When this nightmare began I listened to this song a lot. It so describes what I was feeling, and sometimes still do, like I was/still am running blindly towards a cliff. It helped calm me down. Made me cry too.
Can’t find the answers
I’ve been crawling on my knees
Looking for anything
To keep me from drowning
Promises have been turned to lies
Can’t even be honest inside
Now I’m running backward
Watching my life wave me goodbye
Running blind
I’m running blind
Somebody help me see I’m running blind
Searching for nothing
Wondering if I’ll change
I’m trying everything
But everything still stays the same
I thought if I showed you I could fly
Wouldn’t need anyone by my side
Now I’m running backward
With broken wings I know I’ll die
Running blind
I’m running blind
Somebody help me see I’m running blind
Running blind
Running blind
Running blind
I can’t find the answers
I’ve been crawling on my knees
Looking for anything
To keep me from drowning
I’m running blind
Running blind
Running blind
Artist: Godsmack
Album: The Other Side
Title: Running Blind
Friday, December 19, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...The Nature of the Beast, Part II
I often wonder of the nature of cancer. It sometimes seems as if our bodies have deliberately turned against us. Normal cells remind me of ants or bees. These busy critters work together as a unit. They all have specific duties to fulfill, including protecting the nest which they are willing to die to do. Our cells also have specific jobs to do within our bodies, and if something goes wrong, they commit apoptosis, or cellular suicide to protect their nest, our bodies.
During the initiation stage of cancer, something (probably multiple somethings) manages to enter the cell, reach the nucleus and damages the DNA, transforming the cell into something deadly to our bodies. They strike out on their own, becoming rogues, nomads, refusing to commit apoptosis. They seem to return to their ancestral beginnings.
And that happened around 3.5 billion years ago during the Proterozoic Era, when life on Earth was able to start. These early life forms were single celled organisms called photosynthetic cyanobacteria, or blue-green algae. These were prokaryotic cells, meaning 'before the nucleus' which these cells lacked. They lived in a warm shallow sea called the Cretaceous Sea. It is thanks to these tiny critters that we have oxygen to breathe because they were able to photosynthesize, and a by product of photosynthesis is oxygen. Lucky for them predators had not yet evolved so they had the whole ocean to themselves.
They kept reproducing and spreading, eventually clumping together and forming structures called stromatolites. These stromatolites were eventually able to get pretty big.
Cancer cells behave much the same way after whatever substance manages to damage the DNA within the normal cell's nucleus. These damaged cells (now like cyanobacteria) quit working as a team with the other cells and strike out on their own, ignoring the command to commit suicide. They find a cozy place to nest (the right side of my colon in my case) and just start growing and dividing, unstoppable, until the tumor (the stromatolite) is discovered and somehow stopped. They will continue to grow and divide and spread, just like their ancestors, the cyanobacteria.
During the initiation stage of cancer, something (probably multiple somethings) manages to enter the cell, reach the nucleus and damages the DNA, transforming the cell into something deadly to our bodies. They strike out on their own, becoming rogues, nomads, refusing to commit apoptosis. They seem to return to their ancestral beginnings.
And that happened around 3.5 billion years ago during the Proterozoic Era, when life on Earth was able to start. These early life forms were single celled organisms called photosynthetic cyanobacteria, or blue-green algae. These were prokaryotic cells, meaning 'before the nucleus' which these cells lacked. They lived in a warm shallow sea called the Cretaceous Sea. It is thanks to these tiny critters that we have oxygen to breathe because they were able to photosynthesize, and a by product of photosynthesis is oxygen. Lucky for them predators had not yet evolved so they had the whole ocean to themselves.
They kept reproducing and spreading, eventually clumping together and forming structures called stromatolites. These stromatolites were eventually able to get pretty big.
Cancer cells behave much the same way after whatever substance manages to damage the DNA within the normal cell's nucleus. These damaged cells (now like cyanobacteria) quit working as a team with the other cells and strike out on their own, ignoring the command to commit suicide. They find a cozy place to nest (the right side of my colon in my case) and just start growing and dividing, unstoppable, until the tumor (the stromatolite) is discovered and somehow stopped. They will continue to grow and divide and spread, just like their ancestors, the cyanobacteria.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...My Kinky Colon
Ah, the joys of colon cancer...will they never end?? Eating is suppose to be painless, except when your bowels get a kink in them. Then it becomes a royal pain in the ass.
For weeks eating had slowly become a major ordeal. A simple peanut butter sandwich had me doubled over in agony. I'm looking like I'm six months pregnant and my onc. doesn't seem to know why. Or maybe he just doesn't want me to know. I had become frantic, knowing something was wrong. I show my belly to some nurses I work with; one newly minted LPN took one look at my belly and said 'you have a hernia, you're going to need surgery to fix it.' Sure enough, I research hernias on the net and also researched medical language from my PET scan, and sure enough; I have a hernia. It was in black and white on my PET results...why couldn't my onc. figure it out?? Why did I have to find out myself??
On November 11th I am in serious pain all day that got worse as the day went on. I call my friend Terri to see if one of her daughters could come take care of my dog in case I had to be hospitalized. I abruptly have to hang up on her and make a mad dash to the toilet to hurl. She freaks and calls my neighbor John (whom I stubbornly told her not to do, good thing she didn't listen). John comes over and Harley, my dog wasn't about to let him near me. He couldn't make a step towards me without my dog snarling viciously at him, and this is a dog who is scared of cats. It was agony getting myself ready to head to the hospital with a frantic dog trying to protect me, bless his heart. I decided to wear my 'Fuck Cancer' tee-shirt. If people didn't like it, they didn't have to look at me. I was feeling a bit ornery, I must say.
We finally make it to the hospital. I am in total misery. I could barely stand, let alone walk, but of course I had to wait my turn, there were others there before me. A nurse finally cause me back to take my information. Breathing was agony. I ask for something to vomit in and was given one of those pink bath basins. She leaves for a few minutes and I hurl and hurl and hurl pink vomit in the pink basin. I cannot believe the amount of stuff that came out of my poor stomach. She comes back, takes that one away, gives me another one, and sends me back out to the waiting room.
I'm curled up in the fetal position in the chair, leaning heavily on my friend. I was feeling sick to my stomach again and, not wanting to hurl in front of so many people, head to the bathroom. I migrated between the handicapped stall and a regular stall; moving was misery, but so was staying still. I crouched down in the stalls and hurled some more. And then some more. And then some more. A couple of times people came in to use the restroom and I crouch quietly in the corner, hoping not to be noticed and praying I wouldn't vomit when anyone was in there. I'm kinda shy when it comes to stuff like that; I don't like puking in front of people.
Eventually I went back out to the waiting room. I was no longer hurling but I was still in agony. Finally a nurse calls me back; I can't even remember what her purpose was, but thankfully she was merciful. I was continually told there were no beds available yet, so sorry. But I see an empty bed up against the wall and I point that out. She starts to say no, that bed isn't for patients, but one last look at me and she quickly changes her mind. I curl up in the bed and she covers me with warm blankets. I almost wept from gratitude.
Finally someone comes to draw blood. I remain curled up in a fetal position with my back to him and just gave him an arm without moving any other part of me. Shortly after that, I'm painfully put in a wheelchair to take me to a room that finally becomes available. My friend John joins me.
An IV is started and soon I am taken for x-rays. I am dying of thirst but they didn't want me to drink anything in case I needed surgery. So I asked my friend if he was thirsty, and the nurse, no dummy, got him some water and left the room, knowing full well I was going to drink some. I couldn't quench my thirst.
My friend and I are thinking I'm going to be given a prescription for some pain pills and sent home. Silly us. A doctor finally comes in and tells me I have a partial bowel obstruction.
I said, fine, when can I go home?'
'You're not,' he informs me, 'you meet criteria to be admitted to the hospital.' Great. Not another hospital stay. Not again.
So I sent my friend home with my house key to give to my next door neighbor. Harley knows them well and trusts them.
For the next four days I was juiced up on dalaudin and denied any food but ice chips. My surgeon does not want to operate because my immune system was in the tank thanks to chemo, so he wanted to wait to see if the kink would work itself out.
'Yep, you got a hernia,' he says after glancing at my belly.
No shit, I'm thinking. I figured that out for myself a few weeks ago. I'm feeling a bit snarly.
He will not operate to fix it until four to six weeks after chemo. 'It's not life threatening, and hernias are not painful.' WTF?? MINE IS, I wanted to scream. He obviously has never had one. It's not pleasant feeling your intestines gush through the opening in your abdomen whenever you stand up, or sneeze, or blow your nose. Besides, according to MY research, pain IS a symptom of hernias! But I keep my mouth closed; it does no good to argue when you're not in charge and totally dependent on others, and they had control of the pain meds.
I lost count of the x-rays and chalky drinks and more x-rays I had that week; I'm really surprised I don't glow in the dark. Those chalky drinks did nothing to quell my appetite. I also accidentally yanked out my IV not once, but twice. Ouch.
By the third day and two roommates later, I'm so hungry and bitchy I could tear off someone's arm and eat it. My roommate was going to sneak me some American fries from her breakfast plate, but I was too afraid a nurse or doctor would come in just as I was swallowing a big mouthful, so I didn't. I know how my luck runs.
Finally, I got the news the obstruction had worked itself out and I could have some broth. I'm sure the nurses were happier than I was...every time one walked in the room I would pester them for something to eat. Ice chips have no flavor and did nothing to quell my appetite. They graciously said I was 'persistent' instead of the pain in the ass I knew I was, bless their hearts. I cannot complain of the care I received.
Finally, On Saturday, November 15th, my surgeon cuts me loose and I can go home with a 'scrip for some pain meds and instructions to see him in a week with the c.d of my PET scan. Yep, I got one. It's cool to look at. I also saw a color picture of the tumor wedged in the big chunk of colon that got yanked out when I went to see my surgeon the following week. Way cool. Yeah, I know I'm weird:)
For weeks eating had slowly become a major ordeal. A simple peanut butter sandwich had me doubled over in agony. I'm looking like I'm six months pregnant and my onc. doesn't seem to know why. Or maybe he just doesn't want me to know. I had become frantic, knowing something was wrong. I show my belly to some nurses I work with; one newly minted LPN took one look at my belly and said 'you have a hernia, you're going to need surgery to fix it.' Sure enough, I research hernias on the net and also researched medical language from my PET scan, and sure enough; I have a hernia. It was in black and white on my PET results...why couldn't my onc. figure it out?? Why did I have to find out myself??
On November 11th I am in serious pain all day that got worse as the day went on. I call my friend Terri to see if one of her daughters could come take care of my dog in case I had to be hospitalized. I abruptly have to hang up on her and make a mad dash to the toilet to hurl. She freaks and calls my neighbor John (whom I stubbornly told her not to do, good thing she didn't listen). John comes over and Harley, my dog wasn't about to let him near me. He couldn't make a step towards me without my dog snarling viciously at him, and this is a dog who is scared of cats. It was agony getting myself ready to head to the hospital with a frantic dog trying to protect me, bless his heart. I decided to wear my 'Fuck Cancer' tee-shirt. If people didn't like it, they didn't have to look at me. I was feeling a bit ornery, I must say.
We finally make it to the hospital. I am in total misery. I could barely stand, let alone walk, but of course I had to wait my turn, there were others there before me. A nurse finally cause me back to take my information. Breathing was agony. I ask for something to vomit in and was given one of those pink bath basins. She leaves for a few minutes and I hurl and hurl and hurl pink vomit in the pink basin. I cannot believe the amount of stuff that came out of my poor stomach. She comes back, takes that one away, gives me another one, and sends me back out to the waiting room.
I'm curled up in the fetal position in the chair, leaning heavily on my friend. I was feeling sick to my stomach again and, not wanting to hurl in front of so many people, head to the bathroom. I migrated between the handicapped stall and a regular stall; moving was misery, but so was staying still. I crouched down in the stalls and hurled some more. And then some more. And then some more. A couple of times people came in to use the restroom and I crouch quietly in the corner, hoping not to be noticed and praying I wouldn't vomit when anyone was in there. I'm kinda shy when it comes to stuff like that; I don't like puking in front of people.
Eventually I went back out to the waiting room. I was no longer hurling but I was still in agony. Finally a nurse calls me back; I can't even remember what her purpose was, but thankfully she was merciful. I was continually told there were no beds available yet, so sorry. But I see an empty bed up against the wall and I point that out. She starts to say no, that bed isn't for patients, but one last look at me and she quickly changes her mind. I curl up in the bed and she covers me with warm blankets. I almost wept from gratitude.
Finally someone comes to draw blood. I remain curled up in a fetal position with my back to him and just gave him an arm without moving any other part of me. Shortly after that, I'm painfully put in a wheelchair to take me to a room that finally becomes available. My friend John joins me.
An IV is started and soon I am taken for x-rays. I am dying of thirst but they didn't want me to drink anything in case I needed surgery. So I asked my friend if he was thirsty, and the nurse, no dummy, got him some water and left the room, knowing full well I was going to drink some. I couldn't quench my thirst.
