So I'm not feeling terribly inspired today, but I wanted to get one last post in before heading to the hospital tomorrow morning. I'm still feeling very, very calm (albeit very, very hungry at this point) - and I keep thinking that, any minute now, I might crack - but that just isn't the case. I've never been this stable in my life so it's crazy to think that, given all of the extreme circumstances, I'm this calm right now - but I know where it's coming from, and I have to give credit to the source.
Four and a half years ago, while terrified and waiting alone in my hospital room for my surgeon to come in and give me the pathology results from my lymph nodes, I had a very deep and profound experience. I'm not sure how many people can actually attest to having heard God's voice, but I was blessed that morning as He spoke to me. It was still dark outside - it had to have been 4 or 5 in the morning. He distinctly said "Give it to me." Simple as that. I, of course, backpedaled a bit, and denied that there was anything to give. Silly me, what was I thinking? Assuming that God couldn't possibly know more than me (no comments, please), I denied it twice - and then finally realized what He wanted. In as nonchalantly a way as possible I replied with an "Oh, that? Well, okay." and the deal was done. A few short hours later, my surgeon came in and told me that the lymph nodes were clear, and that my cancer had not spread. I could practically hear God chuckling in the background, and although I didn't HEAR Him say "See? I told you so", I was quite sure that that's what was on his mind.
There have been many times over the last few years when I've wrestled with God and have taken my load back from him. Before scans, before blood tests, before colonoscopies, before appointments with my oncologist - all of them opportunities for me to say "Gee God, thanks for the help, but I've got it covered now." It has taken (and will probably continue to take) many more times before I fully (and permanently) realize that God truly is far more capable than I am (again, no comments, please...my ego is fragile right now, and I don't think it can take the blows). Don't I know everything? Isn't it possible for me to do it all? Am I not the wisest one in the universe? No?? Surely you're not serious...
But truthfully, there's no way I can do it all, or be it all, or know it all, without the amazing and perfect intervention of the One who made me. I know that He made me weak so that I could lean on Him. I know that He made me empty so that He could fill me. And I know that He made me humble (yes, I'm choking on that word) so that HE could be glorified through me. For that's what I want to do today. I want to GLORIFY Him.
All of my peace, all of my calm and quiet, is coming from Him. If I were relying solely on myself, I'd be a basketcase, and I'm clearly not one right now. As steady as the the wind, and with faith that CAN move mountains, I'm heading into surgery in the morning.
To God be the GLORY!!
Amen.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Friday, November 13, 2009
Introducing....
My team of champions! There are so many people - friends and family alike - who are cheering me on in this battle, but there are three very important individuals, three amazing and incredible individuals, who give me every reason I need to firmly plant my feet on the floor every single morning, lace up my gloves, and fight the fight. They are my strength, they are my heart, they are my everything.
Mike. Oh my, where to begin? From day one (22+ years ago while working at Children's Psychiatric Hospital in Northern Kentucky) I knew that he was "the one". The fact that I had a boyfriend, and he had a girlfriend, were minor technicalities, but certainly (and obviously) not insurmountable. His blue eyes dazzled me from the very beginning, and the fact that he not only made me laugh, but made me sparkle from the inside out, simply confirmed my belief that he was the one that God had chosen for me. Simply put, Mike makes me a better person. He is wise, he is unbelievably generous, he is rational and intelligent, and he teaches me to not sweat the small stuff. I love holding his hand, and I love curling up next to him at night. While he was deployed last year, I felt incomplete, but when he came home I felt like I could breathe again for the first time in six long months. He is my absolute, without-a-doubt, complete-and-total best friend. I love him beyond reason, and he completes me.
Abbey, my oldest and my first born, is nothing short of delightful. I was one of those moms who desperately wanted a girl but, of course, would always say "Oh, it doesn't matter whether the baby is a girl or a boy, as long as it is healthy." Yeah, I was lying through my teeth. I wanted a girl more than anything, so I just knew that I would get a boy, instead. When she was born, I was shocked beyond belief. That God would send me my perfect little bundle of pink was a miracle! She has, with the exception of the occasional temper tantrums between the ages of 2 and 3, been a total JOY. She has the most adorable personality, and has never once (and I do mean never) given Mike or me cause for worry. She is responsible, academically focused, intelligent, compassionate, and wonderful in every way. She LOVES her Catholic faith, loves to sing, loves to laugh, and loves to shop. There's absolutely no doubt that she is my daughter :) She has always seemed wiser than her years, and has a very open heart. She is a blessing, in every single way.
Sam - oh my goodness - Sam, is my precious boy. I distinctly remember a good friend (Amy) telling me, after Sam's birth, that boys hold a special place in the heart of their mommies - and she couldn't have been more correct. Sam's arrival into the world was a troubled one - he was born with severe meconium aspiration and spent a full week in a NICU - and I think I have had my arms wrapped tightly around him since the day he came home from the hospital. Sam has lived the last fourteen years teetering on the edge of I-don't-know-what, but he always manages to skirt a life-long grounding by the skin of his teeth. He is not our academically focused child, although he is quite bright. He is not our incredibly responsible child, although he does like it when we are proud of him. He doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but he feels things on a very deep and personal level, and has an amazingly tender heart. He is, without a doubt, the funniest child I've ever met, and he truly makes me laugh out loud every day. His sense of humor is astounding, his timing is near-perfect, and he fills me with joy. He may not want to admit it, but he is a mama's boy, and I like it that way. I like it when he comes to me for hugs, and I like it when I can tell, either by his actions or by his facial expression, that he loves his mom. What mom wouldn't love that?
Four years ago, when I encountered cancer for the first time, we were just on the brink of moving (again) with the Air Force. I managed to get three rounds of chemo under my belt, the third of which happened while the movers were packing boxes at the house. Exactly two weeks to the day later, we were at our new base, with a house full of boxes, and me at the (new) chemo clinic. We chose that time in our lives to dive into the world of homeschooling. Some probably thought we were crazy, but my own mother aptly summed it up by saying that it was "the year that Mike and Lindsey dropped the tent flaps down". Basically speaking, we pulled ourselves into our very tight little cocoon, and protected one another. Mike's work schedule was very flexible, allowing him time to come home and help while I rested. Abbey and Sam got to see their mom every single day, and were able to get the reassurance they needed that their mom was just fine. And as for me, I got to be surrounded by my team of champions.
We are, to put it mildly, a very close family. We close ranks when necessary, and we try our hardest to make each other better people, better friends, better Catholics, and better family members. And we laugh. A lot. Not only with each other, but at each other. Sometimes, if you take life too seriously, it becomes too heavy. But with us, our loads are lightened not only by our love for each other, but by our laughter. I couldn't ask for a better team.
