Did you ever have one of those days that starts out just fine but, at some undefinable point, veers in the opposite direction and, for no apparent reason, becomes lousy? That's my day today. And for reasons unknown to me, it has become a very blah-ish afternoon.
I was just running the vacuum, thinking about what a whiner I am, and suddenly felt compelled to sit down and write. The topic: my little cross. I recently read a story about a man who, burdened by his cross, went to the Lord in prayer. "Father", he said, "take this cross from me." The Lord, in his infinite wisdom, told the man that He would not take the cross completely, but would allow him to trade it in on a different one, instead. Thinking that his cross was burdensome and enormous, the man immediately accepted the Lord's offer and quickly gave his cross to the Lord. He then entered a room and discovered countless crosses, of all different heights and weights and sizes, some propped up against the walls, others laying on the floor. He spied a small cross in the back of the room and, in an eager voice, said "That one! I'd like that little one, please!" The Lord paused for a moment and then said to the man, "That's the one you just gave to me."
You see, we always think that our crosses are burdensome. But today, as I mope about the house feeling sorry for myself, and feeling like my crappy day is burdensome, I keep trying to remind myself that it is, indeed, a very small cross. That it is, indeed, so much smaller than the crosses that others bear today. That it is, without a doubt, itty bitty.
My itty bitty cross is nothing that some chocolate, or a glass of wine, or a good dose of CHIT CHAT WITH GOD won't solve. The latter is, by far, the most urgent and effective solution. But once our conversation is over, I might move on to the chocolate or the wine.
Or maybe even both :)
Friday, January 29, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Blank
Okay, so here's the deal. When I first started this blog I had more on my mind than I ever imagined possible. And when I would sit down to write, the thoughts, words, ideas and feelings would simply flow out of my fingertips like water crashing over the edge of a cliff. My writing was energized by the drama of my life and the writing was, at times, worthy of reading, if not by anyone else then, at the very least, by myself. I've never once given thought to writing a book, but feedback from friends indicated that, perhaps, I should. I've never considered myself to be a "gifted" writer (although thanks to Pat Esrael and Bernice Hopkins, the two greatest English teachers that the universe has ever beheld, I am capable of writing "well"), but feedback from friends implied that I was. Despite the fact that it certainly made me smile and wonder, I'm fairly certain that I didn't let this feedback/praise go to my head. But here's the thing: What on earth do I write about now that my life has returned to normal?
I've gotten a few emails, letters, facebook notes saying "haven't seen anything new on your blog in a while...hoping everything is okay...." and I instantly morphe into guilt-mode. I do apologize - and hope you know that "no news is good news" - but I suppose I could have been a bit more considerate in letting you know how everything's been going. In a word, it's FINE. I had a follow-up with my surgeon, who seems very pleased with the outcome. I was seen by my oncologist on December 29 and he made us happy by reconfirming the decision that chemotherapy was not warranted. In the next couple of months I'll have an endoscopy just to make sure that the upper GI-tract tissue is healthy and, at some point soon I'll be seen (again) by a geneticist to see if further testing is called for although, if you were to ask me, I'd have to honestly tell you that I'm not sure WHY. Genetic testing, done this past summer, and further testing done on my tumor in November, all indicated that I do not carry the genetic mutation for HNPCC (the gene that is linked to colon cancer), so why we're engaging in further testing at this point escapes me. I can tell you, however, that the geneticist I'm seeing, Dr. Mengden, is one of the most fascinating people I've ever met.
I had a couple of apppointments with him last June/July and, while talking with Dr. Mengden I found myself wondering why on earth this man couldn't have been at all of the boring social functions I've been to over the years? You know those functions where you find yourself standing in a room, a small plate of miniature food held tightly in one hand, a cocktail napkin wedged between two of your fingers, and a drink balanced precariously on top of the plate and underneath your thumb, while you shake hands with a total stranger and then engage in a 20-minute conversation with this person you'll, in all liklihood, never see again? And all the while you're saying polite and socially appropriate things while, in your mind, you're wishing you could be a thousand other places? Well this guy, this genetics wunderkind, is precisely the person I'd love to be stuck in a room with. He's fascinating and quirky and, okay, quite intelligent (ever hear of a dumb geneticist? I didn't think so.), and he seems to know a little bit of everything. Dr. Mengden is an older gentleman, with smooth, grey hair, kind eyes that hold a spark and a passion for his work, and an ease and confidence in his interactions with other humans. He doesn't sit you on an examination table and pepper you with overly intellectual data while you stare blankly and pretend to comprehend any of the words flowing out of his mouth. Instead, he's the kind of doctor who comes to the waiting room to greet you, and invites you directly to his office. He's the kind of doctor who talks WITH you, not AT you, and he immediately welcomes you into his 'inner sanctum'. He doesn't walk around in a lab coat with a stethoscope dangling around his neck, visual trappings that say "I'm a doctor and an expert and you, sadly, are not". Instead, he meets his patients on their level, and everything about him seems to say "Hey, we're in this together". And for some reason, the fact that he has dozens of little butterfly bodies pinned to foamcore and displayed, in frames, throughout his office just makes me laugh. Like I said, he's quirky - and utterly fascinating - and despite the fact that I have no idea why I'm being sent to see him again, I'm looking forward to the appointment. If I could show up with a plate of miniature food and a glass of pinot grigio, all the better!
