Doctors Do the Happy Dance, Too

Tomorrow makes two weeks from surgery. 

I'm happy. I'm healthy. I'm not hurting too badly, :) and my stitches are dissolving as I type.

I met with my surgeon again today. He took a look at the new scars, trimmed a long stitch that was poking out, and then told me that I'd really scared him two weeks ago when I'd pointed out the new lumps. He really thought that my cancer had returned. But he removed both lumps, sent them in with all the excess fluid, and did the happy dance when all three results came back benign.

I was talking with a friend over lunch today about this whole cancer journey I've been on. Yes, there have been some deep downs, but there have been ups to. And I think some of the best ups have been the nurses and doctors who've walked alongside me. Like Cheryl -- the oncological nurse who gave me my first and last chemos, and most of the ones in between. She was my nurse the night I had an allergic reaction to taxol. I had just sat up straight in my chair, realizing I suddenly couldn't breath -- when she was suddenly by my side with oxygen and benadryl. I had a nasty cough for the rest of the evening. But I was fine. Because of Cheryl. Because of my medical oncologist. Because of my surgeon -- who's just as happy as I am when the results come back negative.

Today, he drew a blue circle around a bright red patch of skin and told me to call if the red escaped out of the blue circle. I'm on a new antibiotic (no throwing up yet!) and continuing to relax. I'm in good hands.

My God has every single detail accounted for...

My Valentine

My world got very small last week. It was just me in my chair.

I couldn’t move without pain, or watch TV or read books without inducing the Great Nausea. I couldn't comprehend the letters on the page clearly enough to write. I sent the occasional text message on my phone in an attempt to stay connected with somebody, somewhere; but even glancing at my iPod sent my head spinning and my stomach rolling.

I tried to pray – to use all this extra time to visit with my Abba – but each time I began, midsentence, mid-word, I’d discover that my mind had wandered up another spiral staircase in a different direction.

Finally, in desperation, I squinted into the bright light of my iPod and set Pandora radio to my “This is the stuff” station. I turned the volume way down low, and set the iPod on the chairback near my head. I leaned back and closed my eyes. 

And Abba came to me.

When I couldn’t talk to Him, my Abba talked to me. When I felt most alone, He carried me and cradled me. When I slide into those scary dark noisy MRI tubes, or get wheeled down those brightly lit white hallways into the OR, He’s in there waiting for me. He holds my family together and cares for them tenderly while I’m curled up in my chair just trying to survive the day. He’s always been there and He always will be... 

He is Hope.

He is All that is Faithful.

He is Love.

Abba, will You be my Valentine?

Four days post-op

The surgery went well.

      My friend came over bright and early on Thursday morning and brought me to the hospital where my grandmother and I were born. There was almost no wait and before I could have second thoughts I was in a ripped Johnny under a cold blanket (they did bring me a heated blanket later).

     My doctor stopped by with his blue marker and we discussed what he would do. He drew lines and circles and I showed him my two newest lumps. He said he’d remove one while he was playing with the implant and recommended a later needle biopsy of the other. Then he asked who my surgeon was. I explained. I used to have Julie Jones. She’s the one who removed my breasts and saved my life. But she moved. So I switched to another surgeon at Dana Farbor, who performed one biopsy (benign!!) on me before he also moved. Then I switched to a more local surgeon in Worcester. She and I met once to chat, but she moved before she had a chance to give me any new scars. I never got around to replacing her.

    After a bit of thought and some discussion, my plastic surgeon decided he’d just cut another incision and pull out the lump himself (By the way: If you ever have a choice between an oncological surgeon and a plastic surgeon, the plastic surgeon leaves prettier scars). 

    The nurse got a working iv on the first try, and suddenly I was getting the goofy juice. I don’t even remember being rolled into surgery this time.

     I woke up slowly as usual, but was kind of rushed out of the hospital this time around. No juice and muffin for me. I had a drain – he’d found a lot of fluid when he opened me up – a green bottle of Oxycodone, and another one of Bactrim (these pills were the size of my middle toe!).  I was exhaustedly miserable, but I knew I’d feel all better if I could just make it home to my chair. Which I did. 