My friend and I are thinking I'm going to be given a prescription for some pain pills and sent home. Silly us. A doctor finally comes in and tells me I have a partial bowel obstruction.
I said, fine, when can I go home?'
'You're not,' he informs me, 'you meet criteria to be admitted to the hospital.' Great. Not another hospital stay. Not again.
So I sent my friend home with my house key to give to my next door neighbor. Harley knows them well and trusts them.
For the next four days I was juiced up on dalaudin and denied any food but ice chips. My surgeon does not want to operate because my immune system was in the tank thanks to chemo, so he wanted to wait to see if the kink would work itself out.
'Yep, you got a hernia,' he says after glancing at my belly.
No shit, I'm thinking. I figured that out for myself a few weeks ago. I'm feeling a bit snarly.
He will not operate to fix it until four to six weeks after chemo. 'It's not life threatening, and hernias are not painful.' WTF?? MINE IS, I wanted to scream. He obviously has never had one. It's not pleasant feeling your intestines gush through the opening in your abdomen whenever you stand up, or sneeze, or blow your nose. Besides, according to MY research, pain IS a symptom of hernias! But I keep my mouth closed; it does no good to argue when you're not in charge and totally dependent on others, and they had control of the pain meds.
I lost count of the x-rays and chalky drinks and more x-rays I had that week; I'm really surprised I don't glow in the dark. Those chalky drinks did nothing to quell my appetite. I also accidentally yanked out my IV not once, but twice. Ouch.
By the third day and two roommates later, I'm so hungry and bitchy I could tear off someone's arm and eat it. My roommate was going to sneak me some American fries from her breakfast plate, but I was too afraid a nurse or doctor would come in just as I was swallowing a big mouthful, so I didn't. I know how my luck runs.
Finally, I got the news the obstruction had worked itself out and I could have some broth. I'm sure the nurses were happier than I was...every time one walked in the room I would pester them for something to eat. Ice chips have no flavor and did nothing to quell my appetite. They graciously said I was 'persistent' instead of the pain in the ass I knew I was, bless their hearts. I cannot complain of the care I received.
Finally, On Saturday, November 15th, my surgeon cuts me loose and I can go home with a 'scrip for some pain meds and instructions to see him in a week with the c.d of my PET scan. Yep, I got one. It's cool to look at. I also saw a color picture of the tumor wedged in the big chunk of colon that got yanked out when I went to see my surgeon the following week. Way cool. Yeah, I know I'm weird:)
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...The Nature Of The Beast
I've been doing a lot of reading and thinking (dangerous I know) since I was diagnosed with cancer. I've come to the conclusion this so-called 'War on Cancer' is waaay off mark. This war has been going on for decades with no end in sight. All the fundraising and strong talk on beating cancer is not on the right track. Cancer is too smart, cunning, and versatile. Instead, how about dishing some of that money out to people who are going broke and losing their homes while trying to save their asses? Or put the money towards prevention and detection? But I doubt even that will put an end to cancer. Why is that?
Because cancer will never be beat until people stop doing things that invite it to take hold in the first place.
I think most people here have realized that and are doing something about it. Sadly there are way too many others who choose not to. Society complains that teenagers have an immortality complex, thinking they can do really stupid things with no adverse affects. Well, there are millions of adults with the same mentality. And we cannot force people to stop and change dangerous behaviors that bring on dangerous illnesses.
On the other hand, there are others who don't give a rat's ass about anybody or anything but making money regardless of the consequences on human health, animal welfare, and the environment. The are many people who eat right and take good care of themselves and still they get cancer. Why?
How about making cigarette companies and factory farms fork over some dough to help pay for all the illnesses and suffering their products are creating? How about putting a ban on giving farm animals antibiotics and growth hormones? It's no secret what this crap does to human health but still it remains perfectly legal. How about imposing massive fines on companies and corporations for polluting the water we drink with animal waste, pesticides, herbicides, GMOs, and a host of other known carcinogens? What will it take to put an end to this insidious atrocity?
It will take each and every individual to empower themselves and take responsibility for their choices and STOP BUYING THEIR CRAP! If people would take the money they spend at doctor's offices and prescription medications and spend it instead on wise food choices, it could be done. Easily. It takes big bucks to run factory farms. Cut off their funding (our dollars) and they will fall. They are in business because we keep them in business. We pay them to give us products that are making us sick and killing us off.
We can't depend on the government to do something about this. They are in the back pockets of the very ones who are dishing out poisons to their fellow human beings. And until people wake up and smell the veggies, this 'war' will never end, and never be won.
Because cancer will never be beat until people stop doing things that invite it to take hold in the first place.
I think most people here have realized that and are doing something about it. Sadly there are way too many others who choose not to. Society complains that teenagers have an immortality complex, thinking they can do really stupid things with no adverse affects. Well, there are millions of adults with the same mentality. And we cannot force people to stop and change dangerous behaviors that bring on dangerous illnesses.
On the other hand, there are others who don't give a rat's ass about anybody or anything but making money regardless of the consequences on human health, animal welfare, and the environment. The are many people who eat right and take good care of themselves and still they get cancer. Why?
How about making cigarette companies and factory farms fork over some dough to help pay for all the illnesses and suffering their products are creating? How about putting a ban on giving farm animals antibiotics and growth hormones? It's no secret what this crap does to human health but still it remains perfectly legal. How about imposing massive fines on companies and corporations for polluting the water we drink with animal waste, pesticides, herbicides, GMOs, and a host of other known carcinogens? What will it take to put an end to this insidious atrocity?
It will take each and every individual to empower themselves and take responsibility for their choices and STOP BUYING THEIR CRAP! If people would take the money they spend at doctor's offices and prescription medications and spend it instead on wise food choices, it could be done. Easily. It takes big bucks to run factory farms. Cut off their funding (our dollars) and they will fall. They are in business because we keep them in business. We pay them to give us products that are making us sick and killing us off.
We can't depend on the government to do something about this. They are in the back pockets of the very ones who are dishing out poisons to their fellow human beings. And until people wake up and smell the veggies, this 'war' will never end, and never be won.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...My First Scan
A couple of months ago I had my last hamburger. It was big and juicy and I ate the whole thing, knowing I would be paying for my indulgence the next day. I just didn't know how high the price would be. I didn't know that I would apparently screw up my guts; it looks like something 'slipped' in my innards and I can't get them back where they are suppose to be. I push them back where they are suppose to be and they ooze back out. Creepy. I told my oncologist and he ordered a CT scan to be done October 10th. I drank liquid chalk for breakfast that morning and did not enjoy it. I didn't enjoy the needle either, but that wasn't too bad. I'm pretty fed up with needles. The needle that goes in my port looks like a nail instead of a needle.
I never received a phone call to say anything was wrong so I wasn't worried. I believe my onc was on vacation when the results came back in. He seems to take a lot of time off.
So I called about 2.5 weeks later to request a paper copy of the results for my records and was told there were 'areas of concern' on my liver and gallbladder and I needed a PET scan done. Not only was I shocked but I was furious. Why the hell didn't I get a phone call two weeks ago telling me this??? So what my onc is on vacation? There are other oncologists who fill in for him, for Christs' sake.
So on October 29th I go to the hospital bright and early in the morning. I'm a little antsy with the needle, of course, and the tech is trying to pin my arm down so he can shoot me up with radioactive stuff (I'm surprised I don't glow in the dark by now, seriously). I finally cooperate and was soon slid through the narrow tunnel. After it was done I asked if I could look at the pictures, knowing that if I saw white areas on my liver I was screwed. The tech guy did one better; he put the pictures on a disk! Great! I work with a lot of nurses, maybe one of them could help me decipher the results. Waiting two days for the oncologist to give me the results seemed like a long time to be sitting on pins and needles. Besides, they seem to be a bit slow to call me with the results of scans.
Sure enough, a tiny white speck showed up on my liver. I try not to panic; when I had my surgery a tiny piece of my liver was cut out for a biopsy that my surgeon was concerned about but thankfully was a false alarm and not cancerous, maybe that's what was showing up.
My oncologist said the same thing. The white speck needed to be watched closely and I would need an MRI in a couple of weeks. Not one to wait around passively, I called my surgeon's office while I was getting napalmed and had the nurse look at my chart and tell me exactly where the biopsy was taken from my liver. It turns out to be exactly where the white speck was. Whew! I'm not so worried anymore, but it still needs to be watched closely, just in case the cancer did manage to invade my liver, which would put me at stage IV. That would really, really, suck. That would put my five year survival at around 8%.
I now understand the agony people here speak of when they talk about scans and having to wait for a definitive answer.
I never received a phone call to say anything was wrong so I wasn't worried. I believe my onc was on vacation when the results came back in. He seems to take a lot of time off.
So I called about 2.5 weeks later to request a paper copy of the results for my records and was told there were 'areas of concern' on my liver and gallbladder and I needed a PET scan done. Not only was I shocked but I was furious. Why the hell didn't I get a phone call two weeks ago telling me this??? So what my onc is on vacation? There are other oncologists who fill in for him, for Christs' sake.
So on October 29th I go to the hospital bright and early in the morning. I'm a little antsy with the needle, of course, and the tech is trying to pin my arm down so he can shoot me up with radioactive stuff (I'm surprised I don't glow in the dark by now, seriously). I finally cooperate and was soon slid through the narrow tunnel. After it was done I asked if I could look at the pictures, knowing that if I saw white areas on my liver I was screwed. The tech guy did one better; he put the pictures on a disk! Great! I work with a lot of nurses, maybe one of them could help me decipher the results. Waiting two days for the oncologist to give me the results seemed like a long time to be sitting on pins and needles. Besides, they seem to be a bit slow to call me with the results of scans.
Sure enough, a tiny white speck showed up on my liver. I try not to panic; when I had my surgery a tiny piece of my liver was cut out for a biopsy that my surgeon was concerned about but thankfully was a false alarm and not cancerous, maybe that's what was showing up.
My oncologist said the same thing. The white speck needed to be watched closely and I would need an MRI in a couple of weeks. Not one to wait around passively, I called my surgeon's office while I was getting napalmed and had the nurse look at my chart and tell me exactly where the biopsy was taken from my liver. It turns out to be exactly where the white speck was. Whew! I'm not so worried anymore, but it still needs to be watched closely, just in case the cancer did manage to invade my liver, which would put me at stage IV. That would really, really, suck. That would put my five year survival at around 8%.
I now understand the agony people here speak of when they talk about scans and having to wait for a definitive answer.
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...The Empty Nest
I've had seven out of twelve chemo treatments. But I went for five weeks without due to low platelets on day and insurance issues the next. My FMLA ran out and I'm switching over to COBRA, which will cost me close to $700.00 a month. How can anyone afford that when they are not able to work???
I was doing alright until August 16th. That's the day my 18 year old daughter up and moves to Kansas. To be with a boy she's been talking to since she's been in middle school. How could she leave at a time when I need her the most? Cancer may have knocked me flat on my back, but that made me curl up in the fetal position and pull a bunch of blankets over my head. Cancer and the empty nest do not go well together. But she has to live her own life her way. She was not put on this Earth to please me, she has her own destiny that is seperate from mine. I'm angry and hurt but I'm trying to understand. And now, for the first time in my life, I have absolutely no one to focus on and worry about but myself. What a strange feeling. That's what I've always done; for the first half of my life that's what I thought I had to do. I think that's part of the reason I'm in this health crisis. I totally neglected myself. I stopped paying attention to what was going on with myself and my health.
Thankfully we keep in regular contact with each other and she is planning on visiting the week before Thanksgiving. She has a job and an apartment with roommates. She has her first boyfriend. She makes her own dental and doctor appointments. She's doing pretty good and I'm proud of her. She is even planning on taking some college classes next year. Not bad for someone who barely graduated high school.
But I'm still so hurt I can barely stand it. I begged her to stay at least until I'm finished with chemo, but she grew so resentful and passive aggressive I finally told her to just go.
So another chapter in my life comes to an end and another begins. I'll be done with chemo around the first week in January, which is when this whole nightmare started in 2008.
I had five weeks off chemo and it felt sooo good. Now I'm back on it and I feel like crap. I'm still having a hard time with it mentally. So many people's cancer comes back usually more agressive than the first time. According to statistics I have about a 44%-64% chance of being alive in five years. What's up with that? How can those cancer cells survive being napalmed so much? Every other cell in my body is being obliterated, how can microtumors hang on so? Will I always wonder if I have any more ticking time bombs floating around in my body waiting for an opportunity to take hold somewhere? Will I ever again draw a breath free from cancer-anxiety? How does one move on with their life post-cancer? Right now I just feel so stuck.
