From Leanne's mom:
Leanne Kathryn Johnson
Leanne Kathryn Johnson, age 47, passed away on Friday August 24, 2007. Leanne was born and raised in the Wheaton and Carol Stream area, but currently resided in Byron, Illinois. She is survived by her husband Dayton B. Smith II (and their baby, Geronimo); his children Dayton III and Michael Smith, and Shawn Winger; her mother Ann Johnson of Carol Stream, preceded in death by father Lee; her sister Kristy Harkness (Chuck Hurtienne) of Tomahawk, WI, and her nieces and nephew: Shanan, Scott, and Shawnee. Leanne enriched the lives of many through her life’s passion of storytelling, and is also survived by a large family of storytellers. A celebration of her life will be held on Tuesday at Leonard Memorial Home, Ltd., 565 Duane St., Glen Ellyn, memorial visitation 5-8 pm, with the celebration at 7 pm. Leanne’s life and memory can best be captured in her own words and stories on her website: www.storytelling.org/Leanne or www.myspace.com/leannetells. She was currently on the board of Northlands Storytelling Network and donations or a memorial can be sent to:
P.O. Box 1055 McHenry, IL 60051-1055.
sbb
Monday, August 27, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Remembering Leanne - Part 2
"I did the best I could and I had fun at it." These are Leanne's words, and how true they are.
We will be remembering Leanne on Tuesday, August 28, 5 - 8 pm with a service at 7 pm.
We will be remembering Leanne on Tuesday, August 28, 5 - 8 pm with a service at 7 pm.
Leonard Memorial Home
565 Duane
Glen Ellyn, IL 60137
Memorials may be made to
Glen Ellyn, IL 60137
Memorials may be made to
Northlands Storytelling Network
PO Box 1055
McHenry, IL 60051-1055
donna
donna
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Remembering Leanne
Leanne's memorial service will be Tuesday evening, exact time TBA (4 - 7 or 5 - 8 pm).
Leonard Memorial Home
565 Duane
Glen Ellyn, IL 60137
Leanne's wish is for memorials to go to Northlands Storytelling Network, PO Box 1055, McHenry, IL 60051-1055.
If you bring flowers, she asks that you take them home with you.
I am collecting photos of Leanne with her storytelling friends. I would like to show her family how large her storytelling family is. If you have any please email them to me at donnatell@comcast.net.
When I have a confirmed time I post that as well.
Donna
Leonard Memorial Home
565 Duane
Glen Ellyn, IL 60137
Leanne's wish is for memorials to go to Northlands Storytelling Network, PO Box 1055, McHenry, IL 60051-1055.
If you bring flowers, she asks that you take them home with you.
I am collecting photos of Leanne with her storytelling friends. I would like to show her family how large her storytelling family is. If you have any please email them to me at donnatell@comcast.net.
When I have a confirmed time I post that as well.
Donna
Friday, August 24, 2007
With great sorrow
It is with great sorrow that I tell all of you that our dear friend, Leanne, passed away tonight at the University of Wisconsin, Madison, hospital.
She died in great peace with her family surrounding her.
As details for services are revealed, I will share them with you.
I'm so sorry.
sbb
She died in great peace with her family surrounding her.
As details for services are revealed, I will share them with you.
I'm so sorry.
sbb
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Dayton brought Leanne's promotional poster to the hospital and put it at the foot of her bed. She looks beautiful in that poster, and happy. He wants the staff to know his warm, funny, witty wife.
Dayton is also passing out Leanne's bookmark to all of the staff that keeps coming into the room. Leanne would be so proud of him. :)
Geronimo, their dog, is staying in the hotel now too. Dayton goes out to walk him from time to time. When Dayton returns to the hospital from those walks, Leanne can surely smell Geronimo on him.
Leanne's mom had Irish music in the car. Now the room is filled with Leanne's favorite sounds.
These acts of love surround Leanne as we wait -- wait for the miracle that must come.
sbb
Dayton is also passing out Leanne's bookmark to all of the staff that keeps coming into the room. Leanne would be so proud of him. :)
Geronimo, their dog, is staying in the hotel now too. Dayton goes out to walk him from time to time. When Dayton returns to the hospital from those walks, Leanne can surely smell Geronimo on him.
Leanne's mom had Irish music in the car. Now the room is filled with Leanne's favorite sounds.
These acts of love surround Leanne as we wait -- wait for the miracle that must come.
sbb
waiting for a miracle
Thursday, 8/23
If a miracle is going to happen, it needs to happen now.
Leanne has been moved to ICU. Her husband and mother, sister and nieces pray for the chance to love Leanne for years more to come.
If a miracle is going to happen, it needs to happen now.
SBB
If a miracle is going to happen, it needs to happen now.
Leanne has been moved to ICU. Her husband and mother, sister and nieces pray for the chance to love Leanne for years more to come.
If a miracle is going to happen, it needs to happen now.
SBB
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
a message from Leanne
A message from Leanne:
8/22/07
Hi Everyone,
The battle has begun.
On Sunday 8/19, Leanne’s husband decided she could literally survive no more pain, no more waiting for the next doctor’s appointment. Dayton took her to the emergency room of the UW-Madison hospital and told them they would take care of Leanne or take him away in handcuffs. No more waiting, no more being told this was all ‘normal’ and that they should be patient.
Leanne was admitted to the hospital with double pneumonia, a fever, high calcium levels, low oxygen levels, and suddenly everyone was in high gear.
The good news: Leanne and Dayton feel that they are receiving the very best care. Leanne’s primary doctor is the assistant director of the oncology dept.
The worrisome news: The cancer appears not to be confined to the uterus.
So now more tests, more waiting for results, more worry. The battle has begun.
They’ll treat the lungs first – this is very serious. They’d like to do one more test to confirm lung cancer, but for now they are 95% certain that it is in the lungs. They’ll worry about the hysterectomy later. A bone scan late in the afternoon makes the doctors think the cancer has not spread to the bone. They’ll worry about why her calcium levels are so high later.
Yesterday, Leanne’s ‘sistahs’ took a road trip to Madison. We brought Ann, Leanne’s mom, along. Our ‘brother’ Don showed up at the hospital too.
