Well, we've had a crazy couple of weeks including longer work hours, illness, and a long Labor Day weekend of travel. All this is just leading up to an excuse as to why I'm late on blog writing...I know, excuses, excuses.
Well, right now it is the last 15 minutes of September 9th, so I am just getting this in under the wire. Five years ago I was having my second major cancer surgery...a hysterectomy. Much more on that in the posts to come, but for now let me try to catch up...
Waking up from surgery is like waking up in the 7th circle of hell. You feel sick. You feel pain. So. much. pain. You can't move. You can't talk. In my case, you can't see. Your body does not feel like it belongs to you. Nothing works. Everything hurts. Your mouth is so dry you feel like you'll never speak again. All in all...it sucks. Unfortunately, your brain is one of the first things that starts working. On August 20th my brain woke up to a whole lot of rib anxiety (along with a little cancer anxiety). Did I still have my rib? Was the pain in my side indicative that they had hacksawed my poor, precious rib off for no good reason? Where was a human who I could beg for water and answers??
I don't know how long I laid there in what they call "recovery." It felt like forever. I remember a nurse coming to my bedside and telling me about a button I could push for pain. I remember concentrating on my fingers to be able to move them so I could push the button. The pain was overwhelming. Once I found the button I felt like it didn't work. I tried calling out for help. I couldn't speak. I was trapped. Thankfully, I started drifting in and out of consciousness. I preferred sleep to my brain ruminating on my rib and on my cancer while my body screamed in pain, so I let myself drift off into nothing.
I woke up later to a good friend looking down on me with concern. He told me that I was out of recovery but that I was in a temporary room and would be moved to my more permanent location shortly. He went into the hall to round up other friends and attempt to find the boyfriend. Eventually, everyone trooped in and asked me how I was and told me I looked great (liars) and told me that the doctor said the surgery went fantastic. No one knew anything about my rib. The boyfriend came in and smiled and held my hand and said the doctor was pleased with how things went. I drifted back off to sleep.
After I was moved to my more permanent location, it felt like I would never sleep again. There was a never ending stream of nurses and aids and social workers and monitor readers/blood takers that came in at all hours of the day and night. I mean, 2am blood draws and 4am blood pressure checks. There was a lot of beeping. I remember frantically asking about my uterine cancer medication. Was it on my med list? When could I take it? I needed to take it; I was going to have a baby! They finally obliged me (after much paperwork and inter-office communication) and I was able to resume taking it daily. I was pleased that I had not been bleeding in the hours after my surgery. I figured that this meant the medication was working.
One of the greatest blessings in my life is the absolutely wonderful support system I have, filled with the most fantastic people. I was not alone in that hospital bed...I had a steady stream of friends and loved ones who came to visit me. The nurses even commented on how many different people came to visit and spend time hanging out with the potentially ribless girl. At any given point during the day, I had a group of people hanging out on the chairs and sofa in my room, laughing and talking and just generally cheering me up. That was why it was so odd that I was completely alone when Dr. D. came to speak to me.
It was the first full day after my surgery. I was in pain, but I was starting to move around a bit. Walking was on the agenda. I had learned that I had a drain in my wound that kept excess fluids and blood at bay. It was a pain in the side. I felt like I was finally getting re-hydrated and my brain was nearly fully functional. I had a few very close friends visiting me and the boyfriend that day, and the boyfriend had just taken them to the restaurant to get some food. I was all alone for the first time since I entered the hospital. Then Dr. D. walked in.