I was doing alright until August 16th. That's the day my 18 year old daughter up and moves to Kansas. To be with a boy she's been talking to since she's been in middle school. How could she leave at a time when I need her the most? Cancer may have knocked me flat on my back, but that made me curl up in the fetal position and pull a bunch of blankets over my head. Cancer and the empty nest do not go well together. But she has to live her own life her way. She was not put on this Earth to please me, she has her own destiny that is seperate from mine. I'm angry and hurt but I'm trying to understand. And now, for the first time in my life, I have absolutely no one to focus on and worry about but myself. What a strange feeling. That's what I've always done; for the first half of my life that's what I thought I had to do. I think that's part of the reason I'm in this health crisis. I totally neglected myself. I stopped paying attention to what was going on with myself and my health.
Thankfully we keep in regular contact with each other and she is planning on visiting the week before Thanksgiving. She has a job and an apartment with roommates. She has her first boyfriend. She makes her own dental and doctor appointments. She's doing pretty good and I'm proud of her. She is even planning on taking some college classes next year. Not bad for someone who barely graduated high school.
But I'm still so hurt I can barely stand it. I begged her to stay at least until I'm finished with chemo, but she grew so resentful and passive aggressive I finally told her to just go.
So another chapter in my life comes to an end and another begins. I'll be done with chemo around the first week in January, which is when this whole nightmare started in 2008.
I had five weeks off chemo and it felt sooo good. Now I'm back on it and I feel like crap. I'm still having a hard time with it mentally. So many people's cancer comes back usually more agressive than the first time. According to statistics I have about a 44%-64% chance of being alive in five years. What's up with that? How can those cancer cells survive being napalmed so much? Every other cell in my body is being obliterated, how can microtumors hang on so? Will I always wonder if I have any more ticking time bombs floating around in my body waiting for an opportunity to take hold somewhere? Will I ever again draw a breath free from cancer-anxiety? How does one move on with their life post-cancer? Right now I just feel so stuck.
Friday, August 8, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...Various Musings
Well, my second round of chemo on July 29th went much better than the first. Not only did I NOT end up in the hospital, I did not even throw up. Of course I kept myself pretty medicated starting BEFORE the chemo treatment which I will do again for my third course on next Wednesday, August 13th.
I am now taking Marinol, although to be honest I believe I, and all cancer patients, should have legal access to medical Marijuana like in California. It is a ridiculous that it is illegal due to it's many medical and spiritual uses. I (and many others I know) do not even consider Marijuana a drug. To us, a drug is something we have to either go to the doctor or a store for; something we cannot make or grow ourselves. This includes vitamins and supplements.
To isolate a plant compound and synthesize it in a lab destroys the synergy of the entire plant and makes the compound potentially dangerous. All plant compounds work together in syngery for the good of the whole. When humans mess with that syngery, and isolate them from each other, they are inviting trouble. Research backing this is out there, but if one is not looking for it, it can be difficult to come across.
One book I purchased since I started this Journey devotes a whole chapter on supplements. The name of the book is Food to Fight Cancer: Essential foods to help prevent cancer by Richard Beliveau, Ph.D. and Denis Gingras, Ph.D. The chapter is 17, and is called Supplements: Friend or Foe? The chapter starts with an interesting quote by Paracelsus who lived from 1493-1541: "All substances are poisons; there is none which is not a poison. The right dose differentiates a poison from a remedy."
I am definately not saying it is wrong or bad to take vitamins and/or supplements; they have their place in the lives of people and it is an individual choice. I do feel, though, that many people mistakenly think they can pop a supplement or some other type of pill in place of real, whole foods or to make them feel better without doing the hard work of changing behaviors, and I feel this is a huge mistake propagated by corporations who make a living selling them. One cannot get their nutritional needs met through any type of pill. One cannot depend on drugs to fixed all their physical and emotional problems. We have become a nation of pill poppers. Got an ache? Pop a pill. Don't have time to eat healthy? Pop a pill. Don't have time, or don't feel like eating? Pop a pill. Feeling nervous? Pop a pill. Feeling mad? Pop a pill. Feeling bored? Pop a pill. Not only is this mind numbing thinking unhealthy, it is dangerous and only benefits the ones making these pills and convincing the masses they are good, safe, and necessary.
Obviously I could have done more for my own health and well-being. However I don't consider this cancer to be my enemy, something to be hated, feared, and destroyed. To be honest, I communicated with my tumor before I had the surgeon remove it, explaining why it had to go. I felt its fear mixed with my own fear.But I also don't consider cancer my friend. But for whatever reason, it is in my body, created within my body, by my body, and I feel to hate something created in my body is to hate a part of myself that I need to nurture and love to make whole again.
What I do consider cancer to be is my teacher, a rude crude teacher, my body's way of screaming so loud to get my attention because all other attempts to do so failed miserably. I feel I need to love whatever cancer cells are left in my body, (and all cells in my body) to flood them with love and healthy choices and emotions so they will be mollified to stay quite and single celled.I know there are no guarantees, cancer happens to the healthiest of people, sometimes more than once, and it could happen to me again, but this approach feels right for me.
I am now taking Marinol, although to be honest I believe I, and all cancer patients, should have legal access to medical Marijuana like in California. It is a ridiculous that it is illegal due to it's many medical and spiritual uses. I (and many others I know) do not even consider Marijuana a drug. To us, a drug is something we have to either go to the doctor or a store for; something we cannot make or grow ourselves. This includes vitamins and supplements.
To isolate a plant compound and synthesize it in a lab destroys the synergy of the entire plant and makes the compound potentially dangerous. All plant compounds work together in syngery for the good of the whole. When humans mess with that syngery, and isolate them from each other, they are inviting trouble. Research backing this is out there, but if one is not looking for it, it can be difficult to come across.
One book I purchased since I started this Journey devotes a whole chapter on supplements. The name of the book is Food to Fight Cancer: Essential foods to help prevent cancer by Richard Beliveau, Ph.D. and Denis Gingras, Ph.D. The chapter is 17, and is called Supplements: Friend or Foe? The chapter starts with an interesting quote by Paracelsus who lived from 1493-1541: "All substances are poisons; there is none which is not a poison. The right dose differentiates a poison from a remedy."
I am definately not saying it is wrong or bad to take vitamins and/or supplements; they have their place in the lives of people and it is an individual choice. I do feel, though, that many people mistakenly think they can pop a supplement or some other type of pill in place of real, whole foods or to make them feel better without doing the hard work of changing behaviors, and I feel this is a huge mistake propagated by corporations who make a living selling them. One cannot get their nutritional needs met through any type of pill. One cannot depend on drugs to fixed all their physical and emotional problems. We have become a nation of pill poppers. Got an ache? Pop a pill. Don't have time to eat healthy? Pop a pill. Don't have time, or don't feel like eating? Pop a pill. Feeling nervous? Pop a pill. Feeling mad? Pop a pill. Feeling bored? Pop a pill. Not only is this mind numbing thinking unhealthy, it is dangerous and only benefits the ones making these pills and convincing the masses they are good, safe, and necessary.
Obviously I could have done more for my own health and well-being. However I don't consider this cancer to be my enemy, something to be hated, feared, and destroyed. To be honest, I communicated with my tumor before I had the surgeon remove it, explaining why it had to go. I felt its fear mixed with my own fear.But I also don't consider cancer my friend. But for whatever reason, it is in my body, created within my body, by my body, and I feel to hate something created in my body is to hate a part of myself that I need to nurture and love to make whole again.
What I do consider cancer to be is my teacher, a rude crude teacher, my body's way of screaming so loud to get my attention because all other attempts to do so failed miserably. I feel I need to love whatever cancer cells are left in my body, (and all cells in my body) to flood them with love and healthy choices and emotions so they will be mollified to stay quite and single celled.I know there are no guarantees, cancer happens to the healthiest of people, sometimes more than once, and it could happen to me again, but this approach feels right for me.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...Accepting Help From Others, Part II
Not only people in 'real-time' have come to my aid, but also people who I have only met on-line, and not in 'real-time,' have been a tremendous support for me.
I am a member of Susun Weed's Wise Woman Forum, a place for people who like working with herbs to gather. I was a moderator for several of the forums b.c (before cancer) since 2003 and even though I resigned from moderator duties, I am still allowed access to the moderators' forum where I am getting so much love and encouragement from the other moderators. If you want to check out this great forum, here's the link: http://www.susunweed.com/wisewomanforum.htm
Many of them have been so very generous, sending me many tinctures and oils and Susun Weed herself (I've been taking a distant learning herbal course from her for a while now) sent me some Poke tincture and a generous supply of Slippery Elm balls (for digestion) and some dried Red Clover herb, a powerful anti-cancer herb. Susun's daughter, Justine, generously sent me an herbal book that I mentioned I wanted to get.
I have also been blessed with the friendship of a powerful intuitive, Danita, with whom I talk on the phone and e-mail on a regular basis. We are both doing energy work on ourselves and we are encouraging each other. She is a most lovely person and the tinctures and oils she has sent me are divine. Check out her websites here:
http://www.sacredsteplifecoaching.com/index.htm
and here:
http://www.sacredstep.com/
My two cyber-pals (who are brother and sister) in Norway. We've been e-mailing each other for over ten years. They have given me tons of encouragement.
I'm sure I'll be blogging about herbs and Nature. They are such a huge part of me. For me, being in Nature is equal to being in church; it is a Spiritual experience and it brings me close to the Divine. Whenever I have an encounter with an intuitive person, they always pick up on that right away. Before I got caught up in the Rat Race of Life, I was quite connected to the Source but sadly I wandered away as I struggled and worried about student loans, house payments and the joys of home ownership, paying the bills, raising my daughter by myself, making enough money, getting involved in a very, very bad relationship, and the endless list we all have to survive. I lost sight of myself and my connection to the Divine. I stopped my herbal studies and spending time in Nature. I became depressed but I would not allow myself to stop; I just kept going and going and going, like the Energizer Bunny, no matter what. I had to be Super Woman minus the lame costume.
Cancer put an end to that illusion, and fast.
I am a member of Susun Weed's Wise Woman Forum, a place for people who like working with herbs to gather. I was a moderator for several of the forums b.c (before cancer) since 2003 and even though I resigned from moderator duties, I am still allowed access to the moderators' forum where I am getting so much love and encouragement from the other moderators. If you want to check out this great forum, here's the link: http://www.susunweed.com/wisewomanforum.htm
Many of them have been so very generous, sending me many tinctures and oils and Susun Weed herself (I've been taking a distant learning herbal course from her for a while now) sent me some Poke tincture and a generous supply of Slippery Elm balls (for digestion) and some dried Red Clover herb, a powerful anti-cancer herb. Susun's daughter, Justine, generously sent me an herbal book that I mentioned I wanted to get.
I have also been blessed with the friendship of a powerful intuitive, Danita, with whom I talk on the phone and e-mail on a regular basis. We are both doing energy work on ourselves and we are encouraging each other. She is a most lovely person and the tinctures and oils she has sent me are divine. Check out her websites here:
http://www.sacredsteplifecoaching.com/index.htm
and here:
http://www.sacredstep.com/
My two cyber-pals (who are brother and sister) in Norway. We've been e-mailing each other for over ten years. They have given me tons of encouragement.
I'm sure I'll be blogging about herbs and Nature. They are such a huge part of me. For me, being in Nature is equal to being in church; it is a Spiritual experience and it brings me close to the Divine. Whenever I have an encounter with an intuitive person, they always pick up on that right away. Before I got caught up in the Rat Race of Life, I was quite connected to the Source but sadly I wandered away as I struggled and worried about student loans, house payments and the joys of home ownership, paying the bills, raising my daughter by myself, making enough money, getting involved in a very, very bad relationship, and the endless list we all have to survive. I lost sight of myself and my connection to the Divine. I stopped my herbal studies and spending time in Nature. I became depressed but I would not allow myself to stop; I just kept going and going and going, like the Energizer Bunny, no matter what. I had to be Super Woman minus the lame costume.
Cancer put an end to that illusion, and fast.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...Accepting Help From Others, Part I
I gotta confess I'm horrid at asking for help. I hate it. I feel like I am being an inconvenience. I worry that people don't really want to help. I worry about not being able to repay people and feeling indebted to others. And I just feel so selfish and then I feel guilty. People have their own problems and issues and I just don't want to add my pile of shit to their pile of shit.
I had gotten quite good at 'powering through stuff' without letting it slow me down much. I had cultivated a facade of Super Woman, forging through life, unstoppable. My daughter certainly believed it; I worked hard to convince her of it. Whenever I got home from the hospital to finish recovering from anemia or surgery, I always told her to go over to her friend's house, don't worry about me, I don't need help, go have some fun!
But always a hidden part of me, a part of me that I have managed to stuff down deep inside me, wanted someone to take care of me for a change, with no strings attached. I was so tired of always having to be strong and capable 24/7. In fact I was totally and completely burned out from life.
But I would never admit it. Too much pride. I did not want to appear needy, selfish, and weak.
Cancer is teaching me otherwise. Cancer is just too damn big for me to 'power through.' Cancer hasn't just brought me to my knees; it has laid me out flat. And people have come through for me.