God is good - and I am so blessed.
Mike. Oh my, where to begin? From day one (22+ years ago while working at Children's Psychiatric Hospital in Northern Kentucky) I knew that he was "the one". The fact that I had a boyfriend, and he had a girlfriend, were minor technicalities, but certainly (and obviously) not insurmountable. His blue eyes dazzled me from the very beginning, and the fact that he not only made me laugh, but made me sparkle from the inside out, simply confirmed my belief that he was the one that God had chosen for me. Simply put, Mike makes me a better person. He is wise, he is unbelievably generous, he is rational and intelligent, and he teaches me to not sweat the small stuff. I love holding his hand, and I love curling up next to him at night. While he was deployed last year, I felt incomplete, but when he came home I felt like I could breathe again for the first time in six long months. He is my absolute, without-a-doubt, complete-and-total best friend. I love him beyond reason, and he completes me.
Abbey, my oldest and my first born, is nothing short of delightful. I was one of those moms who desperately wanted a girl but, of course, would always say "Oh, it doesn't matter whether the baby is a girl or a boy, as long as it is healthy." Yeah, I was lying through my teeth. I wanted a girl more than anything, so I just knew that I would get a boy, instead. When she was born, I was shocked beyond belief. That God would send me my perfect little bundle of pink was a miracle! She has, with the exception of the occasional temper tantrums between the ages of 2 and 3, been a total JOY. She has the most adorable personality, and has never once (and I do mean never) given Mike or me cause for worry. She is responsible, academically focused, intelligent, compassionate, and wonderful in every way. She LOVES her Catholic faith, loves to sing, loves to laugh, and loves to shop. There's absolutely no doubt that she is my daughter :) She has always seemed wiser than her years, and has a very open heart. She is a blessing, in every single way.
Sam - oh my goodness - Sam, is my precious boy. I distinctly remember a good friend (Amy) telling me, after Sam's birth, that boys hold a special place in the heart of their mommies - and she couldn't have been more correct. Sam's arrival into the world was a troubled one - he was born with severe meconium aspiration and spent a full week in a NICU - and I think I have had my arms wrapped tightly around him since the day he came home from the hospital. Sam has lived the last fourteen years teetering on the edge of I-don't-know-what, but he always manages to skirt a life-long grounding by the skin of his teeth. He is not our academically focused child, although he is quite bright. He is not our incredibly responsible child, although he does like it when we are proud of him. He doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve, but he feels things on a very deep and personal level, and has an amazingly tender heart. He is, without a doubt, the funniest child I've ever met, and he truly makes me laugh out loud every day. His sense of humor is astounding, his timing is near-perfect, and he fills me with joy. He may not want to admit it, but he is a mama's boy, and I like it that way. I like it when he comes to me for hugs, and I like it when I can tell, either by his actions or by his facial expression, that he loves his mom. What mom wouldn't love that?
Four years ago, when I encountered cancer for the first time, we were just on the brink of moving (again) with the Air Force. I managed to get three rounds of chemo under my belt, the third of which happened while the movers were packing boxes at the house. Exactly two weeks to the day later, we were at our new base, with a house full of boxes, and me at the (new) chemo clinic. We chose that time in our lives to dive into the world of homeschooling. Some probably thought we were crazy, but my own mother aptly summed it up by saying that it was "the year that Mike and Lindsey dropped the tent flaps down". Basically speaking, we pulled ourselves into our very tight little cocoon, and protected one another. Mike's work schedule was very flexible, allowing him time to come home and help while I rested. Abbey and Sam got to see their mom every single day, and were able to get the reassurance they needed that their mom was just fine. And as for me, I got to be surrounded by my team of champions.
We are, to put it mildly, a very close family. We close ranks when necessary, and we try our hardest to make each other better people, better friends, better Catholics, and better family members. And we laugh. A lot. Not only with each other, but at each other. Sometimes, if you take life too seriously, it becomes too heavy. But with us, our loads are lightened not only by our love for each other, but by our laughter. I couldn't ask for a better team.
God is good - and I am so blessed.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Anatomy and Physiology 101
With a special shout out to Becky Henderson, the high school teacher who totally turned me on to the Human Physiology course to the point where I was hiding out in the UK Medical Library during my senior year, I must tell you that I find the human body absolutely fascinating. To this day, I still believe I could be a phenomenal doctor - with the exception of one tiny little problem: I have neither the desire, nor the patience, to put up with medical school. That's an awfully large commitment, afterall, and I'm fairly confident that I don't want to work that hard. Until I'm able to secure my medical license without an actual degree (and c'mon, let's be honest, how many of you would visit such a doctor in the first place?), I will have to settle with just being one of those doctor-wannabes. I recently found an amazing website (www.mayoclinic.com/health/search/search) which is the most user-friendly, "ordinary person friendly" medical website in the entire universe. I've learned so much more about so many things in the last few days - and was even able to watch an animated video (think 3rd grade film strip here) of my proposed surgery. Too darn cool. I think if I were able to watch my own surgery on Monday I just might do it, but am settling for photographs, instead (as promised by my surgeon). Yeah, I know I'm gross - but it really is completely fascinating.
So having prepped you with the knowledge that I completely dig the way the human body works, I'm going to give you a refresher on the human digestive system. Note-taking is optional, and there won't be a quiz, so just relax and learn. If you're convinced that you already "know it all", then feel free to skip ahead to the next paragraph. (If you already know how to perform a colectomy, then I guess you can skip the next paragraph too, just say farewell here, and tune in the next time I post.) So here goes: we eat food, and it goes to the stomach (stop me if I'm going too fast). From there, it gets digested by the gunk and acid stuff in the stomach, and heads into the small intestines. There are roughly 7 meters (22 feet, give or take a bit) of small intestines, and nutrients from our partially-digested food are absorbed by the body at this point. Next it's on to the large intestine (5 feet-ish...and yes, that IS a medical term), where water is absorbed and the waste becomes more compact. With me so far? The final step, not exactly rocket science, involves a trip to the bathroom with a good book.