             

   I was fully prepared to follow all of the rules this time. I want this surgery to be a success. No bending. No lifting. No stooping. I wouldn’t go sledding or even ride my exercise bike. No long drives with my standard transmission. I wasn’t even going back to work for two weeks. 

     I got home, sat down in my chair, and watched tv most of the night, preparing to wait out the worst of it. But then, somewhere on Friday I began to feel very sick. I lost count of how many times I broke the doctor’s orders by bending and stooping over that bucket. I stretched out every new stitch, and I’m amazed that the drain is still in place. I stopped taking the oxycodone on Friday and the Bactrim on Saturday. The doctor on call decided it was a reaction to the Bactrim. By Sunday I began to feel human again…

   Today I’m contemplating a short car ride, or maybe a leisurely walk? There’s no snow so sledding is out, but I could use a couple of things from Walmart. There surely must be something to do somewhere.

                

     Only 13 more days til I can go back to work…

               

In which I compare reading my Bible to taking a dose of Benadryl

“Excitability may occur, especially in children.”

That’s what it says on my bottle of Benadryl, right in the middle of the label between the side effects and the dosage information. I am well aware that with the majority of the human population, two little pink benadryls can knock you out. But they wind me up.

We first discovered this while I was on chemo. 

Before taking Taxol for the first time, the nurses give you a huge dose of Benadryl  to prevent your body from fighting off the Taxol. Cheryl, my favorite chemo nurse, gave me my pills and warned me I’d be quite drowsy. I was to just put up my feet and relax in my comfy padded recliner while she went to get my Taxol.

But when she came back, I wasn’t in my chair. Apparently (I have only very fuzzy recollections of this) I had gone exploring and started up some conversations with the other patients. Now this might not seem all that unusual until you realize that I come from a long line of stay-putters. The most dreaded part of the church service is that eon-long moment when the pastor asks us to get up and greet someone. My head drops down and I begin reading that church bulletin like there’s a final on it at the end of the service… 

Cheryl explained to the other patients that I’d just had my Benadryl, and walked me back to my seat – I think I was talking excitedly the whole way.

Last Tuesday (to completely change the subject) I decided to try a new skin care regimen. I had been diagnosed with a paraben allergy before Wesley was born, but since parabens are in just about everything, I let a couple of products slide through. On Tuesday, I went through my cabinets and drawers and tossed out everything that contained parabens. I began using a new cleanser and new lotion – both proudly paraben-free.

By Saturday, I had a carpet of bumps all across my cheeks, forehead, and neck.

At first I tried denial. I slathered myself in foundation and went on living life as normal. But by Sunday morning the itch was unbearable. I spent some time at CVS getting to know my pharmacist as we read the back of every tube in the anti-itch aisle. And every single one of those tubes contained parabens. There was no other option. It was time for Benadryl.

So I spent the rest of Sunday riding the roller coaster – two little pink pills every four hours. Wide awake and alert. Eager to talk someone’s ear off.  It’s an interesting experience when your brain can’t keep up with your tongue. To suddenly realize you’ve been talking and wonder what you’ve been saying.

I don’t know why medicine often works backwards on me. Decadron – used to treat nausea – makes me throw up. Rash creams give me rashes. And Benadryl which normally makes people sleepy won’t let me sleep. Ever. But then, Benadryl does have that effect on some children. And Jesus loves children.

Maybe this should just be one more reminder of how much my Abba loves me. Of how childlike He wants me to remain – in my unconditional love and my trusting faith.

Ooooh – wouldn’t it be incredible if reading my Bible were like taking a dose of Benadryl? If it made it difficult to sleep because I was so absorbed in it? If it made me so excited that I had to run around and tell everyone what I just read, what I just learned, Who I just met with? If I believed it so truly that I had the unconditional faith of a child and didn’t hesitate to do anything and everything He asked of me without questioning and complaining first? If I actually let it impact my life, instead of just squeezing it into my schedule. If I just put up my feet and leaned back for the ride instead of hiding behind my make-up and living life as normal.

 If I really READ it?

Hey – I’ve got to go. It’s time for my next dose…