up and being too afraid to speak in order to wake my sister up. I needed my nurse and did have the button on my bed, but knew that any talking would take away the breathing that I desperately needed to save. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and after deciding not to throw things at my sister in order to wake her up, I whispered “shell” as many times as it took for her to hear me. She woke up and called for my nurse. Pain meds really did nothing, the only thing that worked decently was an anti-inflammatory. I can’t remember the name of it but I remember fiending for it. The nurse would arrive and I felt like an addict, so ready for my relief.
The next day they had me up and walking and coughing. It was painful but I knew I had to do it. I did an amazing job at not once looking at the huge drain tube sticking out of my ribs and emptying into the box on the floor. I had my family cover it in pillowcases. I knew that one glance would cause my body to jellify, and I needed to save up all the strength I had for my baby breaths.
A few days later the moment I dreaded came, the time to pull out that drain tube. They sat me up, counted, and pulled it out. To my surprise it actually wasn’t too painful. Again just a very odd feeling. Like pulling a fat snake out of my side, I could feel it gliding past my insides. Once it was out they just placed some bandages over the wound. The team left and I felt something trickling down my side. I was leaking. Yeah, pretty disgusting to see your inner fluids draining down your hip and into a huge wet spot on my bed. It looked like fifteen children had pee’d my bed. We called them back and they placed more bandages on top and finally I stopped wound-peeing.
The following day they removed my epidural catheter, again not painful in the least. However the effects of not having those meds delivered directly into my spine were terrible. The pain was back and fiercer than ever.
The part that really stunk was that the woman that came to instruct my breathing exercises was not very compassionate. She resembled Sara Silverman and as much as I’d try to let that give me some comic relief, it didn’t really do the trick. She asked me to lie on my side and basically slapped the crap out of my back. This is to break up any phlegm and gunk in your lungs. The part that I think she forgot was that I mentioned that she needed to be careful because of my back incision and also because of the fragility of my shoulder from the last surgery. This chick was a gestapo and showed no remorse! She ended up dislocating my shoulder and at that point I was about ready to slap her around as well.
Since this was right before Christmas, we decked my room out in Christmas lights. It looked really cute, and just as I was getting excited about my new décor – I got booted out of my room and sent to the lung floor with the adults. Turns out the floor had filled up and they needed my room for a child. The good thing was that my nurse felt bad about me having to move all my stuff to the new room, and so she told the lung floor that I had some sort of infectious disease or something along those lines, so that I could get a private room. Niiice! The nurses came in with long gowns, masks, and gloves. It was kind of funny but at the same time – even though I knew I didn’t have anything weird, I felt offended! Like I was some foreign experiment that was leaking rabies and emitting radon or something.
My surgeon came into my room and delivered the news of my biopsy results. Hearing the results, I broke into tears and hysterics…
The first nodule was absolutely nothing, a little pocket of benign junk. The second, however, was not Sarcoma (which is really good), but it was a completely different type of cancerous tumor that was growing. I don’t remember the name of it, but when the Dr saw my reaction he immediately belted out that it was nothing to worry about. I forget the name of it but he said that it was in the extremely early stages, that I wouldn’t have even noticed it was there for another 6 years or so. He also said that it was the most benign form of cancerous tumor there is, if that makes any sense. That really if it was up to him, he wouldn’t of even told me that it was cancerous, but that he had to (obviously) because he is my surgeon. He explained that this doesn't require any extra chemo and that the only thing that needed to be done was removal, which was all done. I asked if he’s seen this is any of the other kids he’s operated on and he sad yes. I asked if he’s ever seen it return, and he said no. My oncologist also explained it the same way, and said that this was all GOOD news. That it is nothing to worry about, it’s not Sarcoma – and because of that, my prognosis has just gone UP. This calmed me greatly and I was able to breathe again.
Soo, these are good things. And because it’s not Sarcoma, I will not need that second lung surgery. Thank god.
I have four more treatments left, and then I am done. Countdown starts…
NOW!
The morning of the surgery we drove into the city very early. My sister woke up bright (dark) and early, and drove to our house to accompany us. When we walked outside to get into the car, every light was on inside of our neighbor’s house and her ADT alarm was going off. I was still sleepy but remember feeling really awkward about it. A few years ago her house got broken into (hence the ADT system now) and ever since I’ve felt really nervous about walking to my back door late at night. It’s silly but when coming home in the dark I actually pop my car key out and place it in between my knuckles in case the thief should return. I just KNOW he’d be terrified of a twenty-something year old girl with beefy guns and a Volkswagen keychain in between her fierce knucks.