Mother and daughter were able to hug and hold one another. Dayton was able to share this heavy load, even if for only a few hours. In the midst of so much worry and pain we still had some fun. We got to see Leanne smile and joke a bit and talk just a little – which brought new tears, of joy this time, to Dayton.
Leanne is pretty weak, is on an oxygen mask to help keep her levels high. When her levels drop, a machine next to her bed starts beeping, reminding her to breathe.She can talk thru the mask, which makes her happy.
She is on a pain medication that keeps the debilitating bouts of pain from the uterine polyp at bay.
Her spirits are good. She’s thinking of all of you and wanted me to keep you up to date. I’ll post to the blog from time to time to keep you informed.
No one has said how long she’ll be in the hospital.
There’s a lot of love and hope in her room. The doctors have stressed the seriousness, but have rolled up their sleeves to fight this. Dayton is her constant guardian; he has made his presence known in the hospital and will hold folks accountable from now on. Ann joins him, bringing a mother’s love and care to her bedside.
What can you do?
If you pray, continue to do that – you can even step it up a notch.
If you send healing wishes Leanne’s way, continue to do that – you can even step it up a notch.
Continue to send emails, cards, letters – Leanne won’t answer right away, but Dayton will make sure she is getting your messages. Hearing from all of you is so good for her spirits.
When she gets home, we’ll worry about making sure she and Dayton are well fed.
Leanne does not want any plants sent to her – she says she doesn’t want a single reminder of this when she is well.
If you’re inclined, fresh flowers make her happy although right now there is a large bouquet of red roses from Dayton on the bedside table and that is all there is room for.
News this morning: Leanne is being moved to ICU. Her oxygen levels keep dropping. If they can’t get them up soon, they’ll have to tube her and she’ll be unable to talk for a bit of time.
Pray faster, everyone
Sue
8/22/07
Hi Everyone,
The battle has begun.
On Sunday 8/19, Leanne’s husband decided she could literally survive no more pain, no more waiting for the next doctor’s appointment. Dayton took her to the emergency room of the UW-Madison hospital and told them they would take care of Leanne or take him away in handcuffs. No more waiting, no more being told this was all ‘normal’ and that they should be patient.
Leanne was admitted to the hospital with double pneumonia, a fever, high calcium levels, low oxygen levels, and suddenly everyone was in high gear.
The good news: Leanne and Dayton feel that they are receiving the very best care. Leanne’s primary doctor is the assistant director of the oncology dept.
The worrisome news: The cancer appears not to be confined to the uterus.
So now more tests, more waiting for results, more worry. The battle has begun.
They’ll treat the lungs first – this is very serious. They’d like to do one more test to confirm lung cancer, but for now they are 95% certain that it is in the lungs. They’ll worry about the hysterectomy later. A bone scan late in the afternoon makes the doctors think the cancer has not spread to the bone. They’ll worry about why her calcium levels are so high later.
Yesterday, Leanne’s ‘sistahs’ took a road trip to Madison. We brought Ann, Leanne’s mom, along. Our ‘brother’ Don showed up at the hospital too.
Mother and daughter were able to hug and hold one another. Dayton was able to share this heavy load, even if for only a few hours. In the midst of so much worry and pain we still had some fun. We got to see Leanne smile and joke a bit and talk just a little – which brought new tears, of joy this time, to Dayton.
Leanne is pretty weak, is on an oxygen mask to help keep her levels high. When her levels drop, a machine next to her bed starts beeping, reminding her to breathe.She can talk thru the mask, which makes her happy.
She is on a pain medication that keeps the debilitating bouts of pain from the uterine polyp at bay.
Her spirits are good. She’s thinking of all of you and wanted me to keep you up to date. I’ll post to the blog from time to time to keep you informed.
No one has said how long she’ll be in the hospital.
There’s a lot of love and hope in her room. The doctors have stressed the seriousness, but have rolled up their sleeves to fight this. Dayton is her constant guardian; he has made his presence known in the hospital and will hold folks accountable from now on. Ann joins him, bringing a mother’s love and care to her bedside.
What can you do?
If you pray, continue to do that – you can even step it up a notch.
If you send healing wishes Leanne’s way, continue to do that – you can even step it up a notch.
Continue to send emails, cards, letters – Leanne won’t answer right away, but Dayton will make sure she is getting your messages. Hearing from all of you is so good for her spirits.
When she gets home, we’ll worry about making sure she and Dayton are well fed.
Leanne does not want any plants sent to her – she says she doesn’t want a single reminder of this when she is well.
If you’re inclined, fresh flowers make her happy although right now there is a large bouquet of red roses from Dayton on the bedside table and that is all there is room for.
News this morning: Leanne is being moved to ICU. Her oxygen levels keep dropping. If they can’t get them up soon, they’ll have to tube her and she’ll be unable to talk for a bit of time.
Pray faster, everyone
Sue
Friday, August 17, 2007
Friday Meltdown
Friday, August 16: It's 7 pm and I'm finally up. Very bad day. Bad cramp in the morning, slept two hours, took Geronimo out, was in severe pain trying to walk him, back to bed. Slept most of the afternoon, when I wasn't sleeping, I was sobbing. Not a good positive attitude day. I'm going to have some soup, and I'm going back to bed. I think it's worse, having enjoyed some relatively good days this week.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Catching Up On The Week
Monday-Wednesday, August 13-15: No cramps on Monday. I take a long nap with Geronimo in the afternoon, but that's becoming normal. I feel so good, I know that I can make it to my dentist appointment on Tuesday.
Nope. Tuesday morning Dayton finds me showered, dressed, and sitting on the toilet seat. "What's wrong?" he asks, and I whisper, "I'm just so tired." He helps me up, I call the dentist and explain my situation. They are so nice about it, tell me to focus on getting well and give them a call when I'm ready to come back. Usually they charge a fee if you have a same-day cancellation. I really wanted to get my broken tooth fixed, but it is going to have to wait. I hope it doesn't start hurting during my recovery from surgery!
I'm depressed, I wanted to do something normal like going to the dentist. Still, I'm happy - I'm tired, but no cramps. I'm coughing like crazy, and trying not to talk - it makes me cough even more. The pup and I spend more quality time in bed. I feel better lying down, there is a heaviness in my groin these days.