And now, for our lesson in colectomies. (If you skipped out on the previous paragraph and are just returning, welcome back.) A colectomy basically involves the removal of the colon (also called the large intestine) and there are, from what I understand, two types of these procedures. One is a complete colectomy, and involves removing the colon and the rectum. The other type, conveniently and cleverly called the "rectal sparing colectomy", involves the removal of just the colon. It's this second procedure that I've signed up for. The plus side is that I'll keep my rectum, and I just KNOW that you're thrilled beyond words to have THIS bit of information! Yeah, yeah, I'm sure some of you out there are chanting "TMI, TMI, TMI", but at this point in time I have cancer, and I get to say whatever I want (we've already established that, remember?). The down side is that there is still some colonic mucosi in the rectum - and for those of you who aren't self-proclaimed medical specialists such as myself, this basically means that the same tissue that lines the colon also lines part of the rectum. If you were to scroll down to my very first posting, you'll be reminded that I have "one messed up colon". The lining of the colon is where my polyps and tumors tend to hang out, so there's still a chance that they'll pop up in the rectal area. Fortunately, the screening and monitoring process for this "risk factor" is extraordinarily simple, non-invasive and, most importantly, will NEVER EVER EVER involve drinking the 872-gallon jug of Golytley EVER AGAIN!!! (I can practically hear the angels shouting for joy!).
So how, exactly, does one go about performing said rectal-sparing colectomy? First of all, one had DAMN well better be a graduate of a reputable medical school, and had better have the credentials necessary to slice me open. It might be fun to be a self-professed medical expert w/o the benefit of a degree, but if one gets near me with a scalpel, I'll run for the hills, grabbing a handful of attorneys on the way. My surgeon has, of coursed, passed the test, so I've given him permission to proceed. His hope is that he'll be able to do this surgery laparoscopically, which will involve five small incisions, some surgical tools, some video equipment, and possibly some popcorn and Sno-caps (to go along with the video equipment, of course). The colon and part of the small intestines will be pulled out of my belly, and the necessary removals and re-attachments will be carried out, and everything will be stuffed back into place (like t-shirts into a drawer, I suppose). Since I've already had three abdominal surgeries there is a good chance that Dr. Connaughton will encounter too much scar tissue. If that's the case, the video equipment will be packed away for another day, and my belly will be opened up big-time. Needless to say we're hoping for laparoscopic success, because it will greatly reduce my pain level, as well as the duration of my hospital stay. Laparoscopically, Dr. Connaughton predicts a 5-7 day vacation at Nix; abdominally, we're looking at 7-10 days. There will be no way of knowing what the outcome is until, well, I come out of surgery.
And now to answer the question that is probably popping into many minds but, bless your hearts, you have too much tact to ask me outright: will I have a "bag"? Believe me, that was my second question. The first question, of course, was in response to hearing that I had cancer again and, if I recall the words correctly, they were something like "How in the HELL did this HAPPEN????" (insert very angry voice here). Any-hoo, Dr. Connaughton says "no" to the bag question unless, of course, there's some sort of "misadventure" (ahem). If the unthinkable should happen, and our adventure becomes a MIS of some sort, then I'll have an iliostomy for a short time, probably just long enough to allow my body to heal, and then it'll be reversed. We're obviously shooting for the best possible outcome here and, again, we won't know the results until I come out of surgery. I'm sure I'll start to wake up in the recovery room and will immediately start feeling around for anything that shouldn't be there :) The ONLY things I hope to find are an abundance of bandages, and a tiny little magic button in my hand that joyfully dispenses morphine at my command.
Congratulations, you did beautifully in your crash course for Anatomy and Physiology, and you all get an A+! I hope you won't be offended if I don't let you scrub in on Monday morning; something tell me that the majority of you won't have the stomach for it anyways. Please be sure to let me know, however, if you'd like copies of the pictures :)
So having prepped you with the knowledge that I completely dig the way the human body works, I'm going to give you a refresher on the human digestive system. Note-taking is optional, and there won't be a quiz, so just relax and learn. If you're convinced that you already "know it all", then feel free to skip ahead to the next paragraph. (If you already know how to perform a colectomy, then I guess you can skip the next paragraph too, just say farewell here, and tune in the next time I post.) So here goes: we eat food, and it goes to the stomach (stop me if I'm going too fast). From there, it gets digested by the gunk and acid stuff in the stomach, and heads into the small intestines. There are roughly 7 meters (22 feet, give or take a bit) of small intestines, and nutrients from our partially-digested food are absorbed by the body at this point. Next it's on to the large intestine (5 feet-ish...and yes, that IS a medical term), where water is absorbed and the waste becomes more compact. With me so far? The final step, not exactly rocket science, involves a trip to the bathroom with a good book.
And now, for our lesson in colectomies. (If you skipped out on the previous paragraph and are just returning, welcome back.) A colectomy basically involves the removal of the colon (also called the large intestine) and there are, from what I understand, two types of these procedures. One is a complete colectomy, and involves removing the colon and the rectum. The other type, conveniently and cleverly called the "rectal sparing colectomy", involves the removal of just the colon. It's this second procedure that I've signed up for. The plus side is that I'll keep my rectum, and I just KNOW that you're thrilled beyond words to have THIS bit of information! Yeah, yeah, I'm sure some of you out there are chanting "TMI, TMI, TMI", but at this point in time I have cancer, and I get to say whatever I want (we've already established that, remember?). The down side is that there is still some colonic mucosi in the rectum - and for those of you who aren't self-proclaimed medical specialists such as myself, this basically means that the same tissue that lines the colon also lines part of the rectum. If you were to scroll down to my very first posting, you'll be reminded that I have "one messed up colon". The lining of the colon is where my polyps and tumors tend to hang out, so there's still a chance that they'll pop up in the rectal area. Fortunately, the screening and monitoring process for this "risk factor" is extraordinarily simple, non-invasive and, most importantly, will NEVER EVER EVER involve drinking the 872-gallon jug of Golytley EVER AGAIN!!! (I can practically hear the angels shouting for joy!).
So how, exactly, does one go about performing said rectal-sparing colectomy? First of all, one had DAMN well better be a graduate of a reputable medical school, and had better have the credentials necessary to slice me open. It might be fun to be a self-professed medical expert w/o the benefit of a degree, but if one gets near me with a scalpel, I'll run for the hills, grabbing a handful of attorneys on the way. My surgeon has, of coursed, passed the test, so I've given him permission to proceed. His hope is that he'll be able to do this surgery laparoscopically, which will involve five small incisions, some surgical tools, some video equipment, and possibly some popcorn and Sno-caps (to go along with the video equipment, of course). The colon and part of the small intestines will be pulled out of my belly, and the necessary removals and re-attachments will be carried out, and everything will be stuffed back into place (like t-shirts into a drawer, I suppose). Since I've already had three abdominal surgeries there is a good chance that Dr. Connaughton will encounter too much scar tissue. If that's the case, the video equipment will be packed away for another day, and my belly will be opened up big-time. Needless to say we're hoping for laparoscopic success, because it will greatly reduce my pain level, as well as the duration of my hospital stay. Laparoscopically, Dr. Connaughton predicts a 5-7 day vacation at Nix; abdominally, we're looking at 7-10 days. There will be no way of knowing what the outcome is until, well, I come out of surgery.