Hmmm. I just reread the initial paragraph of this post. What do I write about now that my life has returned to normal? I guess I just found the answer: Anything.
I've gotten a few emails, letters, facebook notes saying "haven't seen anything new on your blog in a while...hoping everything is okay...." and I instantly morphe into guilt-mode. I do apologize - and hope you know that "no news is good news" - but I suppose I could have been a bit more considerate in letting you know how everything's been going. In a word, it's FINE. I had a follow-up with my surgeon, who seems very pleased with the outcome. I was seen by my oncologist on December 29 and he made us happy by reconfirming the decision that chemotherapy was not warranted. In the next couple of months I'll have an endoscopy just to make sure that the upper GI-tract tissue is healthy and, at some point soon I'll be seen (again) by a geneticist to see if further testing is called for although, if you were to ask me, I'd have to honestly tell you that I'm not sure WHY. Genetic testing, done this past summer, and further testing done on my tumor in November, all indicated that I do not carry the genetic mutation for HNPCC (the gene that is linked to colon cancer), so why we're engaging in further testing at this point escapes me. I can tell you, however, that the geneticist I'm seeing, Dr. Mengden, is one of the most fascinating people I've ever met.
I had a couple of apppointments with him last June/July and, while talking with Dr. Mengden I found myself wondering why on earth this man couldn't have been at all of the boring social functions I've been to over the years? You know those functions where you find yourself standing in a room, a small plate of miniature food held tightly in one hand, a cocktail napkin wedged between two of your fingers, and a drink balanced precariously on top of the plate and underneath your thumb, while you shake hands with a total stranger and then engage in a 20-minute conversation with this person you'll, in all liklihood, never see again? And all the while you're saying polite and socially appropriate things while, in your mind, you're wishing you could be a thousand other places? Well this guy, this genetics wunderkind, is precisely the person I'd love to be stuck in a room with. He's fascinating and quirky and, okay, quite intelligent (ever hear of a dumb geneticist? I didn't think so.), and he seems to know a little bit of everything. Dr. Mengden is an older gentleman, with smooth, grey hair, kind eyes that hold a spark and a passion for his work, and an ease and confidence in his interactions with other humans. He doesn't sit you on an examination table and pepper you with overly intellectual data while you stare blankly and pretend to comprehend any of the words flowing out of his mouth. Instead, he's the kind of doctor who comes to the waiting room to greet you, and invites you directly to his office. He's the kind of doctor who talks WITH you, not AT you, and he immediately welcomes you into his 'inner sanctum'. He doesn't walk around in a lab coat with a stethoscope dangling around his neck, visual trappings that say "I'm a doctor and an expert and you, sadly, are not". Instead, he meets his patients on their level, and everything about him seems to say "Hey, we're in this together". And for some reason, the fact that he has dozens of little butterfly bodies pinned to foamcore and displayed, in frames, throughout his office just makes me laugh. Like I said, he's quirky - and utterly fascinating - and despite the fact that I have no idea why I'm being sent to see him again, I'm looking forward to the appointment. If I could show up with a plate of miniature food and a glass of pinot grigio, all the better!
Hmmm. I just reread the initial paragraph of this post. What do I write about now that my life has returned to normal? I guess I just found the answer: Anything.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Ordinary
Well, I've got nothing. I've been thinking about updating my blog for a few days now, but truly have nothing new to say. Nothing creative, nothing witty, nothing exciting, nothing new. There've been no recent earth-shattering medical developments (unless, of course, you count the tidbit that I heard on the news last night saying that a diet high in fish can, quite possibly, prevent colon cancer...which made me laugh out loud because (a) I hate fish and (b) I don't have a colon!). So life in my little world is, in a word, ordinary.
Beatifully, blissfully ordinary.
I'm feeling really good, and I'm even moving around like a *normal* person. I still don't have access to a set of car keys, but two wonderful friends (Darla and Shelly, bless their wonderful hearts!) are working overtime to help keep me sane. They've each taken turns "driving Miss Daisy" around town, and I'm managing to get some of my Christmas shopping done. I truly love to shop - quite possibly more than necessary - and any time I can shop and spend time with a good friend is, in my book, a perfect day. I'm looking forward to next week, and the weeks and months to follow, when I can return the favors to Darla and Shelly and do nice things for them, too. I probably would have lost my mind these last two weeks without them!