Wednesday is a great day! I have a burst of energy! I actually slept well last night! Only woke up every 4 hours to take my pills, didn't have to run to the bathroom every hour. Dayton has gone back to Dubuque for business, so I spend most of the day in the office, catching up on correspondence, trying to clear off my desk, etc. I spend time on the phone and the coughing is way down. I think about vacuming - but I'm not that energetic. I go to the grocery store late in the afternoon, and stock up on foods that I like to eat.
Things fall apart in the evening. I'm so tired after my grocery trip that I don't fix food right away. All of a sudden it's 8:00 pm, and it's time for my next dose of medicine, and I haven't eaten, and I have to go the bathroom and a nasty cramp hits afterwards and then turns into a major backache. When I can get up again, I ditch my plans for a good supper, open a can of Ravioli, throw together a quick salad, and eat. It doesn't taste good, it's not filling my food needs, but it's the best I can do. By the time I'm done eating, the backache is mostly gone. I take the pup out for last call (had to wake him up for it, it's way past his bedtime), and we collapse into bed.
Again, I sleep well.
Nope. Tuesday morning Dayton finds me showered, dressed, and sitting on the toilet seat. "What's wrong?" he asks, and I whisper, "I'm just so tired." He helps me up, I call the dentist and explain my situation. They are so nice about it, tell me to focus on getting well and give them a call when I'm ready to come back. Usually they charge a fee if you have a same-day cancellation. I really wanted to get my broken tooth fixed, but it is going to have to wait. I hope it doesn't start hurting during my recovery from surgery!
I'm depressed, I wanted to do something normal like going to the dentist. Still, I'm happy - I'm tired, but no cramps. I'm coughing like crazy, and trying not to talk - it makes me cough even more. The pup and I spend more quality time in bed. I feel better lying down, there is a heaviness in my groin these days.
Wednesday is a great day! I have a burst of energy! I actually slept well last night! Only woke up every 4 hours to take my pills, didn't have to run to the bathroom every hour. Dayton has gone back to Dubuque for business, so I spend most of the day in the office, catching up on correspondence, trying to clear off my desk, etc. I spend time on the phone and the coughing is way down. I think about vacuming - but I'm not that energetic. I go to the grocery store late in the afternoon, and stock up on foods that I like to eat.
Things fall apart in the evening. I'm so tired after my grocery trip that I don't fix food right away. All of a sudden it's 8:00 pm, and it's time for my next dose of medicine, and I haven't eaten, and I have to go the bathroom and a nasty cramp hits afterwards and then turns into a major backache. When I can get up again, I ditch my plans for a good supper, open a can of Ravioli, throw together a quick salad, and eat. It doesn't taste good, it's not filling my food needs, but it's the best I can do. By the time I'm done eating, the backache is mostly gone. I take the pup out for last call (had to wake him up for it, it's way past his bedtime), and we collapse into bed.
Again, I sleep well.
Sleepy Sunday
Sunday, August 12: It's a no cramp day! Hooray! We go upriver to Midtown Marina for breakfast. They have outside tables where people can bring their dogs, so all three of us enjoy brunch.
Back in the marina, I sleep most of the afternoon. So does the pup. I'm exhausted. It's sandwiches for supper. Dayton's not happy - he likes a cooked dinner - but it's all I can manage. And back to bed early again.
Back in the marina, I sleep most of the afternoon. So does the pup. I'm exhausted. It's sandwiches for supper. Dayton's not happy - he likes a cooked dinner - but it's all I can manage. And back to bed early again.
Another Hot Weekend
Saturday, August 11: I want to go the Farmers Market first thing. I'm craving fresh tomatoes. But as I'm brushing my teeth, I start gagging, and next thing I know, I'm vomiting into the sink. Then the cramp hits again.
So much for an early start.
I get out about 11, too late for the Farmers Market - not that I have the energy for it now. We're having company this afternoon, so I get the necessary groceries and not much more.
The people are very nice. It's a guy Dayton knows from business, and the man's wife, and another couple, and their grandparents, and four extremely well behaved children. We all have fun swimming and floating and playing with Geronimo. I'm feeling pretty good, confident that I'll get through this just fine.
Nope. About 5:00, as I'm talking with Eleanor (the grandmother), the cramp begins to build again. I try to hold it back, I try to change positions, but finally I have to excuse myself. "I'm so sorry, would you excuse me, I get these cramps every now and then, I just have to go lay down for a couple minutes."
While I'm in the cabin Dayton tells them about the cancer. By the time I come back out, only 10 minutes later, they are all solicitous. "Oh, we shouldn't have bothered you." "Nonsense," I try to tell them, "I've so enjoyed this afternoon and it helps take my mind off things!"
The good thing is that when we start putting dinner together, they don't let me do much. Everybody chips in, all I do is slice up an onion for hamburgers. Our friend Patrick from down the dock brings over his big steamer for the sweet corn, so I don't even have to do that. AND they help clean up, too.
So it ends up a nice day after all. They leave about 7:30, and as soon as we wave goodbye, I tell Patrick, "You're welcome to stay and hang out with Dayton as long as you want, but I really need to go lie down." Geronimo and I crawl into the cool cabin, and stretch out on the sofa until it's time to get up and go to bed.
So much for an early start.
I get out about 11, too late for the Farmers Market - not that I have the energy for it now. We're having company this afternoon, so I get the necessary groceries and not much more.
The people are very nice. It's a guy Dayton knows from business, and the man's wife, and another couple, and their grandparents, and four extremely well behaved children. We all have fun swimming and floating and playing with Geronimo. I'm feeling pretty good, confident that I'll get through this just fine.
Nope. About 5:00, as I'm talking with Eleanor (the grandmother), the cramp begins to build again. I try to hold it back, I try to change positions, but finally I have to excuse myself. "I'm so sorry, would you excuse me, I get these cramps every now and then, I just have to go lay down for a couple minutes."
While I'm in the cabin Dayton tells them about the cancer. By the time I come back out, only 10 minutes later, they are all solicitous. "Oh, we shouldn't have bothered you." "Nonsense," I try to tell them, "I've so enjoyed this afternoon and it helps take my mind off things!"
The good thing is that when we start putting dinner together, they don't let me do much. Everybody chips in, all I do is slice up an onion for hamburgers. Our friend Patrick from down the dock brings over his big steamer for the sweet corn, so I don't even have to do that. AND they help clean up, too.