And now to answer the question that is probably popping into many minds but, bless your hearts, you have too much tact to ask me outright: will I have a "bag"? Believe me, that was my second question. The first question, of course, was in response to hearing that I had cancer again and, if I recall the words correctly, they were something like "How in the HELL did this HAPPEN????" (insert very angry voice here). Any-hoo, Dr. Connaughton says "no" to the bag question unless, of course, there's some sort of "misadventure" (ahem). If the unthinkable should happen, and our adventure becomes a MIS of some sort, then I'll have an iliostomy for a short time, probably just long enough to allow my body to heal, and then it'll be reversed. We're obviously shooting for the best possible outcome here and, again, we won't know the results until I come out of surgery. I'm sure I'll start to wake up in the recovery room and will immediately start feeling around for anything that shouldn't be there :) The ONLY things I hope to find are an abundance of bandages, and a tiny little magic button in my hand that joyfully dispenses morphine at my command.
Congratulations, you did beautifully in your crash course for Anatomy and Physiology, and you all get an A+! I hope you won't be offended if I don't let you scrub in on Monday morning; something tell me that the majority of you won't have the stomach for it anyways. Please be sure to let me know, however, if you'd like copies of the pictures :)
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
The Date
I've had a couple of great days, with lots of energy and lots of time to get stuff done. My day of "retail therapy" yesterday wasn't nearly as productive as I had hoped (came home with one long--sleeved black t-shirt, and 2 new pillows for the guest room...not exactly the "haul" I had hoped for...but there's still time to amend for that!). Regardless of my shopping failure I have managed to conquer the Mount Vesuvius of laundry, have fixed meals for the family, have run other errands, have walked with friends, have had lunch with other friends, and have CLEARED A SURGERY DATE!
My surgery is scheduled for 0700 (that's 7:00 in the morning for my non-military friends, or for those who wish to see times written with a colon) on Monday morning. Yes, this coming Monday. That's when you're all supposed to drop to your knees and start praying (as if many of you aren't there already ... which I know you are ... for which I am so very thankful ... but don't get up off the floor yet because there's still work to be done!). I had my pre-op appointment with Dr. Connaughton (surgeon) this afternoon, and will finalize the rest of the hooplah on Thursday (labs, pre-admission stuff at the hospital, etc). I'd never even heard of this particular hospital before last week, but I've since heard great things about it and have even googled it to make sure that it truly exists. It's called "Nix Hospital", it's on the Riverwalk, and it's apparently one of the oldest ones in the city. I've been assured that they are completely modernized and newly rennovated - but just to be on the safe side I think I might go down and take a tour. It would be nice to know that they have running water, electricity, and perhaps a direct elevator to Dick's Last Resort which is located on the ground floor.
The brochure I was given today states that "free valet parking" is available when you come in for your pre-admissions stuff - and that you can call ahead to arrange for a private tour. I feel like I'm going to visit a college campus or something. I wonder if they sell sweatshirts...?
It's been a long and busy week so far, and sleep seems to be fairly elusive. Not because I'm worried, or anxious, or trying to solve the problems of the world before the sun rises. It's just the way I am. I'm a defective sleeper. Last night, however, my fabulous husband shared an ambien with me (leftover from his deployment). All I have to say is that he had better lock that stuff up, because I am IN LOVE - and am likely to squirrel them away for myself! My oh my but did I ever sleep WELL :)
It's a disjointed blog tonight - I know - and I'll try to be more focused tomorrow. For now, it's time (past time) for bed (sans ambien) - and then tomorrow, since it's Veterans Day and my sweetheart has the day off, we're going to go hiking and spend the day TOGETHER. How lucky am I?!
Good night - and sweet dreams to all!
My surgery is scheduled for 0700 (that's 7:00 in the morning for my non-military friends, or for those who wish to see times written with a colon) on Monday morning. Yes, this coming Monday. That's when you're all supposed to drop to your knees and start praying (as if many of you aren't there already ... which I know you are ... for which I am so very thankful ... but don't get up off the floor yet because there's still work to be done!). I had my pre-op appointment with Dr. Connaughton (surgeon) this afternoon, and will finalize the rest of the hooplah on Thursday (labs, pre-admission stuff at the hospital, etc). I'd never even heard of this particular hospital before last week, but I've since heard great things about it and have even googled it to make sure that it truly exists. It's called "Nix Hospital", it's on the Riverwalk, and it's apparently one of the oldest ones in the city. I've been assured that they are completely modernized and newly rennovated - but just to be on the safe side I think I might go down and take a tour. It would be nice to know that they have running water, electricity, and perhaps a direct elevator to Dick's Last Resort which is located on the ground floor.
The brochure I was given today states that "free valet parking" is available when you come in for your pre-admissions stuff - and that you can call ahead to arrange for a private tour. I feel like I'm going to visit a college campus or something. I wonder if they sell sweatshirts...?
It's been a long and busy week so far, and sleep seems to be fairly elusive. Not because I'm worried, or anxious, or trying to solve the problems of the world before the sun rises. It's just the way I am. I'm a defective sleeper. Last night, however, my fabulous husband shared an ambien with me (leftover from his deployment). All I have to say is that he had better lock that stuff up, because I am IN LOVE - and am likely to squirrel them away for myself! My oh my but did I ever sleep WELL :)
It's a disjointed blog tonight - I know - and I'll try to be more focused tomorrow. For now, it's time (past time) for bed (sans ambien) - and then tomorrow, since it's Veterans Day and my sweetheart has the day off, we're going to go hiking and spend the day TOGETHER. How lucky am I?!
Good night - and sweet dreams to all!
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Dropping the C-Bomb
Have you ever thought about how you might react if you had to sit in a room and listen to someone in a white coat say the dreaded words: "You've got cancer"?
I'd love to be able to say that never in my life did I think that I'd be listening to those words....but up until my initial diagnosis in 2005, I truly believed that it would, someday, happen to me. Maybe because it's my own Dad died from brain cancer, and maybe it's because cancer just seems to leach into our human existence on a regular basis. I know it seems pessimistic, even fatalistic, to think such things - but I really just "knew" that it would happen, eventually. I knew I was alone in this thinking, until I met my soul-sister, Kristen Powell, while working for the American Cancer Society in Alabama. Kindred spirts, we are. Our lives had followed no discernable parallel at all, with the exception of the fact that we had both beaten cancer, we were both working on the Survivor Development committee for the Relay for Life, and we both liked to drink coffee and talk. One day, while sipping our Starbucks and shedding tears into crumpled tissues, I came clean. I told her that I had "known" that "it" would happen. I expected her to say "huh", in a non-committal-you're-kinda-crazy kind of way. Instead, she practically jumped off of her couch and screamed "ME TOO!". Kindred spirits, from that moment on. We later found out that we both loved to make jewelry. So you tell me - were we separated at birth? Probably so.