I remember trying to sit up and smiling at him as he walked in the room. He wasn't alone, he had a woman in a lab coat tailing him. He didn't introduce me to her right away. He looked around the room and said, "I wasn't expecting to find you alone. I've heard you've had quite the visitors lately." I agreed and explained that the latest set of well-wishers were getting food. He asked if I wanted to wait til they were there. I said no. I can't fully explain this little interaction because there was so much that was unsaid. Dr. D.'s face said it all. He didn't smile. He didn't make full eye contact. When he did he looked at me like I had one foot in the grave. I looked at him and I knew. I had lost my battle with cancer. I didn't know how or when or how, but one look at his face told me it was done. Then Dr. D. confirmed my fears. He spoke quietly and slowly. He tried to be gentle. He told me that the surgery went beautifully. My kidney was 95% intact and I would have no long-term kidney effects after the surgery. Then he told me that there were more tumors on my kidney than had originally shown up in the scan. He said that on the scan they found one but he removed 5. Some were super small, but he "took everything [he] could visually locate." Then he looked me dead in the eye and said, "Whatever I took off of your kidney yesterday was not kidney-related. It was not kidney cancer or a benign tumor. I don't know what it was, but it was not kidney cancer. The only explanation is that your uterine cancer has metastasized." Metastasized. Hearing that word was like getting shot. I could feel the freak out making its way out from my insides. Metastasized cancer. Game over. I didn't say anything. I stopped breathing and listened. Dr. D. went on to explain that metastasized uterine cancer was bad. They don't know how to treat it. It doesn't usually manifest itself in this way. He had never heard of a uterine cancer metastasizing to the kidneys but he researched it and found a single case, so it does happen. I looked him in the eye and said "that one case, it didn't end well did it?" Dr. D. looked so sad...I almost felt sorry for him...and he said, "No, it didn't." I asked him if it could be anything else. He said, "I cannot see how it is anything else. It is extremely unlikely, and I have never seen it, that you at your age would have 2 primary cancer diagnoses that are unrelated to each other." He then went on to explain that there was no treatment for metastasized uterine cancer but that I could sign up for a clinical trial to try and extend my life. That is when he introduced me to the doctor standing next to him. I have no idea what her name is...in my defense, my brain had stopped processing new information. Dr. D. told me to listen to her and sign up for the trial. He told me to start walking and that he would keep checking on me. He explained that he looked all around the kidney for more cancer (thus making a longer cut on my body, about 12 inches) but that he couldn't find any. He said he took all the cancer he could see. Then he sort of shook his head and made some awkward small talk and then he was gone.
I felt muffled. Muted. The otherness was strong. I looked at Dr. Nameless and she started clinically stating a bunch of horrible facts. I was considered terminal. I had a 20% chance of living for 5 years. There was no cure. There was no treatment to extend life. She handed me an informed consent document that was at least 50 pages long. It was like a book. She went over it with me in a clipped, clinical fashion. She explained that this was chemotherapy and that it was completely experimental. It would not cure my metastasized uterine cancer but it may extend my life. It was so new they could not predict how much of an extension I would get. On and on. No smiles, no warmth, just business. As Dr. Nameless and her horrible clinical facts crashed down on me I could feel the otherness and the freak out and the funk all vying for control. As my mind separated, I could see the path to me losing it and I made a decision. Not today. I was dying, fine. But not today. Today I was going to live to see tomorrow. And I had no idea what tomorrow would bring. Probably nothing good...I mean come on, let's face it, my track record was truly sucking...but still, I didn't know. So, as Dr. Nameless rambled on (think Charlie Brown's teacher at this point), I decided that I was not going to freak out until I had the official results of the biopsy of whatever in the hell Dr. D. removed from my kidney. He had acknowledged that, to be sure, we needed the biopsy. So, I was just going to stubbornly wait for it. I didn't know how, but I had this small sense of hope that this could still work out. I could still live beyond cancer. In that moment, the otherness and the freak out and the funk all dissipated. They were there, just below the surface, but I was in control.
I also decided not to tell anyone. So, after Dr. Nameless left without a smile, I hid my informed consent tome and got back into bed and concentrated on remembering to breathe. My friends and the boyfriend came in a few minutes after Dr. Nameless left and I knew my secret was safe. They hadn't seen her. They hadn't seen Dr. D. They had no idea I had just been given terminal news.
I'd even forgotten to ask about my rib.
And that, Little Bear, is the story of when I woke up.
Til next time...Always and Every After.
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