So it ends up a nice day after all. They leave about 7:30, and as soon as we wave goodbye, I tell Patrick, "You're welcome to stay and hang out with Dayton as long as you want, but I really need to go lie down." Geronimo and I crawl into the cool cabin, and stretch out on the sofa until it's time to get up and go to bed.
How Are You?
That's what everybody asks. How are you today? I'm fine. I'm good. I'm alive, I'm walking around, I'm breathing (well, maybe a little short of breath but still breathing). I have all my senses, I have my husband and my little dog Geronimo and my mom and my family and my friends. I am fine. I am lucky.
But I am often physically uncomfortable. I always feel something. I don't feel normal. Even when it's not actually painful, there is a dull ache in my abdomen, left side. Sometimes my back aches, too. Every now and then there is a sharp stick of pain, as if one of my mini-visualizers has jabbed me with a tiny sword. Sometimes a cramp begins to build, sometimes it goes away, sometimes it erupts full force. Sometimes I can sit and talk through it, sometimes I just have to go lie down for a while. Sometimes I just feel a dragging weariness that can't overcome gravity.
How are you, they ask? Well, as long as I'm up and walking around, I answer, "It's a good day!"
But I am often physically uncomfortable. I always feel something. I don't feel normal. Even when it's not actually painful, there is a dull ache in my abdomen, left side. Sometimes my back aches, too. Every now and then there is a sharp stick of pain, as if one of my mini-visualizers has jabbed me with a tiny sword. Sometimes a cramp begins to build, sometimes it goes away, sometimes it erupts full force. Sometimes I can sit and talk through it, sometimes I just have to go lie down for a while. Sometimes I just feel a dragging weariness that can't overcome gravity.
How are you, they ask? Well, as long as I'm up and walking around, I answer, "It's a good day!"
Visualize
I'm trying to use visualization to cope with the episodes of pain. When they first started, I pictured a gang of tiny bikers having a wild party in my abdomen, smashing beer mugs and dancing in their hard-soled boots. I would send them messages to close down the party, sweep up the glass, and take off their boots. The pain would gradually diminish.
After a while, another image came to take its place. I pictured a beautiful waterfall in a green glen, clear water pouring quietly through the pools. I imagined the water washing through my uterus, bathing the lump with its healing coolness. I'm still using that image a lot, it really seems to work.
My friend Meg told me about a boy who had brain cancer in an inoperable spot. After he went back to the doctors, they found the tumor had vanished. They asked him what he had done, and he told them he visualized the tumor as a meatball. People aren't supposed to have meatballs in their heads, so then he visualized alien spaceships visiting him and zapping the tumor.
So, sometimes my peaceful waterfall has alien spaceships. I'm asking them to visit my back, too - it's been aching a lot.
Oh, and the cough is getting worse, so there is an army of scrubbers going through my lungs airways, cleaning and polishing.
If nothing else, I don't lack for imagination.
After a while, another image came to take its place. I pictured a beautiful waterfall in a green glen, clear water pouring quietly through the pools. I imagined the water washing through my uterus, bathing the lump with its healing coolness. I'm still using that image a lot, it really seems to work.
My friend Meg told me about a boy who had brain cancer in an inoperable spot. After he went back to the doctors, they found the tumor had vanished. They asked him what he had done, and he told them he visualized the tumor as a meatball. People aren't supposed to have meatballs in their heads, so then he visualized alien spaceships visiting him and zapping the tumor.
So, sometimes my peaceful waterfall has alien spaceships. I'm asking them to visit my back, too - it's been aching a lot.
Oh, and the cough is getting worse, so there is an army of scrubbers going through my lungs airways, cleaning and polishing.
If nothing else, I don't lack for imagination.
Don't Lose Your Cool
Friday, August 10th: Okay, I'm frustrated that the family doc lady can't see me, and I'm frustrated that it's over two more weeks until I see the specialist. But I shouldn't let myself get frustrated.
Because when I get upset, the cramps bypass the pills. Six, count 'em, six on Friday. Mild to moderate, none of them severe, but still - SIX.
It's a long, uncomfortable day. We're going out to the boat in the afternoon. Then Dayton tells me we have to detour to Fulton so he can show a boat on the way. (He runs a boat brokerage in addition to his accounting business.)
At Fulton, the people are late, and then they take their time looking at the boat. Geronimo and I wait in the car for almost 90 minutes. There is no shade and temperature is 95 degrees. Dayton leaves the car running so we have the air, but still, the sun beats relentlessly through the windows. Finally I rig up a towel over the glass to try to block out the glare. I put my seat back as far as it can go, and try to nap a little bit. The pup wants desperately to get in my lap, and we battle for a long time. Finally he curls up in the driver's seat. By the time Dayton comes back, we're both fast asleep.
We stop in Savanna for supper. Dayton found this place that he raved about last week, so that's where we go. It's just another pizza joint. I'm feeling sore and sick, and pizza is the last thing I want, so I order a salad. It's not very good - who on earth thought it would be acceptable to put canned mushrooms on a salad?
Back into the car we go, give Geronimo a couple pieces of pepperoni to tide him over (not realizing we would be out so late, I didn't think to pack dogfood for the ride). Then it's on to Dubuque and our boat. We left home at 3:00, we get to the boat at 9:30! That's an extreme journey for a route that generally takes less than 2 hours. I can't wait to go to bed - after I take Geronimo for his "last call" walk and Dayton unloads the car.
Because when I get upset, the cramps bypass the pills. Six, count 'em, six on Friday. Mild to moderate, none of them severe, but still - SIX.
It's a long, uncomfortable day. We're going out to the boat in the afternoon. Then Dayton tells me we have to detour to Fulton so he can show a boat on the way. (He runs a boat brokerage in addition to his accounting business.)
At Fulton, the people are late, and then they take their time looking at the boat. Geronimo and I wait in the car for almost 90 minutes. There is no shade and temperature is 95 degrees. Dayton leaves the car running so we have the air, but still, the sun beats relentlessly through the windows. Finally I rig up a towel over the glass to try to block out the glare. I put my seat back as far as it can go, and try to nap a little bit. The pup wants desperately to get in my lap, and we battle for a long time. Finally he curls up in the driver's seat. By the time Dayton comes back, we're both fast asleep.