So backing up to April (26th? 27th?) 2005, I was just coming out of a very drug-induced colonoscopy, and distinctly recalled hearing the word "CANCER". I was all alone, and I'm sure everyone thought I was still asleep. The longer I laid on that gurney, the more lucid I became. And the more afraid. By the time my eyes were open (and my brain functioning as best as it could with versed still flowing through my veins) I was aware that that "C-word" was used in reference to ME. I was laying on my side, shaking uncontrollably. At some point, I became aware that Mike had come into the room. All I said was "Is it true?" and, in a very shattered voice he replied "Yes."
What do you do? How do you feel? How do you BREATHE?
For me, my entire being ceased to exist. The rest of the world, however, whirled around me at a dizzying and unbelievable rate. I could hear the rush of the wind, and feel the universe literally spinning out of control, flying in circles all around me, but I stayed perfectly still, right at the center, barely even breathing. Only when I felt Mike's arms around me did I start to feel like I wouldn't be swept away by the storm. Later on, I remember my doctor coming in and giving me the results, and the rest is history. The next 24 hours were filled with fear, and anxiety, and complete numbness. Calling the parents. Calling our bosses. Arranging for another teacher to take over my class of precious first graders for the remainder of the year. TELLING ABBEY AND SAM. Trying to act like everything was going to be just fine.
Insane. Positively, absolutely insane.
Four days ago, I got to repeat the same darn thing. Only this time, it wasn't as shattering, at least not for me. I was actually driving to pick Abbey up from practice, and was talking with my doctor on the phone. He had called to tell me that the path results were in, and wanted to know if Mike and I would be able to come see him the following morning. Not being one to exercise a great deal of patience, I asked him if he was able to give me any results over the phone. Sure enough, the cancer was back. Huh. Not "HUH??" but "Huh." No whirling universe, no loss of breath, no dizzying-spiraling-out-of-control-reaction. Just HUH. Okay. So, thanks for calling.
Picked up Abbey. "Tell me about your day! How was drill? Have much homework?"
Into the house - no big deal. Up the stairs, phone in hand, and into the bedroom. Closed the door. Into the bathroom. Closed that door, too. Into the closet (you guessed it, closed that door also). Sat down on the floor and called Mike. Calm as a cucumber, mind you - nothing fazes me - I'm a rock of stability (as evidenced by the fact that I had just picked up my daughter and pulled off the charade of a lifetime). One little sound from Mike's mouth - one hearing of his voice - and I was no longer the Rock of Gibralter. He came home immediately.
After some shared tears (hiding in the bathroom, of course), I got mad. I don't mean "mad" in some blase "oh she was mad" sense of the word. I mean MAD. Pissed off, actually. FURIOUS. If I had been lacking any self control, I would have thrown a chair through a window. I was so stinkin' irate, and the one thing that I truly wanted to do would have ended up costing us a lot of money in house repairs. The first time around, I felt helpless. Second time around, and I was PISSED.
I'm not nearly as enraged now, four days later, but I'm still pretty ticked off. I have done everything asked of me, and still that damned and thorougly unwanted disease reappeared. It's not fair, and it makes no sense. But I'm glad I'm mad, and I plan on staying mad. I feel like I have a fighting spirit now, and I'm going to kick this thing squarely in the ass. I've googled, I've researched, I've consulted, I've questioned, I've talked...and I'm ready. Bring it on - 'cause I am going to WIN.
Mark my words. This battle is all mine, and I WILL WIN.
I'd love to be able to say that never in my life did I think that I'd be listening to those words....but up until my initial diagnosis in 2005, I truly believed that it would, someday, happen to me. Maybe because it's my own Dad died from brain cancer, and maybe it's because cancer just seems to leach into our human existence on a regular basis. I know it seems pessimistic, even fatalistic, to think such things - but I really just "knew" that it would happen, eventually. I knew I was alone in this thinking, until I met my soul-sister, Kristen Powell, while working for the American Cancer Society in Alabama. Kindred spirts, we are. Our lives had followed no discernable parallel at all, with the exception of the fact that we had both beaten cancer, we were both working on the Survivor Development committee for the Relay for Life, and we both liked to drink coffee and talk. One day, while sipping our Starbucks and shedding tears into crumpled tissues, I came clean. I told her that I had "known" that "it" would happen. I expected her to say "huh", in a non-committal-you're-kinda-crazy kind of way. Instead, she practically jumped off of her couch and screamed "ME TOO!". Kindred spirits, from that moment on. We later found out that we both loved to make jewelry. So you tell me - were we separated at birth? Probably so.
So backing up to April (26th? 27th?) 2005, I was just coming out of a very drug-induced colonoscopy, and distinctly recalled hearing the word "CANCER". I was all alone, and I'm sure everyone thought I was still asleep. The longer I laid on that gurney, the more lucid I became. And the more afraid. By the time my eyes were open (and my brain functioning as best as it could with versed still flowing through my veins) I was aware that that "C-word" was used in reference to ME. I was laying on my side, shaking uncontrollably. At some point, I became aware that Mike had come into the room. All I said was "Is it true?" and, in a very shattered voice he replied "Yes."
What do you do? How do you feel? How do you BREATHE?
For me, my entire being ceased to exist. The rest of the world, however, whirled around me at a dizzying and unbelievable rate. I could hear the rush of the wind, and feel the universe literally spinning out of control, flying in circles all around me, but I stayed perfectly still, right at the center, barely even breathing. Only when I felt Mike's arms around me did I start to feel like I wouldn't be swept away by the storm. Later on, I remember my doctor coming in and giving me the results, and the rest is history. The next 24 hours were filled with fear, and anxiety, and complete numbness. Calling the parents. Calling our bosses. Arranging for another teacher to take over my class of precious first graders for the remainder of the year. TELLING ABBEY AND SAM. Trying to act like everything was going to be just fine.
Insane. Positively, absolutely insane.
Four days ago, I got to repeat the same darn thing. Only this time, it wasn't as shattering, at least not for me. I was actually driving to pick Abbey up from practice, and was talking with my doctor on the phone. He had called to tell me that the path results were in, and wanted to know if Mike and I would be able to come see him the following morning. Not being one to exercise a great deal of patience, I asked him if he was able to give me any results over the phone. Sure enough, the cancer was back. Huh. Not "HUH??" but "Huh." No whirling universe, no loss of breath, no dizzying-spiraling-out-of-control-reaction. Just HUH. Okay. So, thanks for calling.