Off track huh? The whole point was that I still feel bad about not calling the cops or sticking around until the ADT patrol came or something. Regardless, I had my own battles to worry about that day.
We got to the hospital and I was given my brand new stiff papery gown. Even though it was extremely uncomfortable, I was happy that it was new for once. A few months ago I watched a special on TLC called Crazy Sexy Cancer, and one of the girls that is featured was getting her regular scans done. She approached the huge stack of gowns and said something along the lines of “…a lot of people have used these gowns, I bet they are old.” She pauses, thinking for a moment…and says, ”I wonder how many of those people are dead now.” I can honestly say that I’ve had that exact same thought all too many times. Hence, my excitement over a crisp gown.
Meghan met up with us at the hospital to wait which was really nice. She was such a sleepy lamb that day. If anyone knows Meghan, you know that this is a rarity. (<3 best way possible!). I think I was just about as calm on this day as the day of my big arm surgery. But the thing that had me shaken was the thought of the epidural.
After a really long wait, we went down to the operating floor. The anesthesiologist came in and of course, unsettled me. Not only was I shaken from my last experience but why on Earth is it that every anesthesiologist I’ve met with comes off as the strangest human being on the planet? They all remind me a little of Dwight from The Office (the show). Just characters that make you very uncomfortable, but at the same time you know that they know how to do their job well. Does the job attract a certain breed that get off on sending beings off into a comatic state? They always find a way to look at you oddly right before you drift off, too. They may as well sing you a demonic lullaby and shout “bwahahahha” right before falling asleep.
A team of three people came in to perform my epidural and my family was asked to leave while it was performed. They had a fairly large lady wheel a tiny table in front of me and place a towel on it. Kind of like a pillow. She asked me to lean my head and arms down on it. It kind of alarmed me, I got the gist that she was there to hold me down in case I were to freak out during the procedure. I didn’t really plan on jolting around while they had a needle in my spine, but hey – whatever works! The first step was to inject me with a sedative to calm my nerves and my body. As soon as they injected it all three of them immediately looked into my eyes, I guess waiting for my pupils to dance or something. I felt nothing, and so I avoided their faces by awkwardly looking around the room and at the ceiling. Was about to whistle when one of the Dr’s said “huh, not feeling anything are you?” “nope.” So they gave me a 2nd injection and that did the trick. I really don’t like that I am getting so immune to all of these medications. Anyway I felt woozy and the large woman placed her arms over my head and upper body. I don’t remember a pinch at all but I do remember an extremely uncomfortable aching feeling jittering all around and up my back. Not so much pain but more-so where you want to kick the person causing this feeling and just scream “STOP!” A little like electric volts. I remember groaning and felt the woman’s weight pressing down on my body. It was over before I knew it and they left the room. I was scared to lie down on my back, thinking I’d push the spine catheter in further but I soon realized that my torso was completely numb. What a godsend, pregnant momma’s, have no fear. Epidurals are amazing. (Kim, Jaclyn – you were right, thank you.)
Shortly after it was the same routine that I am kind of familiar with now. Kissing the family goodbye, being pushed in my wheelchair down the hall, passed “surgery room 1” “surgery room 2” etc., all the while the person wheeling me is slapping five with his co-workers and laughing about some inside joke that I’ll never know the meaning of. I got into the stark white room and practically ran to the surgical table. I just wanted to be put out already, I always avoid looking at the screens around the room. Yeah, lots of video camera’s in there. Odd. Maybe I’ll make it onto Discovery Health. That would maybe make a small dent in my med bills. Maybe...
What felt like seconds later I awoke, thankfully without the breathing tube in. No real “episodes” this time, thank god. However waking up in that recovery room was no picnic. Anyone who told me that this would be a piece of cake is living in opposite world. And I did expect that.
Before you can be released from the recovery room you have to be able to rate your pain somewhere between 3 and below. This usually takes an hour and includes a few injections of dilotted or whatever else they want to drug you with. It took about 4 hours to get my pain under control and more doses than I can count. Near the end I could tell that the nurse was getting frustrated and so I said “three” even though I really meant eight. I thought I handled pain well until this surgery.