It's very easy for me to 'overdo' things, and I have found that just a couple of hours of moving/walking around makes my belly feel like it's been trampled by an army. Everything else seems 'normal' to me, including my diet and my 'plumbing' issues. It's almost (but not quite) as if the last month never even happened, and as I re-read my earlier posts, it seems almost surreal and difficult to comprehend that the events of the last 4-5 weeks even took place. How odd it is to have gone from the depths of a valley, to the plains of normalcy, in such a short time.
For today, everything is ordinary. Blissfully, beautifully ordinary. And I thank my amazing GOD for bringing me to this blissful, beautiful, ordinary day. I often think to praise Him for the big stuff - a successful surgery, a cancer-free diagnosis, an amazing marriage to a wonderful man, two spectacular kids, the birth and resurrection of His SON - but rarely do I think to thank Him for the simple stuff. Like an ordinary day.
It IS an ordinary day...and to GOD be the glory!
Beatifully, blissfully ordinary.
I'm feeling really good, and I'm even moving around like a *normal* person. I still don't have access to a set of car keys, but two wonderful friends (Darla and Shelly, bless their wonderful hearts!) are working overtime to help keep me sane. They've each taken turns "driving Miss Daisy" around town, and I'm managing to get some of my Christmas shopping done. I truly love to shop - quite possibly more than necessary - and any time I can shop and spend time with a good friend is, in my book, a perfect day. I'm looking forward to next week, and the weeks and months to follow, when I can return the favors to Darla and Shelly and do nice things for them, too. I probably would have lost my mind these last two weeks without them!
It's very easy for me to 'overdo' things, and I have found that just a couple of hours of moving/walking around makes my belly feel like it's been trampled by an army. Everything else seems 'normal' to me, including my diet and my 'plumbing' issues. It's almost (but not quite) as if the last month never even happened, and as I re-read my earlier posts, it seems almost surreal and difficult to comprehend that the events of the last 4-5 weeks even took place. How odd it is to have gone from the depths of a valley, to the plains of normalcy, in such a short time.
For today, everything is ordinary. Blissfully, beautifully ordinary. And I thank my amazing GOD for bringing me to this blissful, beautiful, ordinary day. I often think to praise Him for the big stuff - a successful surgery, a cancer-free diagnosis, an amazing marriage to a wonderful man, two spectacular kids, the birth and resurrection of His SON - but rarely do I think to thank Him for the simple stuff. Like an ordinary day.
It IS an ordinary day...and to GOD be the glory!
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
What DOES it look like?
I was so happy yesterday to receive a wonderful "Recovery Basket" from the Band Parents Booster organization at the High School - filled with fresh fruit, trail mixes, and even chocolate - it was a great boost to the spirit. As I sat in the dining room and visited with Karolyn, the kind woman who volunteered to deliver the basket to me, I was struck by something she said. She had been talking with the Booster club president recently, who told her about my illness, surgery and hospitalization. Karolyn said that she had been completely shocked, because she had just seen me a few days earlier and thought that I didn't "look" like I had cancer. That really struck me, and made me chuckle quietly to myself. What on earth are you supposed to "look like" if you have cancer? That got me thinking ...
When you have cancer, you lose your hair.
When you have cancer, you wear a bandana, or a beautiful scarf, tied around your bald head.
When you have cancer, you are weak.
When you have cancer, you are frail.
When you have cancer, you are thin.
When you have cancer, your skin looks sallow.
When you have cancer, the shadows beneath your eyes grow darker and darker.
When you have cancer, your appetite is on hiatus, and you don't feel like eating.
When you have cancer, you throw up. A lot.
When you have cancer, your spirit takes a blow, and your shoulders buckle underneath the weight of your illness.
When you have cancer, you patiently wait for people to help you out, because you don't have the strength to do it yourself.
Oh HELL no. That's not it at all.
When you have cancer, you fight like hell. You get up every single day and you throw back the covers, and you put your feet on the floor and you scream to yourself "I'm AWAKE - and I'm going to CONQUER this day". And on some days, you conquer it all, and on others you're only able to conquer a small portion of the day before you fall back into bed for some rest. But you CONQUER, regardless, because YOU are in charge, not the cancer.
When you have cancer, you don't necessarily lose your hair. Not all chemos are the same - in fact, there are hundreds of varieties out there, and each one packs its own special punch. Some attack the hair, some attack the nerve endings in your fingers and toes, some attack the skin. No two are created equal, and the side effects are just as different. You're not necessarily bald, and you don't get to wear a beautiful scarf on your head and get the same reaction from people when you still have a full head of hair. You don't necessarily fall to your knees and claw your way to the bathroom as you violently empty the contents of your stomach (picture Susan Sarandon in the amazing movie, "The Step-Mother"). In fact, some chemo regimens don't make you throw up at all. Not even once.