Picked up Abbey. "Tell me about your day! How was drill? Have much homework?"
Into the house - no big deal. Up the stairs, phone in hand, and into the bedroom. Closed the door. Into the bathroom. Closed that door, too. Into the closet (you guessed it, closed that door also). Sat down on the floor and called Mike. Calm as a cucumber, mind you - nothing fazes me - I'm a rock of stability (as evidenced by the fact that I had just picked up my daughter and pulled off the charade of a lifetime). One little sound from Mike's mouth - one hearing of his voice - and I was no longer the Rock of Gibralter. He came home immediately.
After some shared tears (hiding in the bathroom, of course), I got mad. I don't mean "mad" in some blase "oh she was mad" sense of the word. I mean MAD. Pissed off, actually. FURIOUS. If I had been lacking any self control, I would have thrown a chair through a window. I was so stinkin' irate, and the one thing that I truly wanted to do would have ended up costing us a lot of money in house repairs. The first time around, I felt helpless. Second time around, and I was PISSED.
I'm not nearly as enraged now, four days later, but I'm still pretty ticked off. I have done everything asked of me, and still that damned and thorougly unwanted disease reappeared. It's not fair, and it makes no sense. But I'm glad I'm mad, and I plan on staying mad. I feel like I have a fighting spirit now, and I'm going to kick this thing squarely in the ass. I've googled, I've researched, I've consulted, I've questioned, I've talked...and I'm ready. Bring it on - 'cause I am going to WIN.
Mark my words. This battle is all mine, and I WILL WIN.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Mannerisms and Weird Words
Okay, picture this. You're standing somewhere (anywhere) with a friend (or aquaintance) and they tell you that their grandfather just passed away. Or they tell you that their dog was hit by a car. Or they tell you that their husband just got deployment orders. Or they tell you that they have cancer. What is the first PHYSICAL thing you do? Close your eyes and think hard. Seriously. CLOSE your eyes and THINK.
How many of you tilted your head to the side?
In the last 36 hours, I've really come to dislike that whole head-tilting phenomenon. I understand that it's a natural response, and I completely get that it's a kind and thoughtful gesture that accompanies someone's verbal response. But here's the deal: If I see one more head tilt to the side, I just might scream. I'm guilty of being a head-tilter....and I probably always will be, because some habits are just too darn hard to break. But honest to Pete (whoever Pete is) that head-tilting thing just might make me crazy. Give me some time to get past this cancer crisis and I might feel differently. For now, though, keep your head on straight and give me a big grin - followed by a big hug - followed directly by a big glass of white wine. That will go over MUCH better than a floppy head!
And while I'm complaining about petty little things (that truly are well-intentioned), let me share one very fascinating word with you: MISADVENTURE. What comes to mind when you hear the word ADVENTURE? Do you think of a family trip to Disney World? Or an awesome hike in a park you've never explored before? What about an exciting scavenger hunt, or a once-in-a-lifetime trip to some far flung country? Regardless of where your adventure takes you, it always carries a positive vibe. And it nearly always involves a trip to a souvenir shop.
My GI doctor, while he was talking to us about surgical options, happened to use the word MISadventure. I laughed out loud, and said "that's an interesting choice of words". What he meant, of course, was "if something goes wrong and we totally screw everything up and you end up with an ileostomy bag for the rest of your life"....but it "sounded" better to just say the word "misadventure". I chewed on that word for a few days, and decided that I HATE it. Even more than the head-tilting thing. To me, it's just a version of "blowing sunshine up my ___". (Please forgive the crudeness of that phrase - but I have cancer, and I get to say whatever I want).
When we met with the surgeon yesterday, he started to use that forbidden phrase. Poor guy. He hadn't actually been briefed on the forbidden nature of "misadventure" yet...but as you can well imagine, he's been fully briefed now! I tried (honestly, I tried) to be polite, but I told him that, in no uncertain terms, was that word to be used around me. Don't sugar coat things in the hopes of making them sound better. Be up front with me, be honest, and tell it like it is. I'm a big girl. I'm a brave girl (most days). And I'm clearly no idiot. If I cry when you tell me the truth, then that's okay. At least then you'll know that you've hit the mark, and that I've fully comprehended what you've said to me. I appreciate honesty and tact so very much - and I don't like that "sunshine" stuff at all!
So that's my venting for the evening. I've already decided that I love this blogging thing. It's awfully therapeutic, it it might even be an interesting thing for me to look back on and read somewhere down the road. I didn't 'journal' during my last cancer journey - but now I wish I had. Perhaps this is a good thing.
I'm ready for the ADVENTURE. It's not a trip I had planned, but I'm sure it'll be an interesting one, just the same. And lucky for me, I've already gotten lots of souvenirs - and they're ones that I'll treasure and read over and over again. They're the comments, and the emails, that you've all sent to me.
How blessed I am!
How many of you tilted your head to the side?
In the last 36 hours, I've really come to dislike that whole head-tilting phenomenon. I understand that it's a natural response, and I completely get that it's a kind and thoughtful gesture that accompanies someone's verbal response. But here's the deal: If I see one more head tilt to the side, I just might scream. I'm guilty of being a head-tilter....and I probably always will be, because some habits are just too darn hard to break. But honest to Pete (whoever Pete is) that head-tilting thing just might make me crazy. Give me some time to get past this cancer crisis and I might feel differently. For now, though, keep your head on straight and give me a big grin - followed by a big hug - followed directly by a big glass of white wine. That will go over MUCH better than a floppy head!
And while I'm complaining about petty little things (that truly are well-intentioned), let me share one very fascinating word with you: MISADVENTURE. What comes to mind when you hear the word ADVENTURE? Do you think of a family trip to Disney World? Or an awesome hike in a park you've never explored before? What about an exciting scavenger hunt, or a once-in-a-lifetime trip to some far flung country? Regardless of where your adventure takes you, it always carries a positive vibe. And it nearly always involves a trip to a souvenir shop.
My GI doctor, while he was talking to us about surgical options, happened to use the word MISadventure. I laughed out loud, and said "that's an interesting choice of words". What he meant, of course, was "if something goes wrong and we totally screw everything up and you end up with an ileostomy bag for the rest of your life"....but it "sounded" better to just say the word "misadventure". I chewed on that word for a few days, and decided that I HATE it. Even more than the head-tilting thing. To me, it's just a version of "blowing sunshine up my ___". (Please forgive the crudeness of that phrase - but I have cancer, and I get to say whatever I want).