When something hurts, it is easy to dull it with some pain meds or by simply not moving the part of your body that is in pain. When your lung hurts, tough luck. You can’t not breathe. Shortly after I gave the fibbed “OK” they wheeled me off to my room. Yeah, MY room! The one I always end up in, even after my arm surgery. I’m being serious, this made me really happy. Being a nurse, we thought it best that my sister spent the night with me. My parents stayed down the street and Michelle and I camped out in my bedroom #2. I barely slept that night and can honestly say that I have never felt so much pain in all my life. Each time I took a breath it felt as if an exacto knife was shifting in and out of my lung. My ribs felt tight and almost as if they’d snap if I breathed too deeply. Because of this, I formed a bad habit of taking frequent baby breaths, rather than normal long patterns of breathing. For my entire stay I felt like I was breathing through a straw. Asthma felt infantile in comparison to this. I remember waking up and being too afraid to speak in order to wake my sister up. I needed my nurse and did have the button on my bed, but knew that any talking would take away the breathing that I desperately needed to save. Finally I couldn’t take it anymore and after deciding not to throw things at my sister in order to wake her up, I whispered “shell” as many times as it took for her to hear me. She woke up and called for my nurse. Pain meds really did nothing, the only thing that worked decently was an anti-inflammatory. I can’t remember the name of it but I remember fiending for it. The nurse would arrive and I felt like an addict, so ready for my relief.
The next day they had me up and walking and coughing. It was painful but I knew I had to do it. I did an amazing job at not once looking at the huge drain tube sticking out of my ribs and emptying into the box on the floor. I had my family cover it in pillowcases. I knew that one glance would cause my body to jellify, and I needed to save up all the strength I had for my baby breaths.
A few days later the moment I dreaded came, the time to pull out that drain tube. They sat me up, counted, and pulled it out. To my surprise it actually wasn’t too painful. Again just a very odd feeling. Like pulling a fat snake out of my side, I could feel it gliding past my insides. Once it was out they just placed some bandages over the wound. The team left and I felt something trickling down my side. I was leaking. Yeah, pretty disgusting to see your inner fluids draining down your hip and into a huge wet spot on my bed. It looked like fifteen children had pee’d my bed. We called them back and they placed more bandages on top and finally I stopped wound-peeing.
The following day they removed my epidural catheter, again not painful in the least. However the effects of not having those meds delivered directly into my spine were terrible. The pain was back and fiercer than ever.
The part that really stunk was that the woman that came to instruct my breathing exercises was not very compassionate. She resembled Sara Silverman and as much as I’d try to let that give me some comic relief, it didn’t really do the trick. She asked me to lie on my side and basically slapped the crap out of my back. This is to break up any phlegm and gunk in your lungs. The part that I think she forgot was that I mentioned that she needed to be careful because of my back incision and also because of the fragility of my shoulder from the last surgery. This chick was a gestapo and showed no remorse! She ended up dislocating my shoulder and at that point I was about ready to slap her around as well.
Since this was right before Christmas, we decked my room out in Christmas lights. It looked really cute, and just as I was getting excited about my new décor – I got booted out of my room and sent to the lung floor with the adults. Turns out the floor had filled up and they needed my room for a child. The good thing was that my nurse felt bad about me having to move all my stuff to the new room, and so she told the lung floor that I had some sort of infectious disease or something along those lines, so that I could get a private room. Niiice! The nurses came in with long gowns, masks, and gloves. It was kind of funny but at the same time – even though I knew I didn’t have anything weird, I felt offended! Like I was some foreign experiment that was leaking rabies and emitting radon or something.
My surgeon came into my room and delivered the news of my biopsy results. Hearing the results, I broke into tears and hysterics…
The first nodule was absolutely nothing, a little pocket of benign junk. The second, however, was not Sarcoma (which is really good), but it was a completely different type of cancerous tumor that was growing. I don’t remember the name of it, but when the Dr saw my reaction he immediately belted out that it was nothing to worry about. I forget the name of it but he said that it was in the extremely early stages, that I wouldn’t have even noticed it was there for another 6 years or so. He also said that it was the most benign form of cancerous tumor there is, if that makes any sense. That really if it was up to him, he wouldn’t of even told me that it was cancerous, but that he had to (obviously) because he is my surgeon. He explained that this doesn't require any extra chemo and that the only thing that needed to be done was removal, which was all done. I asked if he’s seen this is any of the other kids he’s operated on and he sad yes. I asked if he’s ever seen it return, and he said no. My oncologist also explained it the same way, and said that this was all GOOD news. That it is nothing to worry about, it’s not Sarcoma – and because of that, my prognosis has just gone UP. This calmed me greatly and I was able to breathe again.
Soo, these are good things. And because it’s not Sarcoma, I will not need that second lung surgery. Thank god.
I have four more treatments left, and then I am done. Countdown starts…
NOW!
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