We stop in Savanna for supper. Dayton found this place that he raved about last week, so that's where we go. It's just another pizza joint. I'm feeling sore and sick, and pizza is the last thing I want, so I order a salad. It's not very good - who on earth thought it would be acceptable to put canned mushrooms on a salad?
Back into the car we go, give Geronimo a couple pieces of pepperoni to tide him over (not realizing we would be out so late, I didn't think to pack dogfood for the ride). Then it's on to Dubuque and our boat. We left home at 3:00, we get to the boat at 9:30! That's an extreme journey for a route that generally takes less than 2 hours. I can't wait to go to bed - after I take Geronimo for his "last call" walk and Dayton unloads the car.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Frustration
Friday, August 10: Another good night - that's three in a row now without pain. I'm getting up every hour to empty my bladder, and that seems to help - the bladder must be pushing against the growth. Every 4 hours I take more pain pills. I look forward to this being over and maybe being able to sleep more than an hour at a time. But I'm not complaining. No pain for the past three nights. That's a good thing.
It starts out to be such a good morning. I'm up early. I'm showered and dressed in plenty of time. This is the morning I'm finally going to meet with the doctor who will be my primary care physician. Yes, I know, I know, I should have set this up years ago, when we first moved here. But I put it off - I was busy, Dayton had his knee surgery, I was busy, Dayton had his second knee surgery, I was busy, my Dad got sick, I was busy, my Dad died, and I was busy.
But finally, last month I made the appointment. I wanted a woman doctor, I wanted somebody in the network that our Blue Cross insurance covers. That left three doctors in the entire Rockford area. I called for an appointment on July 12, the earliest one who could see me was Dr. Carter, and her first appointment was August 10th at 9:00 a.m. I took it - what else could I do?
So, I'm finishing breakfast, I need to leave in 5 minutes, and the cramp hits. Why now??? I hadn't had one since early yesterday morning! By the time it wears off, it's 8:50 a.m. And the doctor's office is 30 minutes away.
So I call, tell the receptionist we had an incident at home, that I'm running late. "You'll have to reschedule," she says. I ask, "Can I talk to Dr. Carter, or leave a message about what's been going on? Because since I made the appointment I've been in the emergency room and had some problems." The response is a flat, "Her first appointment is October 12."
"Never mind, I'll find somebody else." Dayton comes out of his office in time to hear me say this. "What happened?"
Being the calm, mature person that I am, I throw the phone across the table, start sobbing and pounding my fists on the table top. I find the referral sheet with her picture on it and tear it in shreds. "I didn't like her picture anyway! I'm trying to do everything right! Why are they making it so hard!!!"
Warning: Women with endometrial cancer are easily frustrated.
Dayton wisely lets me get it out of my system. I find Geronimo (he ran to the bedroom to hide when I started yelling, poor guy, he's not used to me ranting) cuddle with him, have a fresh cup of tea, and calm down. And decide it's not so important to find a woman doctor after all. I'll go to the clinic here in town. They can get you in in a day or two, and if you need to tell them what's going on, they take time to listen. Like a doctor is supposed to do.
It starts out to be such a good morning. I'm up early. I'm showered and dressed in plenty of time. This is the morning I'm finally going to meet with the doctor who will be my primary care physician. Yes, I know, I know, I should have set this up years ago, when we first moved here. But I put it off - I was busy, Dayton had his knee surgery, I was busy, Dayton had his second knee surgery, I was busy, my Dad got sick, I was busy, my Dad died, and I was busy.
But finally, last month I made the appointment. I wanted a woman doctor, I wanted somebody in the network that our Blue Cross insurance covers. That left three doctors in the entire Rockford area. I called for an appointment on July 12, the earliest one who could see me was Dr. Carter, and her first appointment was August 10th at 9:00 a.m. I took it - what else could I do?
So, I'm finishing breakfast, I need to leave in 5 minutes, and the cramp hits. Why now??? I hadn't had one since early yesterday morning! By the time it wears off, it's 8:50 a.m. And the doctor's office is 30 minutes away.
So I call, tell the receptionist we had an incident at home, that I'm running late. "You'll have to reschedule," she says. I ask, "Can I talk to Dr. Carter, or leave a message about what's been going on? Because since I made the appointment I've been in the emergency room and had some problems." The response is a flat, "Her first appointment is October 12."
"Never mind, I'll find somebody else." Dayton comes out of his office in time to hear me say this. "What happened?"
Being the calm, mature person that I am, I throw the phone across the table, start sobbing and pounding my fists on the table top. I find the referral sheet with her picture on it and tear it in shreds. "I didn't like her picture anyway! I'm trying to do everything right! Why are they making it so hard!!!"
Warning: Women with endometrial cancer are easily frustrated.
Dayton wisely lets me get it out of my system. I find Geronimo (he ran to the bedroom to hide when I started yelling, poor guy, he's not used to me ranting) cuddle with him, have a fresh cup of tea, and calm down. And decide it's not so important to find a woman doctor after all. I'll go to the clinic here in town. They can get you in in a day or two, and if you need to tell them what's going on, they take time to listen. Like a doctor is supposed to do.
Laughter is the Best Medicine
Thursday, August 9: The calvary showed up today. Donna, Linda and Sue. They arrived about 10:30, and they brought love and hugs and chocolate and jokes and laughter and good will. They kept me laughing all day. Okay, I was a little teary-eyed when they first pulled into the driveway and the hugging began, but then I laughed the rest of the time. We got lunch from 3 Sisters Cafe, and came back to my condo to laugh some more. What do people do without girlfriends????
We turned the air conditioning off so Linda wasn't cold, and we set up a fan so Donna wasn't too hot. I'll do anything for my friends! Sue asked me a couple times if I was tired, and I lied - I said no. I was a little tired by afternoon, but I was propped up in Dayton's recliner, Geronimo snoring by my side, with my girlfriends around me. I was so comfortable, and felt so secure. I didn't want anything to cut our visit short.
They finally left about 4:30. I hated to see them go. I want them to bring their sleeping bags and move in with me and we can laugh every day through this whole thing. I want my mom to come stay, and my sister and my nieces and nephews and cousins and Dayton's children and grandchildren and all my friends and family. It's not realistic, but I can dream.
They girls were taken aback by how I was shuffling in the morning, slightly bent over, my regular little-old-lady walk. But after a couple hours of laughing, when I got up to fetch something from the kitches, I was able to walk straight with NO PAIN!