My New York Family:
Eddie, listens to me vent, encourages me, and helps me financially. He's like a guardian angel.
Sisters Elizabeth and Aunt J.M, my cheerleaders, always encouraging me and offering suggestions.
My Friends from Work:
Co-worker LPN Linda picked me up at the crack of dawn twice; once for my upper endoscope and again for my lower. She was the one with me when I was told by my gastro doctor the mass was indeed a cancerous tumor.
Vanessa, Social Worker, who took me to my first surgeon's appointment and stayed with my daughter during that major surgery ordeal.
Joanne, Social Worker, who has given me tons of information and packets, who made numerous phone calls, and who calls me to see how I am doing.
Denni, fellow CNA, who has been my taxi too many times to count, who calls me to check on me, giving me encouragement, going to lunch when I feel up to it, and keeping me in the loop with work. She is one of the aides who had to take over the care of my patients and I know they are getting excellent care.
Edie, Denni's sister and fellow CNA, picked the mail up for me at the post office and brought me some fresh strawberries that she had picked and washed. She knew I wanted to get some and I would not be able to. She even brought over some whip cream.
Joe, Chaplin, who visits me at the hospital and when he can't, he sends his lovely wife. He also calls me to see how I'm doing.Joan who sent me flowers and a card.
Clinical Director RN April, my boss, who saved my life in January when I almost ran completely out of blood; she ordered me to go to the doctor that day. If she didn't do that, I would have been dead before the end of the week. She also drove me to the hospital at the crack of dawn for my colectomy surgery. Her husband drove my daughter to and from driver's ed when I was not able to.
Friends from the 'Hood:
Next door neighbor and friends Connie and her family. Connie has been my taxi and also my cook, and she is a really good cook:) They have been doing my lawn care even before I my diagnosis. Connie's son Nick has come and gotten my truck running again after it broke down in a bank parking lot, and he also put in a new mail box for me. Nick took over lawn care. Nick's wife Nicole has been moral support and getting medicine for me.
Terri, who sent her daughter Caytee over with her credit card to pick up my daughter to take her grocery shopping.
Sister Pat, a former New Orleans street witch, who gave me a beautiful candle blessed with healing majick to help me get through chemo.
My neighbor John, who came over one night (described in a future blog) to take me to the hospital.
My dog Harley and my cat Smoke. I had a fold out couch mattress I put on my living room floor. I would be lying on it and one would be sandwiched against my back and the other sandwiched against my front. They held me tightly that way for hours, not moving a muscle or an inch from me. When I was so sick and running to the toilet, Harley would sit up and watch me anxiously, looking worried. He knew.
And of course my daughter Candace. For arranging taxi services. For being there.
I had gotten quite good at 'powering through stuff' without letting it slow me down much. I had cultivated a facade of Super Woman, forging through life, unstoppable. My daughter certainly believed it; I worked hard to convince her of it. Whenever I got home from the hospital to finish recovering from anemia or surgery, I always told her to go over to her friend's house, don't worry about me, I don't need help, go have some fun!
But always a hidden part of me, a part of me that I have managed to stuff down deep inside me, wanted someone to take care of me for a change, with no strings attached. I was so tired of always having to be strong and capable 24/7. In fact I was totally and completely burned out from life.
But I would never admit it. Too much pride. I did not want to appear needy, selfish, and weak.
Cancer is teaching me otherwise. Cancer is just too damn big for me to 'power through.' Cancer hasn't just brought me to my knees; it has laid me out flat. And people have come through for me.
My New York Family:
Eddie, listens to me vent, encourages me, and helps me financially. He's like a guardian angel.
Sisters Elizabeth and Aunt J.M, my cheerleaders, always encouraging me and offering suggestions.
My Friends from Work:
Co-worker LPN Linda picked me up at the crack of dawn twice; once for my upper endoscope and again for my lower. She was the one with me when I was told by my gastro doctor the mass was indeed a cancerous tumor.
Vanessa, Social Worker, who took me to my first surgeon's appointment and stayed with my daughter during that major surgery ordeal.
Joanne, Social Worker, who has given me tons of information and packets, who made numerous phone calls, and who calls me to see how I am doing.
Denni, fellow CNA, who has been my taxi too many times to count, who calls me to check on me, giving me encouragement, going to lunch when I feel up to it, and keeping me in the loop with work. She is one of the aides who had to take over the care of my patients and I know they are getting excellent care.
Edie, Denni's sister and fellow CNA, picked the mail up for me at the post office and brought me some fresh strawberries that she had picked and washed. She knew I wanted to get some and I would not be able to. She even brought over some whip cream.
Joe, Chaplin, who visits me at the hospital and when he can't, he sends his lovely wife. He also calls me to see how I'm doing.Joan who sent me flowers and a card.
Clinical Director RN April, my boss, who saved my life in January when I almost ran completely out of blood; she ordered me to go to the doctor that day. If she didn't do that, I would have been dead before the end of the week. She also drove me to the hospital at the crack of dawn for my colectomy surgery. Her husband drove my daughter to and from driver's ed when I was not able to.
Friends from the 'Hood:
Next door neighbor and friends Connie and her family. Connie has been my taxi and also my cook, and she is a really good cook:) They have been doing my lawn care even before I my diagnosis. Connie's son Nick has come and gotten my truck running again after it broke down in a bank parking lot, and he also put in a new mail box for me. Nick took over lawn care. Nick's wife Nicole has been moral support and getting medicine for me.
Terri, who sent her daughter Caytee over with her credit card to pick up my daughter to take her grocery shopping.
Sister Pat, a former New Orleans street witch, who gave me a beautiful candle blessed with healing majick to help me get through chemo.
My neighbor John, who came over one night (described in a future blog) to take me to the hospital.
My dog Harley and my cat Smoke. I had a fold out couch mattress I put on my living room floor. I would be lying on it and one would be sandwiched against my back and the other sandwiched against my front. They held me tightly that way for hours, not moving a muscle or an inch from me. When I was so sick and running to the toilet, Harley would sit up and watch me anxiously, looking worried. He knew.
And of course my daughter Candace. For arranging taxi services. For being there.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...Dancing With Chemo
Not even a week has passed since my port was installed (ha, makes me sound like a car or something getting worked on!) and I'm sitting in the clinic for my first round of chemo. By now I am so tired and fed up with being jabbed with needles and i.v's and fingers up my butt that all I want to do is just get up and walk away from it all and not look back. But I also realize that I cannot just up and walk away from cancer and pretend that it still isn't lurking in my body somewhere, waiting for an opportunity to take hold of an organ and grow again. Damn.
So here I sit in the lab trying to draw on the remaining courage I have (which is damn little) and let the nurse stick yet another needle in me, this time in my port. Needle was a poor description for this thing. This thing was the size of a fucking nail. I was nervously looking around for the hammer.
With me is a nurse and another nice young lady, whose job title I didn't know, but was trying so hard to comfort me, and all I could do was sit there and try not to cry or pass out. Additional reinforcements were obviously needed so another nurse is called in. Finally I allow nurse #1 to stick me with the needle.
"SON-OF-A-BITCH!!!" I have gotten in the bad habit of hollering that lovely phrase whenever I am stuck with a needle. Bad habit I know. I manage to stay upright until I see a vial full of my blood. Then my head lolls back, my eyes roll up, my face goes white, and nurse #3 yells for a vial of smelling salts. All eyes are watering from the salts except for mine. I couldn't smell them. Must be my hay fever. I didn't feel congested but my sense of smell was obviously impaired.
Finally I am told to find a chair or I could pick one of the two private rooms since no one was in them. I picked a private room and settled in. I knew this was going to take at least two hours. I didn't know I would have to get up and pee so much, but I did. Thank goodness for the t.v in the room. It got mighty boring sitting in the chair hooked up to an i.v. It was a very comfy chair though, a tilt back one. And I was given warm blankets, snacks, and drinks. They really did try to make the experience as pleasant as possible.
Finally the chemo is done infusing and I am hooked up to the take-home pump in a fanny pack. I've never been a an of fanny packs, I think they look lame. A couple of anti-nausea prescriptions and some xanax are called in to the pharmacy for me so after I get gas in Ole' Bessie, my 1993 Ford Ranger (great truck, btw) I head to the pharmacy.
For some reason I am feeling weepy and it is hard not to cry as I pay for the drugs. I stop at the video store on my way home and pick up some comedies to watch for the next couple of days.
Around 5 am the next morning, Wednesday, I wake up and feel a migraine starting, and I can tell it is the real bad kind, so I go ahead and take an imitrex. Over the next couple of hours, it gets worse. The epicenter of it is located on my left shoulder in the trapezeus muscle. It feels like someone took a baseball bat and knocked me in the back of my head and my left eye feels like it is wanting to pop out. I take my anti-nausea meds and another imitrex, to no avail.
I start vomiting. I am in agony all day. I cannot keep anything down. The vomiting quickly turns into painful, gut wrenching dry heaves. The pain in my head was horrendous and made worse with the dry heaves. Once again, I feel like I just want to cease existing, anything to make the pain go away.
A neighbor friend comes over to offer some moral support. Late in the morning, in desperation, I call the nurse and explain what is happening. She said she will talk with the doctor, another oncologist as mine was off that day, and call me back. Early afternoon she calls me back asking how I was doing. I told her I was no better, and throwing up more frequently and the pain was worse. She said she will call in a prescription for some vicoden and tried to give me some encouraging words. My neighbor friend was sleeping and I didn't want to wake her, so my daughter Candace called one of her friends who was kind enough to drive over, pick her up and take her to the pharmacy for me. I'm wondering how the hell I can keep vicoden down when I can't even keep air down??
The rest of the day went by in a pain filled haze. I took another imitrex that night along with all the other medicines, but they keep coming back up. I call the clinic again and was told there was nothing more they could do for me. Thanks a fucking lot. I was still awake at 3 am, but eventually I did finally manage to doze off.
In the morning, Thursday, the headache was not nearly as bad, the nausea was not nearly as bad, but I'm still feeling quite like shit. Thankfully I'm not vomiting nearly as hard or as frequently as yesterday and the vicoden stays down long enough to do some good. I needed to find a ride to the doctor's office to get the needle removed from my port around 4 pm, when the chemo bag was finally empty. My next door neighbor, Connie, who was unfortunately laid off, was able to take me in. I was in no condition to drive.
I also saw the oncologist after the needle was removed. I wish I had seen him first before it was removed. He was 'not impressed' with how I was looking and wanted to admit me to the hospital. I argued briefly against that (of course) but not for long. I finally agreed. So Connie took me to the hospital instead of back home, where the port was accessed again and I stayed overnight while getting rehydrated with fluids and potassium; my blood chems were all out of whack from all the heaving.
Doc came in to see me Friday morning and said I could go home early afternoon and go see him Thursday of next week. This was my fifth hospital visit this year. I hope this is not how all the chemo treatments are going to affect me.
I hope.
So here I sit in the lab trying to draw on the remaining courage I have (which is damn little) and let the nurse stick yet another needle in me, this time in my port. Needle was a poor description for this thing. This thing was the size of a fucking nail. I was nervously looking around for the hammer.
With me is a nurse and another nice young lady, whose job title I didn't know, but was trying so hard to comfort me, and all I could do was sit there and try not to cry or pass out. Additional reinforcements were obviously needed so another nurse is called in. Finally I allow nurse #1 to stick me with the needle.
"SON-OF-A-BITCH!!!" I have gotten in the bad habit of hollering that lovely phrase whenever I am stuck with a needle. Bad habit I know. I manage to stay upright until I see a vial full of my blood. Then my head lolls back, my eyes roll up, my face goes white, and nurse #3 yells for a vial of smelling salts. All eyes are watering from the salts except for mine. I couldn't smell them. Must be my hay fever. I didn't feel congested but my sense of smell was obviously impaired.
Finally I am told to find a chair or I could pick one of the two private rooms since no one was in them. I picked a private room and settled in. I knew this was going to take at least two hours. I didn't know I would have to get up and pee so much, but I did. Thank goodness for the t.v in the room. It got mighty boring sitting in the chair hooked up to an i.v. It was a very comfy chair though, a tilt back one. And I was given warm blankets, snacks, and drinks. They really did try to make the experience as pleasant as possible.
Finally the chemo is done infusing and I am hooked up to the take-home pump in a fanny pack. I've never been a an of fanny packs, I think they look lame. A couple of anti-nausea prescriptions and some xanax are called in to the pharmacy for me so after I get gas in Ole' Bessie, my 1993 Ford Ranger (great truck, btw) I head to the pharmacy.
For some reason I am feeling weepy and it is hard not to cry as I pay for the drugs. I stop at the video store on my way home and pick up some comedies to watch for the next couple of days.
Around 5 am the next morning, Wednesday, I wake up and feel a migraine starting, and I can tell it is the real bad kind, so I go ahead and take an imitrex. Over the next couple of hours, it gets worse. The epicenter of it is located on my left shoulder in the trapezeus muscle. It feels like someone took a baseball bat and knocked me in the back of my head and my left eye feels like it is wanting to pop out. I take my anti-nausea meds and another imitrex, to no avail.