When you have cancer, you know that you're in the fight for your life, and if you are one of the lucky ones you find yourself surrounded by friends and family members who pick up the fight for you when you're just too tired to continue on your own. You feel like you have a right to carry an enormous banner over your head that reads "Look at me, world - I have cancer and I am kickin' it's ass!!" - but you know that you should be humble, instead, so on the days when you're feeling particularly strong and sassy, you just walk out of your house with a little bounce in your step, and a smile on your face that just smacks of a delicious secret. You know you won't feel this strong and sassy everyday, so you take what you can get, and you're thrilled for that moment of clarity when you realize that, at this very minute, you are a-okay.
When you have cancer, you don't want anyone to know about it. Until they act like it's a dangerous or highly-sensitive secret, and then you want to tell everyone within earshot (and beyond) all about your health status. Suddenly talking to the checkout clerk about your recent colonoscopy seems perfectly socially acceptable, and if they feel differently, then maybe they're just not right in the head. It's fascinating conversation material, to be certain.
When your friend, or your colleague, or your neighbor, or your mailman, or the lady you see at the grocery store has cancer, you want to tilt your head (but not around Lindsey Kindt, that's for sure) and express sympathy. You want to say "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you". You want to provide meals, shuttle kids to and fro, send cards, send flowers, be very quiet, give them space, answer when called upon, and stay in the background. And that is all good, and kind, and wonderful. Trust me. But when you're the person with cancer, it's sometimes nice to have someone say "Sheesh - that truly SUCKS. What's happening next, and how are you feeling about things?". It's nice to hear someone say "I'd like to cook a meal for your family - and I'm going to be in your neighborhood next Tuesday. Would it be okay if I dropped something off then? If you're not ready for it, you can freeze it and pull it out when you are ready." It's wonderful when a friend takes the bull by the horns, makes the decision to do something, and then offers it freely. Reminscent of my dear friend DeeAnn - who called one day (during my first go-around with cancer) and said "There's a homeschool field trip coming up and I really, really, REALLY want to take your kids. Can I, please? Huh? Can I?". She seemed like a six-year old, begging for a sleepover, and I didn't have the heart to refuse her. Little did I realize that she was the one doing me the favor - because the way she approached it, it felt like I was the one in the driver's seat, making the decisions and granting requests. I had power - and it felt amazing.
There's a wonderful poem floating around "out there" about all the things that cancer CAN'T do - it can't kill the spirit, it can't kill hope, it can't kill faith. It can sure knock the daylights out of everything, but it can't kill it. As long as you get out of bed each day, throw the covers back, and plant your feet firmly on the ground...as long as you give yourself the permission to fall back into bed from time to time, but don't EVER surrender...as long as you just keep putting your feet on the floor - then you'll feel like the VICTOR that you were born to be.
Cancer doesn't "LOOK" like anything. It doesn't get to win like that. When you have cancer, YOU get to decide what it looks like. It's YOUR call.
When you have cancer, you lose your hair.
When you have cancer, you wear a bandana, or a beautiful scarf, tied around your bald head.
When you have cancer, you are weak.
When you have cancer, you are frail.
When you have cancer, you are thin.
When you have cancer, your skin looks sallow.
When you have cancer, the shadows beneath your eyes grow darker and darker.
When you have cancer, your appetite is on hiatus, and you don't feel like eating.
When you have cancer, you throw up. A lot.
When you have cancer, your spirit takes a blow, and your shoulders buckle underneath the weight of your illness.
When you have cancer, you patiently wait for people to help you out, because you don't have the strength to do it yourself.
Oh HELL no. That's not it at all.
When you have cancer, you fight like hell. You get up every single day and you throw back the covers, and you put your feet on the floor and you scream to yourself "I'm AWAKE - and I'm going to CONQUER this day". And on some days, you conquer it all, and on others you're only able to conquer a small portion of the day before you fall back into bed for some rest. But you CONQUER, regardless, because YOU are in charge, not the cancer.
When you have cancer, you don't necessarily lose your hair. Not all chemos are the same - in fact, there are hundreds of varieties out there, and each one packs its own special punch. Some attack the hair, some attack the nerve endings in your fingers and toes, some attack the skin. No two are created equal, and the side effects are just as different. You're not necessarily bald, and you don't get to wear a beautiful scarf on your head and get the same reaction from people when you still have a full head of hair. You don't necessarily fall to your knees and claw your way to the bathroom as you violently empty the contents of your stomach (picture Susan Sarandon in the amazing movie, "The Step-Mother"). In fact, some chemo regimens don't make you throw up at all. Not even once.
When you have cancer, you know that you're in the fight for your life, and if you are one of the lucky ones you find yourself surrounded by friends and family members who pick up the fight for you when you're just too tired to continue on your own. You feel like you have a right to carry an enormous banner over your head that reads "Look at me, world - I have cancer and I am kickin' it's ass!!" - but you know that you should be humble, instead, so on the days when you're feeling particularly strong and sassy, you just walk out of your house with a little bounce in your step, and a smile on your face that just smacks of a delicious secret. You know you won't feel this strong and sassy everyday, so you take what you can get, and you're thrilled for that moment of clarity when you realize that, at this very minute, you are a-okay.