When we met with the surgeon yesterday, he started to use that forbidden phrase. Poor guy. He hadn't actually been briefed on the forbidden nature of "misadventure" yet...but as you can well imagine, he's been fully briefed now! I tried (honestly, I tried) to be polite, but I told him that, in no uncertain terms, was that word to be used around me. Don't sugar coat things in the hopes of making them sound better. Be up front with me, be honest, and tell it like it is. I'm a big girl. I'm a brave girl (most days). And I'm clearly no idiot. If I cry when you tell me the truth, then that's okay. At least then you'll know that you've hit the mark, and that I've fully comprehended what you've said to me. I appreciate honesty and tact so very much - and I don't like that "sunshine" stuff at all!
So that's my venting for the evening. I've already decided that I love this blogging thing. It's awfully therapeutic, it it might even be an interesting thing for me to look back on and read somewhere down the road. I didn't 'journal' during my last cancer journey - but now I wish I had. Perhaps this is a good thing.
I'm ready for the ADVENTURE. It's not a trip I had planned, but I'm sure it'll be an interesting one, just the same. And lucky for me, I've already gotten lots of souvenirs - and they're ones that I'll treasure and read over and over again. They're the comments, and the emails, that you've all sent to me.
How blessed I am!
One day at a time
Welcome to my very first ever-in-my-life blog. I have no idea what I'm doing, or even if the words I'm typing will magically show up, but I'm trudging forward regardless. I am hopeful that this will be a succesful format for staying in touch with all of my friends - and am confident that if I don't do this correctly, or need to add bits of flair to make this blog seem more entertaining, then one of my resident teens will come to my rescue! My plan is to update this blog as much as I possibly can - and keep all of you posted as my "journey" progresses.
If I were to truly start at the beginning, it would take me back to April of 2005, when I was first diagnosed with colon cancer. I was 41, and totally caught off guard. A 10 cm malignant tumor, which had perforated the wall of my colon, was removed, along with about 12 cm of my colon. I completed six months of chemotherapy, was declared "cancer free", and then followed a very rigorous monitoring schedule. Over the course of the last four and a half years, I have had countless scans (PET, CT, MRI, you name it), and feel as if I've given gallons of blood over to various lab techs. I've also had annual colonoscopies. Each and every test/exam/scan has continued to indicate that I am cancer free, and in good health.
Last year's colonoscopy, done in Montgomery while Mike was in Afghanistan, yielded one tiny little polyp. Unfortunately, because my (surgically re-configured) colon was so prone to shifting around, the surgeon wasn't able to remove the polyp. He described it as being 1-3 mm (yes, that's millimeters, which is VERY small) - and he felt confident that it would only grow a tiny bit over the course of the next year, and would be easier to access and remove at that point. I'm sure that if he had been able to peer into the future, he would have been more aggressive about grabbing that little bugger.
Fast forward to this year's colonoscopy, done just one week ago at Wilford Hall Medical Center (Lackland AFB). My colon was riddled with similar small polyps, as well as one large one (3.5 cm). Presumably, this large one is the same polyp that was so tiny and irretrievable last year. For it to have grown at such a rapid rate is highly abnormal, and for an otherwise clean colon to develop so many new growths within a 12-month period is, as well, unusual.
Dr. Cassidy, my wonderful GI doc, called on Wednesday afternoon with the shocking news that the large polyp was, indeed, another malignant tumor. Furthermore, the many tiny polyps were all pre-cancerous, and not just standard tissue masses. Mike and I digested the news as best as we could, and made the tough decision to keep the information from Abbey and Sam, just for the night. We had so many questions for Dr. Cassidy, and we knew that Abbey and Sam would have lots of questions, as well. We just felt that it was best to lay low, and spare our precious babies a night of anxiety and fear.
Mike and I went to see Dr. Cassidy early Thursday morning. He pushed his existing appointments aside (which, of course, caused me no end of guilt!), and spent a great deal of time talking with us, answering our questions, and explaining our options. He then brought in Dr. Connaughton, who is a colo-rectal surgeon. After much discussion, we made the decision for me to have a colectomy. Basically, my entire colon (large intestine) will be removed and, if all goes well, my small intestines will simply be re-routed and everything will be "hooked up" again. The plan is that there won't be an ileostomy, unless something goes awry during surgery. Even if the worst happens, the ileostomy will be reversed within a few months, and I'll be good as new. I asked about dietary changes, and was guaranteed that I could not only continue to eat Mexican food, but could drink my beer/wine/tequila, as well! Life is good!
I spent the better part of the day on Thursday traipsing through Wilford Hall, giving multiple test tubes of blood to the folks in the lab, and then drinking a couple of containers of a "Creamy Vanilla Smoothie" (um, no, it wasn't very good...because there's really very little possibility of ever disguising liquid barium as anything remotely 'yummy') in preparation for a chest-abdomen-pelvic CT scan. We were home again by 3 (and I FINALLY got to eat some real food!), and Mike went back to work to wrap some things up. Armed with more information, and many answered questions, we were finally able to sit down with the kids and fill them in on everything. They both took the news remarkably well - they're scared, of course, but we have every reason to be hopeful. This tumor is so much smaller than my last one, and it was caught much earlier, as well. Assuming there is no lymph node involvement (something that won't be known until a few days after the surgery), I won't even need chemo!
I woke up this morning feeling very anxious, but after shedding a few tears and getting a wonderfully reassuring hug from my amazing husband, I got out of bed and began to tackle another day. I had a wonderful walk with my dear friend, Shelly, and then came home to cook-cook-cook. Staying busy seems to be good medicine, as it's clearly helping me to stay positive and focused. The greatest news of all came just before lunchtime: Dr. Cassidy called to tell me that my CT scans were CLEAR, and showed no evidence of cancer in any other organs! Praise GOD!!!
Today (Friday) seems to be my day to be on the telephone. I've had good conversations with both my mom and Mike's mom, as well as my grandmother. And let's not forget the 871 phone calls back-and-forth between the various doctors' offices. (So okay, perhaps 871 is a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the point.) Through all of the many discussions, between Wednesday afternoon and today, this is what we know for sure:
1. I have colon cancer. Again.
2. I have one messed-up colon, and it will always be messed up.
3. My messed-up colon has GOT TO GO.
4. I'll still get to eat Mexican food and drink my margaritas.
5. I won't have an ileostomy (at least not a permanent one)
6. I'll have a `pre-op appointment on Tuesday (11/10)
7. I'll have my messed-up colon removed either late next week, or early the following week.
8. My husband is AMAZING - by far, he's the best one out there. I'm sorry if you think YOUR husband is the best, because he's not. Mike is. I have cancer, and I get to win this one.
