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dcnovice -> DC Update: Medical Math (a bit graphic) (5/5/2014 8:41:21 PM)
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Dear Ones ---
Texting with a friend the other night, I mentioned that I was feeling overwhelmed. That ignited one of my least useful recurring thought patterns throughout this whole journey: the fear and even resentment that “they” don’t feel I’m progressing fast enough, doing enough, coping well enough. Who exactly “they” are is a bit hazy, and it’s far from impossible that “they” are really my own impatient self.
In any case, “they” made me feel defensive—no great feat, that—which set me off on some medical math. Since my diagnosis on January 31, 2013, I have . . .
-- had seven hospital stays, in three facilities, one of them several hundred miles from home;
-- undergone two major operations, one for cancer and the other for spinal stenosis in the neck;
-- had three other surgical procedures under general anesthesia;
-- survived 28 radiation treatments, half of them accompanied by oral chemo, which the doc stopped when he feared it was making me dizzy;
-- made it through six 50-hour chemotherapy infusions (a noun that always makes me feel like herbal tea), done through a combination of hospital IV and portable pump;
-- learned how to self-administer IV antibiotics at home, which I did for a fortnight or month (I forget which);
-- emptied my ileostomy bag about a dozen times a day since my cancer-removal surgery last September;
-- replaced the “appliance” (ostomy-speak for bag) two or three times each week;
-- gone through 20 or so packages of Stayfree Maxi Pads, which absorb discharge from my still-lingering post-op rectal infection; and
-- lost count of the MRIs, CT scans, PT sessions, blood draws, and other excitements.
Dear God, no wonder I’m so tired!
The latest of all these adventures was an “other surgical procedure” on April 30. The good folks at Georgetown put me under and then attempted to explore MiMA’s old neighborhood. That proved harder than expected, since I’m still way more inflamed than the surgeon expected and my anus seems to be closing up like a wound. At first, he was barely able to insert a Q-tip, and doing so unleashed a torrent of pus. (God, I’m glad I was asleep!) He then managed to do a digital (in the analog sense) exam.
The plan then called for examining my innards with a scope, but it couldn’t go more than a few inches. The surgeon did manage to collect half a dozen samples to biopsy, and he took a culture of whatever fluid is lurking down there. Unfortunately, I didn’t think to ask if the biopsies are a standard precaution or if something looked amiss. Given the difficulty of scoping me, the doc is arranging for a CT scan before he sees me next, on May 16th. At that point, he’ll hopefully unveil a plan for the road ahead, including the next major operation.
Meantime, I’m trying to return to “normal” life—or as close as I get these days. I’m still incredibly sore, and sitting remains a challenge. I’m also having pain spasms, especially when I lie down and my body finally gets a chance to tell me off for sitting too much. Painkillers made things bearable, but they also cloud my mind a bit.
“Yet through all the Gloom,” as John Adams wrote to Abigail in 1776, “I can see the Rays of ravishing Light and Glory.” Well, maybe not quite glory, but I do see rays of hope in the realization that I am—I think and hope and pray—at last closer to my journey’s end than to its beginning.
Thank you, as always, for journeying with me.
Cheers,
DC
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