When you have cancer, you don't want anyone to know about it. Until they act like it's a dangerous or highly-sensitive secret, and then you want to tell everyone within earshot (and beyond) all about your health status. Suddenly talking to the checkout clerk about your recent colonoscopy seems perfectly socially acceptable, and if they feel differently, then maybe they're just not right in the head. It's fascinating conversation material, to be certain.
When your friend, or your colleague, or your neighbor, or your mailman, or the lady you see at the grocery store has cancer, you want to tilt your head (but not around Lindsey Kindt, that's for sure) and express sympathy. You want to say "Let me know if there's anything I can do for you". You want to provide meals, shuttle kids to and fro, send cards, send flowers, be very quiet, give them space, answer when called upon, and stay in the background. And that is all good, and kind, and wonderful. Trust me. But when you're the person with cancer, it's sometimes nice to have someone say "Sheesh - that truly SUCKS. What's happening next, and how are you feeling about things?". It's nice to hear someone say "I'd like to cook a meal for your family - and I'm going to be in your neighborhood next Tuesday. Would it be okay if I dropped something off then? If you're not ready for it, you can freeze it and pull it out when you are ready." It's wonderful when a friend takes the bull by the horns, makes the decision to do something, and then offers it freely. Reminscent of my dear friend DeeAnn - who called one day (during my first go-around with cancer) and said "There's a homeschool field trip coming up and I really, really, REALLY want to take your kids. Can I, please? Huh? Can I?". She seemed like a six-year old, begging for a sleepover, and I didn't have the heart to refuse her. Little did I realize that she was the one doing me the favor - because the way she approached it, it felt like I was the one in the driver's seat, making the decisions and granting requests. I had power - and it felt amazing.
There's a wonderful poem floating around "out there" about all the things that cancer CAN'T do - it can't kill the spirit, it can't kill hope, it can't kill faith. It can sure knock the daylights out of everything, but it can't kill it. As long as you get out of bed each day, throw the covers back, and plant your feet firmly on the ground...as long as you give yourself the permission to fall back into bed from time to time, but don't EVER surrender...as long as you just keep putting your feet on the floor - then you'll feel like the VICTOR that you were born to be.
Cancer doesn't "LOOK" like anything. It doesn't get to win like that. When you have cancer, YOU get to decide what it looks like. It's YOUR call.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Current Status
It's the Sunday after Thanksgiving and, in addition to the wonderful meal (prepared by my wonderful Mom) on Thursday, I've had two yummy leftover-turkey sandwiches - something I like even more than the traditional holiday meal - I've also put away all semblence of fall decor, and have started loading up the house with greenery, Santas, Nutcrackers, twinkling white lights, and a couple of Nativity sets. I'm finding that it's easier on my body to carry out simple straight-forward moves, and that the twisting/turning/moving around stuff is a bit rough on the midsection still. I went to bed last night realizing that I had, of course, overdone it...but darn it if the house didn't look pretty! Today is a much gentler day - and I've done little more than go to mass, and lay on the couch to watch Sister Act 2 (and yes, SING!)
A good friend sent me an email yesterday asking me for a more physical update, and suggested that I update my blog to include the details. Since coming home from the hospital eight days ago, I've gotten stronger and stronger each day. I'm now able to sleep on my side (woo-hoo!!!) and am no longer limited to laying on my back, supported on either side by pillows. To be able to roll over at night and hug my husband is, well, words fail me. It's just wonderful. And peaceful. And RIGHT. My world seems to be perfect when I can feel Mike beside me at night.
My stomach still feels like it's been stomped on by an angry mob, but it's mostly muscle pain and it's gradually getting better. I fall asleep at night with the aid of two vicodin, and am now able to get through the day with just one or two motrin and no other pain meds. I don't need any meds in the middle of the night anymore, either. My appetite is normal, and I haven't yet found any foods that don't taste good. I also haven't found any foods that my body doesn't like, and I've even been bold enough to try Mexican food, chili, beer, wine, and even a bit of Indian curry (though not too much of that last one). The odd thing is that I get full very quickly, so small meals tend to be all I can handle. I am NOT complaining, mind you, and this has been a drastic and severe diet plan that I've undergone for the last two weeks, but the fact that previously-tight pants are now LOOSE is something that makes me grin from ear to ear.
(Warning: the following paragraph could be the TMI section you don't want to read...but since so many friends have tried to delicately approach the issue and ask questions, I thought I'd include it today.) As far as digestion goes, I was told to expect between 10 and 12 bowel movements a day, and came home with a full bottle of immodium. At this point, I'm only making 4-5 daily trips to the ladies room, and I'm surprised to find that my movements are not entirely liquid. They're soft, but the consistency and frequency have not once led me to take a single immodium. My surgeon and my GI doctor both hinted that I'd be popping them like Tic-Tacs for the next year - and perhaps it's just a matter of time before that becomes a reality - but all seems quite well right now, and perfectly manageable.