9. My kids, my precious babies, are INCREDIBLE. They are strong, and they are adorable, and they are brave, and they are the best kids out there. Again, I'm playing the cancer-card, and I get to win. Your kids can come in second place, right after Abbey and Sam. Maybe when my cancer is all gone, you can try (if you insist) on coming in first. Until then, just climb in the back seat and be quiet :)
10. This one is the MOST important of all: Our GOD is amazing. This is all in His very capable and loving hands, and I feel an incredible amount of peace just being HIS child. I know He will care for me, and love me, and be with me - and I know He will do the exact same for my husband (the best one, remember) and my precious children (who, of course, come in first place). God IS good, all the time. Even now. ESPECIALLY now.
I will continue to update as much as possible - but can promise you that future posts won't be quite so long. I would so appreciate your prayers in the days to come, and will take a great deal of comfort knowing that I am being covered by a blanket of prayer that, quite literally, stretches across the world. I love you all!
Lindsey
If I were to truly start at the beginning, it would take me back to April of 2005, when I was first diagnosed with colon cancer. I was 41, and totally caught off guard. A 10 cm malignant tumor, which had perforated the wall of my colon, was removed, along with about 12 cm of my colon. I completed six months of chemotherapy, was declared "cancer free", and then followed a very rigorous monitoring schedule. Over the course of the last four and a half years, I have had countless scans (PET, CT, MRI, you name it), and feel as if I've given gallons of blood over to various lab techs. I've also had annual colonoscopies. Each and every test/exam/scan has continued to indicate that I am cancer free, and in good health.
Last year's colonoscopy, done in Montgomery while Mike was in Afghanistan, yielded one tiny little polyp. Unfortunately, because my (surgically re-configured) colon was so prone to shifting around, the surgeon wasn't able to remove the polyp. He described it as being 1-3 mm (yes, that's millimeters, which is VERY small) - and he felt confident that it would only grow a tiny bit over the course of the next year, and would be easier to access and remove at that point. I'm sure that if he had been able to peer into the future, he would have been more aggressive about grabbing that little bugger.
Fast forward to this year's colonoscopy, done just one week ago at Wilford Hall Medical Center (Lackland AFB). My colon was riddled with similar small polyps, as well as one large one (3.5 cm). Presumably, this large one is the same polyp that was so tiny and irretrievable last year. For it to have grown at such a rapid rate is highly abnormal, and for an otherwise clean colon to develop so many new growths within a 12-month period is, as well, unusual.
Dr. Cassidy, my wonderful GI doc, called on Wednesday afternoon with the shocking news that the large polyp was, indeed, another malignant tumor. Furthermore, the many tiny polyps were all pre-cancerous, and not just standard tissue masses. Mike and I digested the news as best as we could, and made the tough decision to keep the information from Abbey and Sam, just for the night. We had so many questions for Dr. Cassidy, and we knew that Abbey and Sam would have lots of questions, as well. We just felt that it was best to lay low, and spare our precious babies a night of anxiety and fear.
Mike and I went to see Dr. Cassidy early Thursday morning. He pushed his existing appointments aside (which, of course, caused me no end of guilt!), and spent a great deal of time talking with us, answering our questions, and explaining our options. He then brought in Dr. Connaughton, who is a colo-rectal surgeon. After much discussion, we made the decision for me to have a colectomy. Basically, my entire colon (large intestine) will be removed and, if all goes well, my small intestines will simply be re-routed and everything will be "hooked up" again. The plan is that there won't be an ileostomy, unless something goes awry during surgery. Even if the worst happens, the ileostomy will be reversed within a few months, and I'll be good as new. I asked about dietary changes, and was guaranteed that I could not only continue to eat Mexican food, but could drink my beer/wine/tequila, as well! Life is good!
I spent the better part of the day on Thursday traipsing through Wilford Hall, giving multiple test tubes of blood to the folks in the lab, and then drinking a couple of containers of a "Creamy Vanilla Smoothie" (um, no, it wasn't very good...because there's really very little possibility of ever disguising liquid barium as anything remotely 'yummy') in preparation for a chest-abdomen-pelvic CT scan. We were home again by 3 (and I FINALLY got to eat some real food!), and Mike went back to work to wrap some things up. Armed with more information, and many answered questions, we were finally able to sit down with the kids and fill them in on everything. They both took the news remarkably well - they're scared, of course, but we have every reason to be hopeful. This tumor is so much smaller than my last one, and it was caught much earlier, as well. Assuming there is no lymph node involvement (something that won't be known until a few days after the surgery), I won't even need chemo!
I woke up this morning feeling very anxious, but after shedding a few tears and getting a wonderfully reassuring hug from my amazing husband, I got out of bed and began to tackle another day. I had a wonderful walk with my dear friend, Shelly, and then came home to cook-cook-cook. Staying busy seems to be good medicine, as it's clearly helping me to stay positive and focused. The greatest news of all came just before lunchtime: Dr. Cassidy called to tell me that my CT scans were CLEAR, and showed no evidence of cancer in any other organs! Praise GOD!!!
Today (Friday) seems to be my day to be on the telephone. I've had good conversations with both my mom and Mike's mom, as well as my grandmother. And let's not forget the 871 phone calls back-and-forth between the various doctors' offices. (So okay, perhaps 871 is a bit of an exaggeration, but you get the point.) Through all of the many discussions, between Wednesday afternoon and today, this is what we know for sure:
1. I have colon cancer. Again.
2. I have one messed-up colon, and it will always be messed up.
3. My messed-up colon has GOT TO GO.
4. I'll still get to eat Mexican food and drink my margaritas.
5. I won't have an ileostomy (at least not a permanent one)
6. I'll have a `pre-op appointment on Tuesday (11/10)
7. I'll have my messed-up colon removed either late next week, or early the following week.
8. My husband is AMAZING - by far, he's the best one out there. I'm sorry if you think YOUR husband is the best, because he's not. Mike is. I have cancer, and I get to win this one.
9. My kids, my precious babies, are INCREDIBLE. They are strong, and they are adorable, and they are brave, and they are the best kids out there. Again, I'm playing the cancer-card, and I get to win. Your kids can come in second place, right after Abbey and Sam. Maybe when my cancer is all gone, you can try (if you insist) on coming in first. Until then, just climb in the back seat and be quiet :)
10. This one is the MOST important of all: Our GOD is amazing. This is all in His very capable and loving hands, and I feel an incredible amount of peace just being HIS child. I know He will care for me, and love me, and be with me - and I know He will do the exact same for my husband (the best one, remember) and my precious children (who, of course, come in first place). God IS good, all the time. Even now. ESPECIALLY now.
I will continue to update as much as possible - but can promise you that future posts won't be quite so long. I would so appreciate your prayers in the days to come, and will take a great deal of comfort knowing that I am being covered by a blanket of prayer that, quite literally, stretches across the world. I love you all!
Lindsey
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