I start vomiting. I am in agony all day. I cannot keep anything down. The vomiting quickly turns into painful, gut wrenching dry heaves. The pain in my head was horrendous and made worse with the dry heaves. Once again, I feel like I just want to cease existing, anything to make the pain go away.
A neighbor friend comes over to offer some moral support. Late in the morning, in desperation, I call the nurse and explain what is happening. She said she will talk with the doctor, another oncologist as mine was off that day, and call me back. Early afternoon she calls me back asking how I was doing. I told her I was no better, and throwing up more frequently and the pain was worse. She said she will call in a prescription for some vicoden and tried to give me some encouraging words. My neighbor friend was sleeping and I didn't want to wake her, so my daughter Candace called one of her friends who was kind enough to drive over, pick her up and take her to the pharmacy for me. I'm wondering how the hell I can keep vicoden down when I can't even keep air down??
The rest of the day went by in a pain filled haze. I took another imitrex that night along with all the other medicines, but they keep coming back up. I call the clinic again and was told there was nothing more they could do for me. Thanks a fucking lot. I was still awake at 3 am, but eventually I did finally manage to doze off.
In the morning, Thursday, the headache was not nearly as bad, the nausea was not nearly as bad, but I'm still feeling quite like shit. Thankfully I'm not vomiting nearly as hard or as frequently as yesterday and the vicoden stays down long enough to do some good. I needed to find a ride to the doctor's office to get the needle removed from my port around 4 pm, when the chemo bag was finally empty. My next door neighbor, Connie, who was unfortunately laid off, was able to take me in. I was in no condition to drive.
I also saw the oncologist after the needle was removed. I wish I had seen him first before it was removed. He was 'not impressed' with how I was looking and wanted to admit me to the hospital. I argued briefly against that (of course) but not for long. I finally agreed. So Connie took me to the hospital instead of back home, where the port was accessed again and I stayed overnight while getting rehydrated with fluids and potassium; my blood chems were all out of whack from all the heaving.
Doc came in to see me Friday morning and said I could go home early afternoon and go see him Thursday of next week. This was my fifth hospital visit this year. I hope this is not how all the chemo treatments are going to affect me.
I hope.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoris...Getting A Port Installed
More surgery. Ugh. I needed to have a port put in so I can start chemo. My surgeon said he would put it on my right side instead of my left; my left has a tattoo of a unicorn. I also have a tattoo on my right thigh of a panther hanging on by his claws. I want to see if I can have it changed to a white tiger for reasons for another blog post.
At least this surgery wasn't so traumatic. On July 9th, my neighbor Connie gave my daughter and I a ride to the hospital. The nurse was able to get an i.v started this time, although I'm thinking I'll never get use to having needles stuck in me.
This time I walked to the o.r instead of being wheeled in on a hospital bed. I still felt very anxious but it was not the out-of-control terror of the last time. When the anaesthesia went in my vein, it burned but I went out quickly.
When I came to, a nice nurse ask me if I was in pain, and what kind of pain medicine I preferred. What a very nice nurse! I was thinking Christmas came early! So, with a straight face, I suggested dilaudin. Coming right up! About a half hour and three syringes of that tasty treat in my veins later, I'm pain free and was wheeled back to my room and my waiting daughter, Candace, who was concerned about how red my eyes were. Hey, it wasn't going to become a habit, I was in pain, so why not enjoy it while I can? I've been through a lot this year, and it was far from over!
Luckily I didn't have to spend much time in recovery. Candace got us a ride to the pharmacy and then home from a friend of hers. Actually it was a friend of her friend. I think she was a satanist; she had a tattoo on her wrist that looked like an inverted pentacle, but she was nice to give me a ride as a favor and she wasn't going to ask me for any money. I gave her some anyway because I appreciated the ride, regardless of her religion. As long as a person is a law abiding citizen, I don't give a rat's ass what religion they are.
So...got my tumor removed, got my port installed, now I get to start chemo. There's something about chemo that really unsettles me. I'm not sure what it is that unsettles me so. Of all the things I've been through this year, none of it compares to chemo. Chemo=bad illness= potential early death. When someone says chemo, everyone knows immediately what it's for. Cancer and all that comes with it. Side effects. Puking. Loosing your hair. Extreme fatigue. I get to look forward to six months of getting chemo every other week, plus two days with a fanny pack after each treatment. The chemo nurse told me I might not get that sick, that most people tolerate this regime quite well.
This particular regime is called modified folfox 6. The chemo drugs are oxaliplatin (which causes peripheral neurophathy and I have to be careful with anything cold), and 5-fu, plus leucovorin, which is a vitamin complex said to increase effectiveness of the chemo drugs.
I'll just have to wait and see. Maybe it won't be so bad.
At least this surgery wasn't so traumatic. On July 9th, my neighbor Connie gave my daughter and I a ride to the hospital. The nurse was able to get an i.v started this time, although I'm thinking I'll never get use to having needles stuck in me.
This time I walked to the o.r instead of being wheeled in on a hospital bed. I still felt very anxious but it was not the out-of-control terror of the last time. When the anaesthesia went in my vein, it burned but I went out quickly.
When I came to, a nice nurse ask me if I was in pain, and what kind of pain medicine I preferred. What a very nice nurse! I was thinking Christmas came early! So, with a straight face, I suggested dilaudin. Coming right up! About a half hour and three syringes of that tasty treat in my veins later, I'm pain free and was wheeled back to my room and my waiting daughter, Candace, who was concerned about how red my eyes were. Hey, it wasn't going to become a habit, I was in pain, so why not enjoy it while I can? I've been through a lot this year, and it was far from over!
Luckily I didn't have to spend much time in recovery. Candace got us a ride to the pharmacy and then home from a friend of hers. Actually it was a friend of her friend. I think she was a satanist; she had a tattoo on her wrist that looked like an inverted pentacle, but she was nice to give me a ride as a favor and she wasn't going to ask me for any money. I gave her some anyway because I appreciated the ride, regardless of her religion. As long as a person is a law abiding citizen, I don't give a rat's ass what religion they are.
So...got my tumor removed, got my port installed, now I get to start chemo. There's something about chemo that really unsettles me. I'm not sure what it is that unsettles me so. Of all the things I've been through this year, none of it compares to chemo. Chemo=bad illness= potential early death. When someone says chemo, everyone knows immediately what it's for. Cancer and all that comes with it. Side effects. Puking. Loosing your hair. Extreme fatigue. I get to look forward to six months of getting chemo every other week, plus two days with a fanny pack after each treatment. The chemo nurse told me I might not get that sick, that most people tolerate this regime quite well.
This particular regime is called modified folfox 6. The chemo drugs are oxaliplatin (which causes peripheral neurophathy and I have to be careful with anything cold), and 5-fu, plus leucovorin, which is a vitamin complex said to increase effectiveness of the chemo drugs.
I'll just have to wait and see. Maybe it won't be so bad.
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...And The Beast Is Removed
Wednesday, June 4th 2008. D-day for me. I had already had a long 'talk' with my body, my bowels, and even the tumor itself, explaining why I had to do what I was getting ready to do. I said my good-byes to the half of my colon that had to be sacrificed so that I could live.
I realized then that the tumor really was not an evil thing; it was neither good nor bad. It just was. It was just doing what tumors do; growing and surviving, and spreading, as all living entities do. I don't think it wanted to kill me, but it couldn't help but do just that if left alone. I felt it's fear as I explained it had to come out because when I died, IT died, and I wasn't going to sacrifice my life and go down with it.
So I went to my date with the surgeon, anethesiologist, nurses, med students, and lots of sharp looking objects. I had to do another fun bowel prep the night before. My boss was kind enough to pick me up early to take me and my daughter to the hospital where my social worker friend met me. I got checked in and went to put on one of those sexy hospital gowns and get some more blood drawn. By then I've had quite a few transfusions and they kept taking it out again! Didn't they realize how expensive blood is??
This phlebotomist either had an ax to grind with someone and took it out on my poor vein, or she is just naturally mean; I know not which. I didn't like the way she shoved the needle in my arm, it was not the least bit gentle.
I was then wheeled to a waiting room where a nice nurse tried to start an iv. No luck. Another nurse tried. No luck. I'm so terrified the 'fight or flight' response was in high gear, rendering attempts to get an iv in my arm useless, and I'm threatening to go home. But the nurse went to talk to the surgeon and they said they would start an iv after they put me under like they do with children. Fine then.
Finally they wheeled me into surgery and my fear kicks up another notch which I didn't think was possible. No one looked at me and I start to cry a bit. For some reason I start to think of evil Hitler's evil Angel of Death and how utterly terrified his poor victims must have felt as they were wheeled into the operating table. As terrified as I was, their fear must have been a thousand times worse. At least I knew that everyone in that room was dedicated to saving my life. I don't know why I thought of that.
I get myself on the chopping table and then really start to cry. Everyone is trying to reassure me but I've totally lost it. The anethesiologist trys to put the mask on my face but I wouldn't let him; I tried to grab it out of his hands saying 'just give me a minute!' Finally the nurses hold my hands (to gently restrain me, I'm sure) and guy with the masks says 'just three deep breaths, that's all, you're going to be alright' over and over, but it took about six or seven breaths before I finally went under.
The pain was horrible when I finally woke up. I swear the morphine pump they put me on was broken. Just dropping paper on me caused me to holler. I'm taken into my room and I'm in a haze of pain. The rest of that day and the next were hell, I'm in sooo much pain I just want to disappear. I'm told the surgeon found a node on my liver which he sent out for biopsy, fearing the cancer had managed to spread to my liver, which would be very, very bad. He also took out 33 of my lymph nodes.
Luckily the spot on my liver was not cancer and only five of my lymph nodes had cancer out of the 33, so it could have been much worse.
But it was bad enough. That put me at Stage III-C. The next stage is stage IV, or end stage, which is when the cancer metastisizes to other organs, usually the liver or lungs. No doubt I had micro-tumors floating around in me since the cancer managed to invade five of my lymph nodes.
Friday was much better and I'm able to go for a walk in the halls with a cute cna guy. Saturday my surgeon let me go home. I was in the hospital for only three days, which surprised a lot of people considering the kind of surgery I had; I was told I'd be in there at least five days. People underestimate me a lot.
A week later on Wednesday, the incision got infected. My temperature was over 101 at times. Saturday an area burst and starts draining a lot, so I finally call the on-call doctor who calls in an antibiotic for me. I noticed the infection took hold on the place where I had my navel pierced many years ago.
About a week after that, I'm sitting on my couch and I notice something poking up under my skin on my incision. I touch it and it pops through my skin. It's white and looks like a worm! I FREAK! I'm thinking I got worms coming out of my belly!
Thankfully it wasn't a worm, but a plastic staple. Whew! But then I freak out AGAIN because I'm thinking I'm coming apart where my guts were joined back together! Thankfully that wasn't the case either.
When I went to see the surgeon for the follow up visit, the wound is still draining; the hole goes down at least an inch. I'm told it needs to be packed so it will heal properly, so they give me the supplies and show me how so I can do it myself. The wound is quite deep and goes straight down. I hated pulling the guaze out of the wound because it looks like a tape worm and it made a squishy noise. Ugh!
Now I just need to get a port put in so I can start chemo that everyone is insisting I get. I'm not too sure about that but I was in no shape to argue.
I would later regret not following my instincts about getting chemo.
I realized then that the tumor really was not an evil thing; it was neither good nor bad. It just was. It was just doing what tumors do; growing and surviving, and spreading, as all living entities do. I don't think it wanted to kill me, but it couldn't help but do just that if left alone. I felt it's fear as I explained it had to come out because when I died, IT died, and I wasn't going to sacrifice my life and go down with it.
So I went to my date with the surgeon, anethesiologist, nurses, med students, and lots of sharp looking objects. I had to do another fun bowel prep the night before. My boss was kind enough to pick me up early to take me and my daughter to the hospital where my social worker friend met me. I got checked in and went to put on one of those sexy hospital gowns and get some more blood drawn. By then I've had quite a few transfusions and they kept taking it out again! Didn't they realize how expensive blood is??
This phlebotomist either had an ax to grind with someone and took it out on my poor vein, or she is just naturally mean; I know not which. I didn't like the way she shoved the needle in my arm, it was not the least bit gentle.
I was then wheeled to a waiting room where a nice nurse tried to start an iv. No luck. Another nurse tried. No luck. I'm so terrified the 'fight or flight' response was in high gear, rendering attempts to get an iv in my arm useless, and I'm threatening to go home. But the nurse went to talk to the surgeon and they said they would start an iv after they put me under like they do with children. Fine then.