One week ago I could go up and down the stairs just one time each day - and now I'm doing it with ease, almost like a real person. I can't run, or jump, or skip or even drive a car...but that's okay. I'll see my surgeon on Tuesday and he'll let me know how much longer I have to endure "clipped wings". If I'm restricted from driving for very much longer, the cabin fever will kick in and I'll start posting blogs that are full of the rantings and ravings of a mad woman. Hopefully I won't be restricted for too much longer - there is a great deal of Christmas shopping to be done, and although I know that I could accomplish most of it on the internet, there's just something about being "out and about" in the Christmas rush that makes me happy. I'm one of the crazy ones - and I love to shop.
Mike has left for DC and will return on Wednesday. My parents, who have been here since the Saturday before Thanksgiving, will return to Akron on Tuesday. Abbey and Sam, who were lucky enough to have nine days off from school for the holiday, return to the dungeon tomorrow. And I, who have tried to be a patient and obedient individual, will have to continue to practice laying low. Perhaps this is the perfect time for me to sit down with the Christmas cards. Unlike last year, when I never even managed to get them out of the boxes, I'll not only get them written in and addressed, but will actually get them into the mail well before December 25th. Don't hold your breath - miracles don't happen all the time, you know - but maybe this year, just maybe, I'll get this one task taken care of!
Feeling good - and pressing foward, one day at a time!
A good friend sent me an email yesterday asking me for a more physical update, and suggested that I update my blog to include the details. Since coming home from the hospital eight days ago, I've gotten stronger and stronger each day. I'm now able to sleep on my side (woo-hoo!!!) and am no longer limited to laying on my back, supported on either side by pillows. To be able to roll over at night and hug my husband is, well, words fail me. It's just wonderful. And peaceful. And RIGHT. My world seems to be perfect when I can feel Mike beside me at night.
My stomach still feels like it's been stomped on by an angry mob, but it's mostly muscle pain and it's gradually getting better. I fall asleep at night with the aid of two vicodin, and am now able to get through the day with just one or two motrin and no other pain meds. I don't need any meds in the middle of the night anymore, either. My appetite is normal, and I haven't yet found any foods that don't taste good. I also haven't found any foods that my body doesn't like, and I've even been bold enough to try Mexican food, chili, beer, wine, and even a bit of Indian curry (though not too much of that last one). The odd thing is that I get full very quickly, so small meals tend to be all I can handle. I am NOT complaining, mind you, and this has been a drastic and severe diet plan that I've undergone for the last two weeks, but the fact that previously-tight pants are now LOOSE is something that makes me grin from ear to ear.
(Warning: the following paragraph could be the TMI section you don't want to read...but since so many friends have tried to delicately approach the issue and ask questions, I thought I'd include it today.) As far as digestion goes, I was told to expect between 10 and 12 bowel movements a day, and came home with a full bottle of immodium. At this point, I'm only making 4-5 daily trips to the ladies room, and I'm surprised to find that my movements are not entirely liquid. They're soft, but the consistency and frequency have not once led me to take a single immodium. My surgeon and my GI doctor both hinted that I'd be popping them like Tic-Tacs for the next year - and perhaps it's just a matter of time before that becomes a reality - but all seems quite well right now, and perfectly manageable.
One week ago I could go up and down the stairs just one time each day - and now I'm doing it with ease, almost like a real person. I can't run, or jump, or skip or even drive a car...but that's okay. I'll see my surgeon on Tuesday and he'll let me know how much longer I have to endure "clipped wings". If I'm restricted from driving for very much longer, the cabin fever will kick in and I'll start posting blogs that are full of the rantings and ravings of a mad woman. Hopefully I won't be restricted for too much longer - there is a great deal of Christmas shopping to be done, and although I know that I could accomplish most of it on the internet, there's just something about being "out and about" in the Christmas rush that makes me happy. I'm one of the crazy ones - and I love to shop.
Mike has left for DC and will return on Wednesday. My parents, who have been here since the Saturday before Thanksgiving, will return to Akron on Tuesday. Abbey and Sam, who were lucky enough to have nine days off from school for the holiday, return to the dungeon tomorrow. And I, who have tried to be a patient and obedient individual, will have to continue to practice laying low. Perhaps this is the perfect time for me to sit down with the Christmas cards. Unlike last year, when I never even managed to get them out of the boxes, I'll not only get them written in and addressed, but will actually get them into the mail well before December 25th. Don't hold your breath - miracles don't happen all the time, you know - but maybe this year, just maybe, I'll get this one task taken care of!
Feeling good - and pressing foward, one day at a time!
Monday, November 23, 2009
Short, sweet, and glorious!
My surgeon called about two hours ago with the most wonderful news: All 21 lymph nodes removed during surgery and sent to the lab for analysis have come back CLEAR! This means that the cancer has NOT SPREAD!!! I can hear the shouts of joy in each and every email I've received in the last hour - and the tears on my mother's face alone were just priceless.