No pain the entire visit. Wow. What a gift. What wonderful, wonderful friends.
After they left, I brought in the mail. In an ironic little twist, the results of my pap test were in this batch. I now have written proof that at least one small portion of my anatomy is normal!
We turned the air conditioning off so Linda wasn't cold, and we set up a fan so Donna wasn't too hot. I'll do anything for my friends! Sue asked me a couple times if I was tired, and I lied - I said no. I was a little tired by afternoon, but I was propped up in Dayton's recliner, Geronimo snoring by my side, with my girlfriends around me. I was so comfortable, and felt so secure. I didn't want anything to cut our visit short.
They finally left about 4:30. I hated to see them go. I want them to bring their sleeping bags and move in with me and we can laugh every day through this whole thing. I want my mom to come stay, and my sister and my nieces and nephews and cousins and Dayton's children and grandchildren and all my friends and family. It's not realistic, but I can dream.
They girls were taken aback by how I was shuffling in the morning, slightly bent over, my regular little-old-lady walk. But after a couple hours of laughing, when I got up to fetch something from the kitches, I was able to walk straight with NO PAIN!
No pain the entire visit. Wow. What a gift. What wonderful, wonderful friends.
After they left, I brought in the mail. In an ironic little twist, the results of my pap test were in this batch. I now have written proof that at least one small portion of my anatomy is normal!
Thursday, August 9, 2007
A Bounteous Afternoon
Wednesday, August 8 - Late afternoon:
The mailman brings a stack of get well cards.
Friends send me the CD set of the new Harry Potter.
UPS brings a gift box full of teas and cookies.
Dayton arrives home after his meetings with a bouquet of flowers, chai, and a small CD/MP3 player/radio. I can enjoy the flowers now, sip the chai tomorrow, and listen to Harry Potter & NPR in the comfort of my bed after surgery.
Truly I am blessed.
The mailman also brings the first of the official bills from the clinic. We've already received a flurry of paperwork from Blue Cross - "Your health care plan does not cover these services."
But we will make it through. Flowers, tea, good stories, and wonderful friends. Life is good.
The mailman brings a stack of get well cards.
Friends send me the CD set of the new Harry Potter.
UPS brings a gift box full of teas and cookies.
Dayton arrives home after his meetings with a bouquet of flowers, chai, and a small CD/MP3 player/radio. I can enjoy the flowers now, sip the chai tomorrow, and listen to Harry Potter & NPR in the comfort of my bed after surgery.
Truly I am blessed.
The mailman also brings the first of the official bills from the clinic. We've already received a flurry of paperwork from Blue Cross - "Your health care plan does not cover these services."
But we will make it through. Flowers, tea, good stories, and wonderful friends. Life is good.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Keep on keeping on...
Wednesday, August 8th: No doctor visits, no doctor calls. I catch up on the blog finally. I have a minor cramp in the morning, and a moderate one in the afternoon. Dayton heads out for the boat late in the afternoon. He'll come back on Friday, pick me up, and take me out there too.
But I can't go with him today. Because my GIRLFRIENDS are coming to visit tomorrow!!!!
I am SO looking forward to seeing them! And because they are my girlfriends, and because they understand what I'm going through, I just ignore Dayton when he suggests that maybe I could run the vacumn before they get here. Hah. Maybe I could neaten things up a bit. Well, I might do that. But these are my sistahs, and I can't wait for them to get here.
I do take action on one thing. I was supposed to have performance time at Premier Showcase with my musician partner Linda. Today I call and ask to cancel. I hate giving it up. But I just know that I won't be able to do it. They are so nice about it, tell me not to worry at all, they'll refund our money (it costs money to for artists to perform at those showcases in addition to renting our booths). Paula says I am to focus on getting well, and not to worry about anything else.
Linda and I will get together and plan out our booth, but she's probably going to have to staff it alone this year. I can't imagine I'll be well enough to be there for either of the showcases. That's too bad, because I do enjoy them. But like Paula said, I need to focus on myself now.
And my girlfriends are coming over tomorrow. Oh, I can't wait!
But I can't go with him today. Because my GIRLFRIENDS are coming to visit tomorrow!!!!
I am SO looking forward to seeing them! And because they are my girlfriends, and because they understand what I'm going through, I just ignore Dayton when he suggests that maybe I could run the vacumn before they get here. Hah. Maybe I could neaten things up a bit. Well, I might do that. But these are my sistahs, and I can't wait for them to get here.
I do take action on one thing. I was supposed to have performance time at Premier Showcase with my musician partner Linda. Today I call and ask to cancel. I hate giving it up. But I just know that I won't be able to do it. They are so nice about it, tell me not to worry at all, they'll refund our money (it costs money to for artists to perform at those showcases in addition to renting our booths). Paula says I am to focus on getting well, and not to worry about anything else.
Linda and I will get together and plan out our booth, but she's probably going to have to staff it alone this year. I can't imagine I'll be well enough to be there for either of the showcases. That's too bad, because I do enjoy them. But like Paula said, I need to focus on myself now.
And my girlfriends are coming over tomorrow. Oh, I can't wait!
Happy Anniversary!
Tuesday, August 7th: It's our wedding anniversary. Eight years. We both forgot until I looked at the calendar. "Happy anniversary," I say, throwing my arms around Dayton. "I didn't get you anything." He laughs ruefully, "Happy Anniversary, Honey. I didn't get you anything, either!"
It's a good day. I don't have any cramping. I'm coughing a lot - seems like I've been doing that a lot since the CT. I work in my office, catching up on stuff, and throw in loads of laundry periodically. Dayton comes into my office at one point, "How about dinner and a movie?"
It's so normal!
We leave Geronimo to guard the house in the afternoon, and catch a matinee of "Hairspray." I love the singing and dancing, Dayton thinks it's stupid. We go to Steak and Shake for supper, and I have another chocolate milkshake. Doctor's orders, you know.
As we're driving home, we talk about the upcoming hospitalization and recovery period. "Tell people not to send me plants. I don't want a plant that every time I have to water it I remember I got it because I have cancer. Don't get me silk flowers (Dayton loves silk flowers). I don't want anything sitting around that reminds me that I only got it because I have cancer. Give me flowers, cheap grocery store flowers, that bloom for a few days so I can enjoy the color and the scent, and then I can throw them out and get on with the next step. Give me stories, and jokes, and bring me funny movies to watch."