Finally they wheeled me into surgery and my fear kicks up another notch which I didn't think was possible. No one looked at me and I start to cry a bit. For some reason I start to think of evil Hitler's evil Angel of Death and how utterly terrified his poor victims must have felt as they were wheeled into the operating table. As terrified as I was, their fear must have been a thousand times worse. At least I knew that everyone in that room was dedicated to saving my life. I don't know why I thought of that.
I get myself on the chopping table and then really start to cry. Everyone is trying to reassure me but I've totally lost it. The anethesiologist trys to put the mask on my face but I wouldn't let him; I tried to grab it out of his hands saying 'just give me a minute!' Finally the nurses hold my hands (to gently restrain me, I'm sure) and guy with the masks says 'just three deep breaths, that's all, you're going to be alright' over and over, but it took about six or seven breaths before I finally went under.
The pain was horrible when I finally woke up. I swear the morphine pump they put me on was broken. Just dropping paper on me caused me to holler. I'm taken into my room and I'm in a haze of pain. The rest of that day and the next were hell, I'm in sooo much pain I just want to disappear. I'm told the surgeon found a node on my liver which he sent out for biopsy, fearing the cancer had managed to spread to my liver, which would be very, very bad. He also took out 33 of my lymph nodes.
Luckily the spot on my liver was not cancer and only five of my lymph nodes had cancer out of the 33, so it could have been much worse.
But it was bad enough. That put me at Stage III-C. The next stage is stage IV, or end stage, which is when the cancer metastisizes to other organs, usually the liver or lungs. No doubt I had micro-tumors floating around in me since the cancer managed to invade five of my lymph nodes.
Friday was much better and I'm able to go for a walk in the halls with a cute cna guy. Saturday my surgeon let me go home. I was in the hospital for only three days, which surprised a lot of people considering the kind of surgery I had; I was told I'd be in there at least five days. People underestimate me a lot.
A week later on Wednesday, the incision got infected. My temperature was over 101 at times. Saturday an area burst and starts draining a lot, so I finally call the on-call doctor who calls in an antibiotic for me. I noticed the infection took hold on the place where I had my navel pierced many years ago.
About a week after that, I'm sitting on my couch and I notice something poking up under my skin on my incision. I touch it and it pops through my skin. It's white and looks like a worm! I FREAK! I'm thinking I got worms coming out of my belly!
Thankfully it wasn't a worm, but a plastic staple. Whew! But then I freak out AGAIN because I'm thinking I'm coming apart where my guts were joined back together! Thankfully that wasn't the case either.
When I went to see the surgeon for the follow up visit, the wound is still draining; the hole goes down at least an inch. I'm told it needs to be packed so it will heal properly, so they give me the supplies and show me how so I can do it myself. The wound is quite deep and goes straight down. I hated pulling the guaze out of the wound because it looks like a tape worm and it made a squishy noise. Ugh!
Now I just need to get a port put in so I can start chemo that everyone is insisting I get. I'm not too sure about that but I was in no shape to argue.
I would later regret not following my instincts about getting chemo.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...My Universal Smack Down
I had the upper endoscopy on May 16th and it came back all clear. So on May 19th I go in to see my hematologist. We talk a bit then he has me lie on the examination table and starts to probe around my abdomen.
This has become routine for us: I go see him, he asks me if cancer runs in my immediate family, I tell him no, he goes 'hmmm...' I can see he's getting more and more suspicious each time I see him. I, however, am not. Then he always had me lie on the exam table and poke around my belly and always felt nothing suspicious.
Until May 19th, 2008.
That's when he felt IT. On my right side. A mass. A big one. And my whole world crashed around me.
We look at each other, eyes wide, and we both know what it was. Cancer. Colon cancer to be exact, only the second deadliest cancer in the United States. And it was in MY body.
He tells me I MUST get a colonoscopy ASAP and if it is a tumor (and we both knew it was) I would have to have surgery; it must come OUT. I finally quit arguing.
He had his nurse call my gastroenterologist's office to get me in ASAP. I get scheduled for May 21st. On the 20th my hematologist, now my oncologist, ordered me to go to the hospital for another blood transfusion, which I did. I'm done arguing. I also had to do a bowel prep that night also, which was no picnic let me tell you. I'll spare the gory details.
All that time, it was the tumor that was bleeding; it almost killed me before it reached end stage.
My friend and hospice nurse Linda, who took me in for the upper, also took me in for the lower. I was a bit nervous because the doctor really didn't give me enough medicine for the upper and I was climbing the walls after wards and practically ran out of the clinic; I felt a little too much the hose coming out of my throat. This time he used enough to knock out two full grown men and it worked nicely.
In the recovery room the doctor came in and said he was surprised to see me sitting up considering the amount of medicine he gave me. I asked if he found anything.
He said yes.
I asked him if it was cancer.
He said yes.
He showed me the pictures and it was a big one. I saw my friend Linda on her cell, talking to April, our clinical director and boss, with a look of total shock and fear in her eyes. He had me go next for a CT scan. So we went to get that done and then I took my friend out to breakfast. All that prepping and testing made me hungry.
I did not feel freaked out or scared at that point. I figured I'd power through this cancer stuff like I powered through everything in my life. If anyone could kick cancer's ass, it was me.
On the 22nd, gastro-doc called me and asked me if I remembered talking to him (he didn't think I would) and I said yes. He got the biopsy and CT results back and they showed the cancer had spread into local tissue and some lymph nodes.
Stage 3. Advanced. Aggressive. Deadly.
Wow, this is starting to sound serious! He recommended to have surgery ASAP and referred me to a surgeon, who turned out to be a great one, thank goodness.
Now I just had to tell my daughter. I dreaded this. She lost her father not even a year ago (July 3rd, 2007) and now her mom has a life-threatening disease. It was not a good moment. That was a hard moment. In my brilliance, I took her out to eat, figuring she would better hold herself together in public. Very bad decision. Immediate tears and sobs. I struggled not to join her.
I had an appointment to see the surgeon on May 27th. A social worker friend from work called me and told me she would take me to the appointment and also to surgery. I really like the surgeon when I met him and she did too. Surgery was scheduled for June 4th. It would have been sooner but I would have missed my daughter graduating from high school. No way was I missing that, deadly disease or no deadly disease! I would not allow cancer to take that moment away from me.
I went in for pre-surgery blood work on May 30th and was given the low down on what to expect, and I wasn't looking forward to any of it.
Things were moving really fast now.
This has become routine for us: I go see him, he asks me if cancer runs in my immediate family, I tell him no, he goes 'hmmm...' I can see he's getting more and more suspicious each time I see him. I, however, am not. Then he always had me lie on the exam table and poke around my belly and always felt nothing suspicious.
Until May 19th, 2008.
That's when he felt IT. On my right side. A mass. A big one. And my whole world crashed around me.
We look at each other, eyes wide, and we both know what it was. Cancer. Colon cancer to be exact, only the second deadliest cancer in the United States. And it was in MY body.
He tells me I MUST get a colonoscopy ASAP and if it is a tumor (and we both knew it was) I would have to have surgery; it must come OUT. I finally quit arguing.
He had his nurse call my gastroenterologist's office to get me in ASAP. I get scheduled for May 21st. On the 20th my hematologist, now my oncologist, ordered me to go to the hospital for another blood transfusion, which I did. I'm done arguing. I also had to do a bowel prep that night also, which was no picnic let me tell you. I'll spare the gory details.
All that time, it was the tumor that was bleeding; it almost killed me before it reached end stage.
My friend and hospice nurse Linda, who took me in for the upper, also took me in for the lower. I was a bit nervous because the doctor really didn't give me enough medicine for the upper and I was climbing the walls after wards and practically ran out of the clinic; I felt a little too much the hose coming out of my throat. This time he used enough to knock out two full grown men and it worked nicely.
In the recovery room the doctor came in and said he was surprised to see me sitting up considering the amount of medicine he gave me. I asked if he found anything.
He said yes.
I asked him if it was cancer.
He said yes.
He showed me the pictures and it was a big one. I saw my friend Linda on her cell, talking to April, our clinical director and boss, with a look of total shock and fear in her eyes. He had me go next for a CT scan. So we went to get that done and then I took my friend out to breakfast. All that prepping and testing made me hungry.
I did not feel freaked out or scared at that point. I figured I'd power through this cancer stuff like I powered through everything in my life. If anyone could kick cancer's ass, it was me.
On the 22nd, gastro-doc called me and asked me if I remembered talking to him (he didn't think I would) and I said yes. He got the biopsy and CT results back and they showed the cancer had spread into local tissue and some lymph nodes.
Stage 3. Advanced. Aggressive. Deadly.
Wow, this is starting to sound serious! He recommended to have surgery ASAP and referred me to a surgeon, who turned out to be a great one, thank goodness.
Now I just had to tell my daughter. I dreaded this. She lost her father not even a year ago (July 3rd, 2007) and now her mom has a life-threatening disease. It was not a good moment. That was a hard moment. In my brilliance, I took her out to eat, figuring she would better hold herself together in public. Very bad decision. Immediate tears and sobs. I struggled not to join her.
I had an appointment to see the surgeon on May 27th. A social worker friend from work called me and told me she would take me to the appointment and also to surgery. I really like the surgeon when I met him and she did too. Surgery was scheduled for June 4th. It would have been sooner but I would have missed my daughter graduating from high school. No way was I missing that, deadly disease or no deadly disease! I would not allow cancer to take that moment away from me.
I went in for pre-surgery blood work on May 30th and was given the low down on what to expect, and I wasn't looking forward to any of it.
Things were moving really fast now.
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...Crazy Alligator Dreams
Funny, a couple weeks before I found out about I had cancer, I had two dreams that definitely were trying to warn me of something big.
The first dream was of a huge, monstrous live alligator on display at some sort of amusement park. I was trying to hurrying up a long flight of stairs and this beast was lumbering up after me, trying to get me. I made it up the stairs and onto a huge holding tank filled with water for this animal, like what is at Sea World, only no fence between the people and the animal. People kept jumping in and I was screaming warnings but they thought they would be able to get away from this alligator. Most did.
Then one lady jumped in and I was screaming over and over that she wasn't going to make it, she was going to get eaten, but no one paid any attention to me. Suddenly the water started violently churning and quickly turned red and I knew she got eaten. Then I woke up.
The very next night after Giant Croc dream, I had another dream. I was underwater in a large swamp and there were many alligators (probably four feet long, not huge) just...lurking, not moving, like they were waiting for something, just scattered about, close together, but facing me, and I felt a strong sense of foreboding in my dream and this feeling continued after I woke up.
One night about a week or so later, I was idly researching a prehistoric supercroc called Sarcosuchus imperator. There was a fantastic documentary done a few years ago on this animal that lived during the Cretaceous period. Close, but didn't quite look like the one in my dream; dream beast's snout was wider. Then I found the animal that was in my dream: Deinosuchus hatcheri. Here's a link; looks exactly like the one in my first dream: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Deinosuchus_hatcheri.JPG
Here's a link that tells about this creature, and also a link to Sarcosuchus (I love paleobiology).
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deinosuchushttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarcosuchus
Something was definitely wrong, and it was getting harder for me to deny it.
The first dream was of a huge, monstrous live alligator on display at some sort of amusement park. I was trying to hurrying up a long flight of stairs and this beast was lumbering up after me, trying to get me. I made it up the stairs and onto a huge holding tank filled with water for this animal, like what is at Sea World, only no fence between the people and the animal. People kept jumping in and I was screaming warnings but they thought they would be able to get away from this alligator. Most did.
Then one lady jumped in and I was screaming over and over that she wasn't going to make it, she was going to get eaten, but no one paid any attention to me. Suddenly the water started violently churning and quickly turned red and I knew she got eaten. Then I woke up.
The very next night after Giant Croc dream, I had another dream. I was underwater in a large swamp and there were many alligators (probably four feet long, not huge) just...lurking, not moving, like they were waiting for something, just scattered about, close together, but facing me, and I felt a strong sense of foreboding in my dream and this feeling continued after I woke up.
One night about a week or so later, I was idly researching a prehistoric supercroc called Sarcosuchus imperator. There was a fantastic documentary done a few years ago on this animal that lived during the Cretaceous period. Close, but didn't quite look like the one in my dream; dream beast's snout was wider. Then I found the animal that was in my dream: Deinosuchus hatcheri. Here's a link; looks exactly like the one in my first dream: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Deinosuchus_hatcheri.JPG
Here's a link that tells about this creature, and also a link to Sarcosuchus (I love paleobiology).
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Deinosuchushttp://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarcosuchus
Something was definitely wrong, and it was getting harder for me to deny it.
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...Getting An Uneasy Feeling
Well, so my hemoglobin was a bit lower, so what? As soon as my belly healed I'd be good to go. I got a unit of iron transfused, but refused the other two the hematologist wanted me to get. Sorry Doc, can't afford them and I don't have the time, and no I'm not ready for the garden hose up my ass, thanks anyway, bye-bye. Gotta get back to work.