I woke up this morning and thought "Hmm...guess we'll find something out today" and then I thought "wonder if I should worry?". My anxiety skipped up just a tiny beat, but I thought of God, and all He has done, and how much I have relied on Him up to this point, and realized that it was useless to be fearful. I have felt so calm all day long, and when Dr. Connaughton said "everything is clear" my initial response was "well, of course it is". I did manage to drum up a bit more excitement than that - as you can well imagine - and I called Mike immmediately with the good news.
The kids have pumped their fists and jumped in the air, and we are now ready to move on. Dr. C will report my pathology results to the tumor board, and further recommendations will be made as to whether or not chemo is in the future. He feels (and I convenientely agree) that it is not - but the final determination is up to my oncologist. I've done it before, and I can do it again (although I'll probably pout and stomp my feet quite a bit for dramatic effect) - but it certainly doesn't seem warranted at this point. Then again, my medical degree hasn't come in the mail yet, so what do I know?
My thanks to all of you - What a wonderful THANKSGIVING it will be!!
I woke up this morning and thought "Hmm...guess we'll find something out today" and then I thought "wonder if I should worry?". My anxiety skipped up just a tiny beat, but I thought of God, and all He has done, and how much I have relied on Him up to this point, and realized that it was useless to be fearful. I have felt so calm all day long, and when Dr. Connaughton said "everything is clear" my initial response was "well, of course it is". I did manage to drum up a bit more excitement than that - as you can well imagine - and I called Mike immmediately with the good news.
The kids have pumped their fists and jumped in the air, and we are now ready to move on. Dr. C will report my pathology results to the tumor board, and further recommendations will be made as to whether or not chemo is in the future. He feels (and I convenientely agree) that it is not - but the final determination is up to my oncologist. I've done it before, and I can do it again (although I'll probably pout and stomp my feet quite a bit for dramatic effect) - but it certainly doesn't seem warranted at this point. Then again, my medical degree hasn't come in the mail yet, so what do I know?
My thanks to all of you - What a wonderful THANKSGIVING it will be!!
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Ta-Da!!!
In case you haven't already heard: I am HOME! I am happy, I am showered, I am in my own space, I am in my own clothes, I am surrounded by my precious family - and I am THRILLED!
It was, to put it mildly, a ridiculous week. There's just no other way to describe it. It felt like a wild roller-coaster ride, filled with many ups and downs, and lots of giant steps forward and daily stumbles backwards. Ultimately, it all landed me right back here in my own home, sitting at my own computer, and loving life.
It started very early (4:30, to be precise) on Monday morning, when Mike and I tiptoed out of the house and left for the hospital. We were there by 5, and I was in a gown with an IV by 6. They told me that surgery would begin promptly at 7, and they didn't lie. The entire procedure was done laparoscopically, and I have five incisions in my belly to prove it. Because of the abundance of scar tissue from previous surgeries (two in 2005, plus a c-section in 1995), the operation lasted longer than expected (Mike says 6 hours). Monday, of course, is fuzzy - but believe me, I do remember the pain. NOT a fun day, for sure!
I'd have to say that Tuesday was, by far, the worst. There's not a lot I remember from that day, either, other than the fact that I was miserable and scared. And Mike, bless his heart, was helpless to do anything to help me. I do believe that he said more Hail Mary's and Our Father's in that 36 hour period than he had ever said in his life, and he was constantly with me, holding my hand. I'm not sure what I ever did in this life to deserve this wonderful husband of mine, but I couldn't be more grateful, or feel more blessed.
The rest of the week continued in normal progression - two steps forward, one step back - with slight complications with nausea, potassium levels, and pain management - but as long as the overall progression was positive, and not negative, that's all that should matter.
The surgery, thank God, was a great success. Dr. Connaughton was able to remove the entire colon, and re-attach the small intestine to the rectum, and I do NOT have a bag (shout hallelujah with me!!). There are NO dietary restrictions, although I have been told that some foods may be more difficult to digest, or might digest too quickly for my own personal satisfaction, and I might want to avoid those things in the future. We still don't know any results from the lab yet - my entire colon was sent, along with numerous lymph nodes, to the pathology department at the hospital (wouldn't you have just loved to have been the lab geek on duty that day? Sheesh...), but we should know something in the next day or two. At this point we are resting comfortably in the promise that God has always been, and will continue to be, in charge of this entire show.
I desperately wanted to be able to update my blog while I was in the hospital and, in theory, I certainly could have. I had a laptop, I had a lovely private room, I had wireless internet service, and I had the desire. The only thing lacking was the energy. I couldn't get my fingers to move the way I wanted them to. They felt like lead, and the connection between the brain and the hands was sound asleep. I was excited to get onto facebook but, by the time I got to my homepage and read the various new notifications, I had to take a nap. I can do life "slow" when I am good and ready and in the mood...but when I am "forced" to do life slow, well, it just doesn't sit that well! I suppose I'm going to be learning a lot in the next couple of weeks, as SLOW is about the only option I've been given.