I also tell him that I want my mom to come stay with us after my surgery. "But I'll take care of you," he says. Yes, I know he will try, but I want my mom there to do the fine-tuning, to anticipate what I need, to cook - oh, heavens, please let her be there to fix meals that I can eat! I don't push the issue. But I've nursed him through three surgeries now, and he has no idea how demanding it is for the caregiver. And he is trying to run two businesses. I don't think he can do it all, and keep me comfortable. And I want to be comfortable, so that I can recover quickly.
At home, we go to bed early, and cuddle the pup between us. It's been a good day. No real pain, and I've finally stopped bleeding from the biopsy - it was 2 weeks ago today.
And for the first night in I don't remember how many, I pass the entire night without pain. I don't sleep well, I'm awake every hour, but I'm not in pain. I can live with this.
It's a good day. I don't have any cramping. I'm coughing a lot - seems like I've been doing that a lot since the CT. I work in my office, catching up on stuff, and throw in loads of laundry periodically. Dayton comes into my office at one point, "How about dinner and a movie?"
It's so normal!
We leave Geronimo to guard the house in the afternoon, and catch a matinee of "Hairspray." I love the singing and dancing, Dayton thinks it's stupid. We go to Steak and Shake for supper, and I have another chocolate milkshake. Doctor's orders, you know.
As we're driving home, we talk about the upcoming hospitalization and recovery period. "Tell people not to send me plants. I don't want a plant that every time I have to water it I remember I got it because I have cancer. Don't get me silk flowers (Dayton loves silk flowers). I don't want anything sitting around that reminds me that I only got it because I have cancer. Give me flowers, cheap grocery store flowers, that bloom for a few days so I can enjoy the color and the scent, and then I can throw them out and get on with the next step. Give me stories, and jokes, and bring me funny movies to watch."
I also tell him that I want my mom to come stay with us after my surgery. "But I'll take care of you," he says. Yes, I know he will try, but I want my mom there to do the fine-tuning, to anticipate what I need, to cook - oh, heavens, please let her be there to fix meals that I can eat! I don't push the issue. But I've nursed him through three surgeries now, and he has no idea how demanding it is for the caregiver. And he is trying to run two businesses. I don't think he can do it all, and keep me comfortable. And I want to be comfortable, so that I can recover quickly.
At home, we go to bed early, and cuddle the pup between us. It's been a good day. No real pain, and I've finally stopped bleeding from the biopsy - it was 2 weeks ago today.
And for the first night in I don't remember how many, I pass the entire night without pain. I don't sleep well, I'm awake every hour, but I'm not in pain. I can live with this.
Weekends come and go
Friday-Sunday, July 3-5: Back to the boat we go. I doze most of the way there, with a pillow on my lap to hold Geronimo. My abdomen feels sore, and although he's only 18 pounds, I don't want him resting directly on top of me. Friday we walk the docks a little bit, I talk with some of our boating friends. Most of them by now have heard the news.
Saturday morning another super-cramp seizes me. Through the haze of pain, I hear Dayton on the phone, calling the clinic. He talks with the doctor on call, Dr. S. She suggests upping the dose of Vicidin to one every 4 hours. I don't want to do this. I only take it at night because it makes me feel like a zombie during the day. I don't want three weeks of being a zombie. But I take the pill, at least for the morning, and I eventually relax into sleep. We don't take the boat out of the marina. Although Dr. S confirmed that there really is nothing the emergency room can do, we want to stay close to shore. And that is such a strange thing - knowing that there is nothing an emergency room can do for me.
Sunday is great day! I feel fine, I go walking with Geronimo, I go swimming. It is so strange, this disease. I am so grateful for a good day. I cherish every minute.
We stay over on Sunday night, and go into Galena for breakfast on Monday. Dr. B calls while we are eating, but the phone doesn't ring through. I call him when we get back to the boat. He heard about Dayton's call on Saturday, and wants to know how I'm doing. I tell him about the bad pains, and how Sunday was fine. Dayton had told the doc on Saturday that he wanted to take me up to the Mayo Clinic emergency room and insist they keep me until I'm fixed. Dr B says that won't work, they are just as swamped as everybody else, and I'm not considered an emergency case to them. To us, sure, it's an emergency. But in the whole scheme of things, it's a slow growing, self-contained cancer. It's good to know I'm not an emergency case, but oh, it is so hard to wait.
I do just fine until we get home, then I cramp up again. But it's mild, probably having more to do with sitting in one position for two hours than anything else. Next time, we'll stop halfway so I can get out and walk a little bit.
Saturday morning another super-cramp seizes me. Through the haze of pain, I hear Dayton on the phone, calling the clinic. He talks with the doctor on call, Dr. S. She suggests upping the dose of Vicidin to one every 4 hours. I don't want to do this. I only take it at night because it makes me feel like a zombie during the day. I don't want three weeks of being a zombie. But I take the pill, at least for the morning, and I eventually relax into sleep. We don't take the boat out of the marina. Although Dr. S confirmed that there really is nothing the emergency room can do, we want to stay close to shore. And that is such a strange thing - knowing that there is nothing an emergency room can do for me.
Sunday is great day! I feel fine, I go walking with Geronimo, I go swimming. It is so strange, this disease. I am so grateful for a good day. I cherish every minute.
We stay over on Sunday night, and go into Galena for breakfast on Monday. Dr. B calls while we are eating, but the phone doesn't ring through. I call him when we get back to the boat. He heard about Dayton's call on Saturday, and wants to know how I'm doing. I tell him about the bad pains, and how Sunday was fine. Dayton had told the doc on Saturday that he wanted to take me up to the Mayo Clinic emergency room and insist they keep me until I'm fixed. Dr B says that won't work, they are just as swamped as everybody else, and I'm not considered an emergency case to them. To us, sure, it's an emergency. But in the whole scheme of things, it's a slow growing, self-contained cancer. It's good to know I'm not an emergency case, but oh, it is so hard to wait.
I do just fine until we get home, then I cramp up again. But it's mild, probably having more to do with sitting in one position for two hours than anything else. Next time, we'll stop halfway so I can get out and walk a little bit.