Being interested in herbs, I began thinking what herbs could help my body heal? I remember using Yarrow on a vicious cut on my thumb a few years ago. One day at work (when I worked at a Nature Center) I was fancying myself to be a flintknapper and was knapping a piece of Obsidian (not called volcanic glass for nothing, let me tell you) and my presser flaker slipped and OOWWWW!!!! SON OF A F*%#@!^ BI*#H!!! and more words along those lines. Thankfully I was the only person there at the time, no mothers with their small children. Blood was spurting out wildly; there was blood on the walls, door, computer, ceiling, and lots on the floor. In fact there was so much on the floor, one of those big industrial mops had to be used to mop it all up.
Anyways, I can't get my poor thumb to stop gushing blood so I ran outside, grabbed some Yarrow, crushed it up and placed in on the gash on my thumb. Within minutes the bleeding slowed to a trickle, then stopped. I quickly glued my thumb back together with super glue and tied a splint on my thumb.
So I get some dried Yarrow herb and some Yarrow tincture and start using them, hoping that would stop the bleeding, wherever it was. I began to feel much better, my next CBC test showed no drop in my hemoglobin so great! 9.7 is nothing compared to 3.9. I knew I could live with that.
But then on Sunday night of March 23, 2008, I got violently sick to my stomach. I had gone out to eat Sunday afternoon and thought the sandwich I had gave me a touch of food poisoning. I heaved and hurled and moaned for way too long that night, once again. I valiantly got up the next morning to go to work, but was only able to see one patient. I could barely stand up. I called my boss to tell her there was no way I could work. I felt better the next day, but it took a few days to feel 'normal' again. I swore never to eat at that restaurant again!
Exactly two weeks later, on April 7th, I am violently sick again, only worse. I thought I was in purgatory. I missed two days of work and felt awful the entire week. Now I'm beginning to feel uneasy but I forge ahead. If I don't, the world may end, you know.
Two weeks after that episode, on April 22nd, I'm feeling rather crappy so I go in to see my family doctor for a CBC. He calls me two days later to tell me my hemoglobin is down to 7.6. Well, shit. That's a bit close to critical. So I go back to the hematologist the following Monday, and tell him about my dates with the Porcelain Goddess. I was sure I had an ulcer for my many years of taking handfuls of NSAIDS for fibromyalgia. He orders me to get the two iron infusions I had blown off last month, and this time I agree. I agree to swallow the hose and get an upper endoscopy to see if there was indeed a bleeding ulcer in my stomach. I also take home a fecal blood test, as I confessed to seeing dark areas on my stool. A fecal test done in January was negative (maybe because I ran out of blood?) but in February was positive, however ER doctor ho-hum said it could be hemorrhoids. So I turn in the sample and get the transfusions and get the upper gi done on May 16th.Found out my stool tested positive for blood and my stomach had no ulcers. I once again went in to discuss all this with my hematologist.
And 'just in case' I look into having my body donated to science in case I dropped dead. Doing that is cheaper than a funeral.
By now I was getting a bad feeling...and those dreams I had didn't help any...
Being interested in herbs, I began thinking what herbs could help my body heal? I remember using Yarrow on a vicious cut on my thumb a few years ago. One day at work (when I worked at a Nature Center) I was fancying myself to be a flintknapper and was knapping a piece of Obsidian (not called volcanic glass for nothing, let me tell you) and my presser flaker slipped and OOWWWW!!!! SON OF A F*%#@!^ BI*#H!!! and more words along those lines. Thankfully I was the only person there at the time, no mothers with their small children. Blood was spurting out wildly; there was blood on the walls, door, computer, ceiling, and lots on the floor. In fact there was so much on the floor, one of those big industrial mops had to be used to mop it all up.
Anyways, I can't get my poor thumb to stop gushing blood so I ran outside, grabbed some Yarrow, crushed it up and placed in on the gash on my thumb. Within minutes the bleeding slowed to a trickle, then stopped. I quickly glued my thumb back together with super glue and tied a splint on my thumb.
So I get some dried Yarrow herb and some Yarrow tincture and start using them, hoping that would stop the bleeding, wherever it was. I began to feel much better, my next CBC test showed no drop in my hemoglobin so great! 9.7 is nothing compared to 3.9. I knew I could live with that.
But then on Sunday night of March 23, 2008, I got violently sick to my stomach. I had gone out to eat Sunday afternoon and thought the sandwich I had gave me a touch of food poisoning. I heaved and hurled and moaned for way too long that night, once again. I valiantly got up the next morning to go to work, but was only able to see one patient. I could barely stand up. I called my boss to tell her there was no way I could work. I felt better the next day, but it took a few days to feel 'normal' again. I swore never to eat at that restaurant again!
Exactly two weeks later, on April 7th, I am violently sick again, only worse. I thought I was in purgatory. I missed two days of work and felt awful the entire week. Now I'm beginning to feel uneasy but I forge ahead. If I don't, the world may end, you know.
Two weeks after that episode, on April 22nd, I'm feeling rather crappy so I go in to see my family doctor for a CBC. He calls me two days later to tell me my hemoglobin is down to 7.6. Well, shit. That's a bit close to critical. So I go back to the hematologist the following Monday, and tell him about my dates with the Porcelain Goddess. I was sure I had an ulcer for my many years of taking handfuls of NSAIDS for fibromyalgia. He orders me to get the two iron infusions I had blown off last month, and this time I agree. I agree to swallow the hose and get an upper endoscopy to see if there was indeed a bleeding ulcer in my stomach. I also take home a fecal blood test, as I confessed to seeing dark areas on my stool. A fecal test done in January was negative (maybe because I ran out of blood?) but in February was positive, however ER doctor ho-hum said it could be hemorrhoids. So I turn in the sample and get the transfusions and get the upper gi done on May 16th.Found out my stool tested positive for blood and my stomach had no ulcers. I once again went in to discuss all this with my hematologist.
And 'just in case' I look into having my body donated to science in case I dropped dead. Doing that is cheaper than a funeral.
By now I was getting a bad feeling...and those dreams I had didn't help any...
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...And The Dance Continues...
Thing is, I have no idea what I'm dancing with. My hematologist starts gently nagging me to get a colonoscopy, an idea I loath. Getting a garden hose shoved up my ass is NOT on my list of things I can't wait to do. So naturally I blow him off and go about my business, working like a fiend, ignoring what my body is crying to tell me. So dear old body decided to give me another clue.
Exactly one month after the frantic phone call from my doctor, another sudden crisis. On Friday, February 8th, 2008, I went to bed early (around 8 pm) as I usually do and soon I began to feel a slight burning sensation on my breast bone. It wasn't bad so I ignored it. As the hours pass, it slowly grew worse. The pain traveled down my left side traveled over to my right side and settled there.
Sometime after midnight I start to vomit dark green goo. Then I start to dry heave. Violently. I'm screaming in agony, begging and pleading the Universe to make this stop, do anything to just make this horrendous pain disappear before I dry heave up all my innards, make me disappear. I cannot even climb to my feet due to the insidious pain in my right side.
Sometime after 2am I finally crawl to my daughter's closed bedroom door and claw it open. She immediately wakes up and shouts 'mom, what's wrong??' I am unable to answer, I can only lie there with my face contorted in pain. She takes one look at me and dashed to the phone and calls 911 for an ambulance. I crawl to the living room, moaning, wondering what the hell is going on with me. Thankfully I had stopped heaving my guts out and my ribs no longer feel broken. Of course that made me think that I was now fine, and I'll just send the paramedics home, thanks anyways.
The First Response guy soon arrives and he is very kind. Since I'm no longer tossing my cookies, I'm thinking I'm getting better and I don't really need to go anywhere but back to bed; I had a long day at work coming up. But then the ambulance arrives and upon hearing my brilliant idea, that guy quickly and firmly changes my mind; I could tell he would not take no for an answer, dammit. I am soon loaded onto a stretcher. On my way out the door, I reach up and start grabbing stuff; my purse, house keys, work phone (a walkie talkie) and a few other things. The man in charge is not amused; he didn't like pausing for stubborn patients who are not taking the situation very seriously. He comments dryly that I need to keep my hands inside the stretcher. I'm thinking, 'yeah, in a minute, I need one more thing.' Finally they manage to get me in the ambulance. More tall talking to let me allow him to stick me with an IV. I had enough of them suckers last month, and now here's another one. Great.
Unfortunately ER Nurse Bitch was working that night along with Dr. Ho Hum. More blood taken. Dr. Ho Hum orders a CT scan and informs me, obviously bored stiff, if it comes back clear he's sending me home with some pain pills. I'm thinking he doesn't give a rat's ass one way or the other; he shows no concern or compassion for my agony, and neither does Nurse Bitch. She acted a bit sadistic and like she didn't believe I was in as much pain as I was. I contemplate violence but settled on getting bitchy right back at her. We got snotty with each other. It made me feel better to get snotty right back at her.
So I'm alone with Nurse Bitch and am told to take my shoes and pants off. I'm still writhing in pain and crying trying to reach my shoes to untie and she just stands there watching me. Seriously, I'm convinced she believed I was faking it all; like I can't think of a cheaper way to get shot up with narcotics besides a fake trip to the ER.
Finally she bothered herself long enough to untie one of my shoes. The rest, I was on my own. We get snotty with each other again and she said she needed to briefly stick a catheter up me for a urine sample. I'm thinking if she hurts me I'm gonna bitch slap her into the next examining room. I get pretty cranky when I feel like my insides are exploding and no one seems to care or believe me.
Getting the scan done was pure hell. I had to lie flat on my back which was excruciating enough, but then I had to periodically hold my breath. Luckily I didn't have to wait long for the results.
Not only had my hemoglobin dropped from 10.2 from last months blood transfusion to 9.3, my appendix was also inflamed and about to explode. I needed surgery. Damn! At least Nurse Bitch was a bit nicer to me. I guess patients need to prove themselves to be genuinely sick and in pain before she acts like a human who cares. A bit. Dr. Ho Hum, on the other hand, was still Dr. Ho Hum.
The surgery was done with a laparoscope. Now I'm really freaking out. I was almost hyperventilating from fear. Someone slipped some ativan in my IV but he might as well have given me sugar water; did nothing for me. I have a terror of waking up during surgery; I know how to read, I've read about stuff like that! No amount of explaining made me feel better and getting through how the procedure was going to be done took an extra long time due to my constant interrupting with questions, and 'you're gonna WHAT to me?? I don't think so!' But it did get done, without a hitch I might add, and I was able to go home the next day, Saturday February 9th. I was off work for two weeks this time.
Surely, I naively think, nothing more can happen...right?
I conveniently forgot about my dropping hemoglobin levels...
Exactly one month after the frantic phone call from my doctor, another sudden crisis. On Friday, February 8th, 2008, I went to bed early (around 8 pm) as I usually do and soon I began to feel a slight burning sensation on my breast bone. It wasn't bad so I ignored it. As the hours pass, it slowly grew worse. The pain traveled down my left side traveled over to my right side and settled there.
Sometime after midnight I start to vomit dark green goo. Then I start to dry heave. Violently. I'm screaming in agony, begging and pleading the Universe to make this stop, do anything to just make this horrendous pain disappear before I dry heave up all my innards, make me disappear. I cannot even climb to my feet due to the insidious pain in my right side.
Sometime after 2am I finally crawl to my daughter's closed bedroom door and claw it open. She immediately wakes up and shouts 'mom, what's wrong??' I am unable to answer, I can only lie there with my face contorted in pain. She takes one look at me and dashed to the phone and calls 911 for an ambulance. I crawl to the living room, moaning, wondering what the hell is going on with me. Thankfully I had stopped heaving my guts out and my ribs no longer feel broken. Of course that made me think that I was now fine, and I'll just send the paramedics home, thanks anyways.
The First Response guy soon arrives and he is very kind. Since I'm no longer tossing my cookies, I'm thinking I'm getting better and I don't really need to go anywhere but back to bed; I had a long day at work coming up. But then the ambulance arrives and upon hearing my brilliant idea, that guy quickly and firmly changes my mind; I could tell he would not take no for an answer, dammit. I am soon loaded onto a stretcher. On my way out the door, I reach up and start grabbing stuff; my purse, house keys, work phone (a walkie talkie) and a few other things. The man in charge is not amused; he didn't like pausing for stubborn patients who are not taking the situation very seriously. He comments dryly that I need to keep my hands inside the stretcher. I'm thinking, 'yeah, in a minute, I need one more thing.' Finally they manage to get me in the ambulance. More tall talking to let me allow him to stick me with an IV. I had enough of them suckers last month, and now here's another one. Great.
Unfortunately ER Nurse Bitch was working that night along with Dr. Ho Hum. More blood taken. Dr. Ho Hum orders a CT scan and informs me, obviously bored stiff, if it comes back clear he's sending me home with some pain pills. I'm thinking he doesn't give a rat's ass one way or the other; he shows no concern or compassion for my agony, and neither does Nurse Bitch. She acted a bit sadistic and like she didn't believe I was in as much pain as I was. I contemplate violence but settled on getting bitchy right back at her. We got snotty with each other. It made me feel better to get snotty right back at her.