My wings have been clipped, and I am under house arrest. The only things I'm allowed to do are sleep, sit, eat, travel to the bathroom, and take very short walks. I cannot drive for at least two weeks - possibly four - and that's going to be a tough one for me. I have many 'guardians' watching over me, and they won't let me cheat. I guess love comes in many different forms, and this is just one of them. I do know (honestly, I do) that this is all for my greater good - and that is okay with me.
I would like to thank all of you for your continued prayerful support. I'd like to thank my amazing mother and father-in-law, Jack and Bernie, who drove down from Ohio and spent the week taking care of the kids, my husband, the house, the laundry, and life in general. I'd like to thank my own parents, Ann and Bob, for flying down to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with us, and for taking over where Jack and Bernie left off. I'd like to thank Abbey and Sam for being such brave, courageous and amazing people. I'd like to thank Mike for being my EVERYTHING - my rock, my love, my heart, my soul. And I'd like to thank a good and gracious God, for traveling with me every step of the way.
My love to you all - Let the healing begin!
It was, to put it mildly, a ridiculous week. There's just no other way to describe it. It felt like a wild roller-coaster ride, filled with many ups and downs, and lots of giant steps forward and daily stumbles backwards. Ultimately, it all landed me right back here in my own home, sitting at my own computer, and loving life.
It started very early (4:30, to be precise) on Monday morning, when Mike and I tiptoed out of the house and left for the hospital. We were there by 5, and I was in a gown with an IV by 6. They told me that surgery would begin promptly at 7, and they didn't lie. The entire procedure was done laparoscopically, and I have five incisions in my belly to prove it. Because of the abundance of scar tissue from previous surgeries (two in 2005, plus a c-section in 1995), the operation lasted longer than expected (Mike says 6 hours). Monday, of course, is fuzzy - but believe me, I do remember the pain. NOT a fun day, for sure!
I'd have to say that Tuesday was, by far, the worst. There's not a lot I remember from that day, either, other than the fact that I was miserable and scared. And Mike, bless his heart, was helpless to do anything to help me. I do believe that he said more Hail Mary's and Our Father's in that 36 hour period than he had ever said in his life, and he was constantly with me, holding my hand. I'm not sure what I ever did in this life to deserve this wonderful husband of mine, but I couldn't be more grateful, or feel more blessed.
The rest of the week continued in normal progression - two steps forward, one step back - with slight complications with nausea, potassium levels, and pain management - but as long as the overall progression was positive, and not negative, that's all that should matter.
The surgery, thank God, was a great success. Dr. Connaughton was able to remove the entire colon, and re-attach the small intestine to the rectum, and I do NOT have a bag (shout hallelujah with me!!). There are NO dietary restrictions, although I have been told that some foods may be more difficult to digest, or might digest too quickly for my own personal satisfaction, and I might want to avoid those things in the future. We still don't know any results from the lab yet - my entire colon was sent, along with numerous lymph nodes, to the pathology department at the hospital (wouldn't you have just loved to have been the lab geek on duty that day? Sheesh...), but we should know something in the next day or two. At this point we are resting comfortably in the promise that God has always been, and will continue to be, in charge of this entire show.
I desperately wanted to be able to update my blog while I was in the hospital and, in theory, I certainly could have. I had a laptop, I had a lovely private room, I had wireless internet service, and I had the desire. The only thing lacking was the energy. I couldn't get my fingers to move the way I wanted them to. They felt like lead, and the connection between the brain and the hands was sound asleep. I was excited to get onto facebook but, by the time I got to my homepage and read the various new notifications, I had to take a nap. I can do life "slow" when I am good and ready and in the mood...but when I am "forced" to do life slow, well, it just doesn't sit that well! I suppose I'm going to be learning a lot in the next couple of weeks, as SLOW is about the only option I've been given.
My wings have been clipped, and I am under house arrest. The only things I'm allowed to do are sleep, sit, eat, travel to the bathroom, and take very short walks. I cannot drive for at least two weeks - possibly four - and that's going to be a tough one for me. I have many 'guardians' watching over me, and they won't let me cheat. I guess love comes in many different forms, and this is just one of them. I do know (honestly, I do) that this is all for my greater good - and that is okay with me.
I would like to thank all of you for your continued prayerful support. I'd like to thank my amazing mother and father-in-law, Jack and Bernie, who drove down from Ohio and spent the week taking care of the kids, my husband, the house, the laundry, and life in general. I'd like to thank my own parents, Ann and Bob, for flying down to spend the Thanksgiving holiday with us, and for taking over where Jack and Bernie left off. I'd like to thank Abbey and Sam for being such brave, courageous and amazing people. I'd like to thank Mike for being my EVERYTHING - my rock, my love, my heart, my soul. And I'd like to thank a good and gracious God, for traveling with me every step of the way.
My love to you all - Let the healing begin!
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