So I'm alone with Nurse Bitch and am told to take my shoes and pants off. I'm still writhing in pain and crying trying to reach my shoes to untie and she just stands there watching me. Seriously, I'm convinced she believed I was faking it all; like I can't think of a cheaper way to get shot up with narcotics besides a fake trip to the ER.
Finally she bothered herself long enough to untie one of my shoes. The rest, I was on my own. We get snotty with each other again and she said she needed to briefly stick a catheter up me for a urine sample. I'm thinking if she hurts me I'm gonna bitch slap her into the next examining room. I get pretty cranky when I feel like my insides are exploding and no one seems to care or believe me.
Getting the scan done was pure hell. I had to lie flat on my back which was excruciating enough, but then I had to periodically hold my breath. Luckily I didn't have to wait long for the results.
Not only had my hemoglobin dropped from 10.2 from last months blood transfusion to 9.3, my appendix was also inflamed and about to explode. I needed surgery. Damn! At least Nurse Bitch was a bit nicer to me. I guess patients need to prove themselves to be genuinely sick and in pain before she acts like a human who cares. A bit. Dr. Ho Hum, on the other hand, was still Dr. Ho Hum.
The surgery was done with a laparoscope. Now I'm really freaking out. I was almost hyperventilating from fear. Someone slipped some ativan in my IV but he might as well have given me sugar water; did nothing for me. I have a terror of waking up during surgery; I know how to read, I've read about stuff like that! No amount of explaining made me feel better and getting through how the procedure was going to be done took an extra long time due to my constant interrupting with questions, and 'you're gonna WHAT to me?? I don't think so!' But it did get done, without a hitch I might add, and I was able to go home the next day, Saturday February 9th. I was off work for two weeks this time.
Surely, I naively think, nothing more can happen...right?
I conveniently forgot about my dropping hemoglobin levels...
Dancing With Cancer Memoirs...When The Dance Began
Oh I don't know when it began, I really wasn't paying any attention to myself, too busy. I was officially diagnosed with stage 3c colon cancer on May 22nd, 2008. But I had not been feeling good for many months.
Towards the end of 2007, I was seriously not feeling well. I was having weakness, heart palpitations, shortness of breath, fatigue, pale, racing heart that reached beats up to 140/bpm with any activity, like getting up from a chair, major irritability, horrible insomnia, constipation, paper thin nails, light periods, dizziness, extreme shortness of breath, bad headaches, porcelain white skin, and I blamed it on stress, as did many other people.
At the beginning of 2008 I was thinking I might have some sort of heart problem, but of course I didn't have time to go to the doctor. I am a single parent who works as a CNA for SouthernCare Hospice, and I thought I was probably overacting. Overtime for us means sitting with a patient who is actively dying, and that can mean around the clock, and I had to be ready for that, regardless of how I felt.
I got so bad that my heart would pound at a rate of 140 bpm while doing patient care. During my showers at home I had to sit on the floor of the bathtub and then sit on the toilet to dry myself off. I often told my patients if I collapsed on the floor to pull the call button string right away and hope a CNA or nurse came in quickly. But I just didn't have time to go to the doctor's office. I had too much responsibility, too many bills to pay, a daughter to raise, pets to feed, patients to take care of, a house to maintain...
But on January 8th, 2008, during a staff meeting, I was feeling just extra wretched and bitchy. People kept glancing at me, a couple were outright staring. I found out later that an LPN and a Social Worker were passing notes back and forth discussing how I looked. I glared back and tried ignoring them and to stay conscience. I had finally made an appointment with my family physic an for that Friday, but deep down I was wondering if I would last that long. In the unconscious part of my mind, I knew I could very possibly drop dead but I thought I was over-reacting and was determine to keep working; I was just gonna power through it like I did everything else in my life.
After the meeting, my boss, April, ordered me to get in to see the doctor THAT DAY (which saved my life; I would have been dead by the end of the week). We share the same family physician and she knew he would get me in. I was told my color was looking pasty, whitish, yellowish; sounded like my liver was struggling a bit. I begrudgingly made an appointment for 3:20 that afternoon. I then went with a friend and fellow CNA to go take care of a patient, a friend who thought I was looking and feeling so awful due to stress and medication I had taken for a migraine. And I WAS stressed and had been for a very long time, mostly about finances and severe burn-out from life. Many people (including nurses, we are horrible at self-care) told me I was too stressed out and that was what was making me have so many odd symptoms. Deep down, at this point, I knew she and everyone else was wrong.
My doctor ordered a CBC (complete blood count) and said he would contact me when the results came back in two or three days if anything was wrong. Well, he called me at 11:30 pm THAT NIGHT, sounding absolutely frantic; I could barely understand what he was saying, stuff like 'get to the hospital' and 'your hemoglobin is 3.9' and 'you need a blood transfusion right away' and THIS IS REALLY UGLY CINDY, THIS IS REALLY REALLY UGLY!' over and over. Of course I said I'd wait until the morning to go to the hospital, I can't just up and leave my daughter and pets, I had to make some arrangements, I had to call my boss... Knowing me the way he does (he's been my family doctor for over ten years now), he told me to get to his office first thing in the morning. I called April that morning and told her what was going on. She freaked when she heard what my hemoglobin levels were. Then another nurse, Mary, I worked with called, complaining about a shoddy job I did on someones nails, rare for me as I normally took very, very good care of my patients. At least I use to, until I just wasn't able to anymore, but I didn't know why. Three minutes later she calls me back. Apparently she called April, to complain no doubt, who filled her in. She proceeded to threaten to kick my ass when I was healthy enough to come back to work for letting myself get so critical and I knew she met it. I had no doubt most of the nurses there would.
I finally dragged myself and my daughter to his office around 10 am. Candace had some stomach issues (no doubt from the news) so I wanted him to see her before he saw me (of course). During her appointment, I laid down on the examination table and zoned out; she sat in a chair. I hadn't had a good nights sleep for months and I could barely move. My body didn't feel like my own, kinda rubbery and disconnected. He told me he had called the hospital to admit me and told them I was on my way. I have a terror of hospitals and waited until around 2 pm that afternoon before I finally drove myself there.
I was put in ICCU (intermediate critical care unit) with a heart monitor, oxygen tube, and iv's and I was surrounded by nurses scolding me for letting myself get into such a critical state, that I was very lucky to be alive, that I had been in danger of multiple organ failure, and I was almost dead. Once when I got up to go shuffle the five steps to the bathroom, my primary nurse immediately got a phone call from the heart monitoring people saying my heart rate had suddenly jumped up to 135 bpm.
All in all, I received 5 units of blood and a unit of iron. I found out that normal hemoglobin levels for women are between 12-15. Seven is considered critical and a blood transfusion necessary. At five a person is in danger of multiple organ failure. My hemoglobin was 3.9 and I still working a physically demanding job, albeit not very well, as a CNA. Luckily all my patients and staff at my facilities I went to love me so no one called my boss to complain the entire time I was slowly dying.
I'm sure my poor doctor still regales that tale to people (never giving away my identity of course). He says he has never seen a person on their feet, conscious, let alone working, with a hemoglobin that low. I think denial made me strong. It also almost killed me.
My doctor came in to see me and told me not to freak out but he contacted an Oncologist-Hematologist to come see me. He didn't think it was cancer but something caused me to lose almost all of the blood in my body, probably at least 2/3rds of it. The blood doctor was a kindly man and told me to come see him the following week. I was in the hospital for a total of two days and two nights, from January 9th-January 10th, 2008.
It was not to be the last though.
Towards the end of 2007, I was seriously not feeling well. I was having weakness, heart palpitations, shortness of breath, fatigue, pale, racing heart that reached beats up to 140/bpm with any activity, like getting up from a chair, major irritability, horrible insomnia, constipation, paper thin nails, light periods, dizziness, extreme shortness of breath, bad headaches, porcelain white skin, and I blamed it on stress, as did many other people.
At the beginning of 2008 I was thinking I might have some sort of heart problem, but of course I didn't have time to go to the doctor. I am a single parent who works as a CNA for SouthernCare Hospice, and I thought I was probably overacting. Overtime for us means sitting with a patient who is actively dying, and that can mean around the clock, and I had to be ready for that, regardless of how I felt.
I got so bad that my heart would pound at a rate of 140 bpm while doing patient care. During my showers at home I had to sit on the floor of the bathtub and then sit on the toilet to dry myself off. I often told my patients if I collapsed on the floor to pull the call button string right away and hope a CNA or nurse came in quickly. But I just didn't have time to go to the doctor's office. I had too much responsibility, too many bills to pay, a daughter to raise, pets to feed, patients to take care of, a house to maintain...
But on January 8th, 2008, during a staff meeting, I was feeling just extra wretched and bitchy. People kept glancing at me, a couple were outright staring. I found out later that an LPN and a Social Worker were passing notes back and forth discussing how I looked. I glared back and tried ignoring them and to stay conscience. I had finally made an appointment with my family physic an for that Friday, but deep down I was wondering if I would last that long. In the unconscious part of my mind, I knew I could very possibly drop dead but I thought I was over-reacting and was determine to keep working; I was just gonna power through it like I did everything else in my life.
After the meeting, my boss, April, ordered me to get in to see the doctor THAT DAY (which saved my life; I would have been dead by the end of the week). We share the same family physician and she knew he would get me in. I was told my color was looking pasty, whitish, yellowish; sounded like my liver was struggling a bit. I begrudgingly made an appointment for 3:20 that afternoon. I then went with a friend and fellow CNA to go take care of a patient, a friend who thought I was looking and feeling so awful due to stress and medication I had taken for a migraine. And I WAS stressed and had been for a very long time, mostly about finances and severe burn-out from life. Many people (including nurses, we are horrible at self-care) told me I was too stressed out and that was what was making me have so many odd symptoms. Deep down, at this point, I knew she and everyone else was wrong.
My doctor ordered a CBC (complete blood count) and said he would contact me when the results came back in two or three days if anything was wrong. Well, he called me at 11:30 pm THAT NIGHT, sounding absolutely frantic; I could barely understand what he was saying, stuff like 'get to the hospital' and 'your hemoglobin is 3.9' and 'you need a blood transfusion right away' and THIS IS REALLY UGLY CINDY, THIS IS REALLY REALLY UGLY!' over and over. Of course I said I'd wait until the morning to go to the hospital, I can't just up and leave my daughter and pets, I had to make some arrangements, I had to call my boss... Knowing me the way he does (he's been my family doctor for over ten years now), he told me to get to his office first thing in the morning. I called April that morning and told her what was going on. She freaked when she heard what my hemoglobin levels were. Then another nurse, Mary, I worked with called, complaining about a shoddy job I did on someones nails, rare for me as I normally took very, very good care of my patients. At least I use to, until I just wasn't able to anymore, but I didn't know why. Three minutes later she calls me back. Apparently she called April, to complain no doubt, who filled her in. She proceeded to threaten to kick my ass when I was healthy enough to come back to work for letting myself get so critical and I knew she met it. I had no doubt most of the nurses there would.
I finally dragged myself and my daughter to his office around 10 am. Candace had some stomach issues (no doubt from the news) so I wanted him to see her before he saw me (of course). During her appointment, I laid down on the examination table and zoned out; she sat in a chair. I hadn't had a good nights sleep for months and I could barely move. My body didn't feel like my own, kinda rubbery and disconnected. He told me he had called the hospital to admit me and told them I was on my way. I have a terror of hospitals and waited until around 2 pm that afternoon before I finally drove myself there.
I was put in ICCU (intermediate critical care unit) with a heart monitor, oxygen tube, and iv's and I was surrounded by nurses scolding me for letting myself get into such a critical state, that I was very lucky to be alive, that I had been in danger of multiple organ failure, and I was almost dead. Once when I got up to go shuffle the five steps to the bathroom, my primary nurse immediately got a phone call from the heart monitoring people saying my heart rate had suddenly jumped up to 135 bpm.
All in all, I received 5 units of blood and a unit of iron. I found out that normal hemoglobin levels for women are between 12-15. Seven is considered critical and a blood transfusion necessary. At five a person is in danger of multiple organ failure. My hemoglobin was 3.9 and I still working a physically demanding job, albeit not very well, as a CNA. Luckily all my patients and staff at my facilities I went to love me so no one called my boss to complain the entire time I was slowly dying.
I'm sure my poor doctor still regales that tale to people (never giving away my identity of course). He says he has never seen a person on their feet, conscious, let alone working, with a hemoglobin that low. I think denial made me strong. It also almost killed me.
My doctor came in to see me and told me not to freak out but he contacted an Oncologist-Hematologist to come see me. He didn't think it was cancer but something caused me to lose almost all of the blood in my body, probably at least 2/3rds of it. The blood doctor was a kindly man and told me to come see him the following week. I was in the hospital for a total of two days and two nights, from January 9th-January 10th, 2008.
It was not to be the last though.
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