THREE WEEKS
Nurse Selinda calls later in the afternoon. "You're all set for Madison, your appointment is with Dr. Kushner at 1:00 on Wednesday, August 22nd." I thank her politely, hang up the phone, and explode into Dayton's office.
"THREE WEEKS!!!! I DON'T SEE THE SURGEON FOR THREE MORE WEEKS!!!! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO FOR THREE MORE WEEKS?????"
After railing at him, I send out a polite email to my mom telling her about the date, then the following to my friends:
OK, now I'm pissed, the first available appointment for the specialist is August 22nd. THREE BLOODY WEEKS AWAY????????????
Yes, I know this means the cancer is not growing fast I know this means it really is good news...
BUT 3 WEEKS????????
And if they do surgery the week after, there goes Fox Valley Festival. And Centre East Showcase. And Premiere Showcase. And my September shows, and probably most of my October shows, too.
DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN....
Minutes later, the phone rings, and a ladylike voice with that distinctive east coast accent repeats, "DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN!"
Karen allows me to vent, then laughs me into a good mood. "I've never heard you use such language," she chortles at one point. It helps to just dump my messy emotions on her. Maybe it's not fair to her, but I needed it.
I try to reclaim my positive attitude for the rest of the evening, but I'm depressed. Three more weeks of pain - sure it's been mild, but still. Unfortunately, another super cramp seizes me during the night. Dayton tries to prop me up against the headboard, but I can't sit, he tries to get me up to walk, but I can't stand, I just collapse into a heap. This is getting so old. It's an hour before I crawl back into bed and sleep again. And this is with the Vicidin. Three more weeks. I can do this - maybe.
"THREE WEEKS!!!! I DON'T SEE THE SURGEON FOR THREE MORE WEEKS!!!! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO FOR THREE MORE WEEKS?????"
After railing at him, I send out a polite email to my mom telling her about the date, then the following to my friends:
OK, now I'm pissed, the first available appointment for the specialist is August 22nd. THREE BLOODY WEEKS AWAY????????????
Yes, I know this means the cancer is not growing fast I know this means it really is good news...
BUT 3 WEEKS????????
And if they do surgery the week after, there goes Fox Valley Festival. And Centre East Showcase. And Premiere Showcase. And my September shows, and probably most of my October shows, too.
DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN....
Minutes later, the phone rings, and a ladylike voice with that distinctive east coast accent repeats, "DAMN DAMN DAMN DAMN!"
Karen allows me to vent, then laughs me into a good mood. "I've never heard you use such language," she chortles at one point. It helps to just dump my messy emotions on her. Maybe it's not fair to her, but I needed it.
I try to reclaim my positive attitude for the rest of the evening, but I'm depressed. Three more weeks of pain - sure it's been mild, but still. Unfortunately, another super cramp seizes me during the night. Dayton tries to prop me up against the headboard, but I can't sit, he tries to get me up to walk, but I can't stand, I just collapse into a heap. This is getting so old. It's an hour before I crawl back into bed and sleep again. And this is with the Vicidin. Three more weeks. I can do this - maybe.
High ho, High ho, it's back to the Doctor we Go!
The receptionist checks the schedule. "Didn't we cancel your appointment?" I tell her that Nurse Dee called me and told me to keep the appointment. She asks again for my name, my insurance card, my address, my phone, my social security number. "I don't know what happened, but somebody took you off the schedule. Don't worry, we'll get you back in."
We've gotten spoiled. Up until today, the waiting has been minimal. We even left our books in the car, figuring that we wouldn't need them. Wrong! Dr. B comes out in about 20 minutes, calls for another patient, and comes to us and apologizes. "I'm so sorry for the delay, I'll see you right after this lady."
Dayton hates waiting. But I keep telling him, "f the test results were bad, we would have heard on Tuesday."
Finally Nurse Selinda calls me, and we follow her. Again I am weighed, then we are shown into another small room. The chairs aren't cushioned, and I'm uncomfortable.
Dr. B finally arrives, shakes Dayton's hand, again apologizes for the delay. "My nurse is off all this week, and things aren't running as smoothly as usual." He opens my chart. "Now, you are going to schedule a CT and chest x-ray, right?"
My heart falls. He didn't get the message that I've already done that. It's not that the results were good and he didn't call, it's that he didn't know the results were in and so he didn't check. I tell him that I left the message on Monday that they were done, and that I had questions about the hospital referral. He shuffles through the file, and I can hear Dayton moving restively behind me.
"OK, here they are. Let me just look at them for a minute. OK, chest x-ray. Upper lungs fine, there are some nodules in the lower lungs. That's not a big deal, nothing we have to cope with right now."
On to the CT. "Upper GI looks fine." I cheer, and Dr. B smiles. "Lower organs normal, except for the uterus, and some small lesions on the left ovary. Estimated size of the uterine growth is..." and he reads off some numbers, then looks at me. "That's about the size of a golf ball." Whew. That's much bigger than we expected. He goes on to say that it looks like the node/tumor/growth is beginning to work it's way into the uterine wall, rather than just growing on the endometrial lining. That's less good, but still not bad, he says. There is no evidence that it has escaped the uterus. That's good news.
So we talk. I ask him, "exactly what cancer do I have?" It's endometrial cancer. "What causes it?" They don't know, although it seems to affect two types of the population - skinny white women, and obese black women. I always knew there was a large black woman inside of me, trying to get out!
We talk about the hospital options. He's been trying to get hold of Rush, just as I asked last week, but no luck yet. "That's OK, because I checked with our insurance company, and they no longer cover Rush." So it's down to Northwestern or UW-Madison. I ask for his opinion, and he says that he believes the care is better at Madison. So we make the decision to go there. He will have his office set it up. We don't have to do anything, the nurse will call us with our appointment date & time.
I ask about estimated recovery time after surgery. 8 WEEKS!!!! I'm stunned. I ask if there is anything I should be doing between now and then. "Try to have a normal life. If there is something you want to do, go do it. This is major surgery, and while most of the time things work out just fine, you just never know." I tell him that the oncology nurse suggested packing on some extra calories. He laughs. "As a doctor I can't advise my patients to eat ice cream, but hey, it's a pleasant way to add some calories fast. And skip the frozen yogurt - why bother?"
Dayton asks how quickly this can be done. "I hate watching my wife go through so much pain. The past few days have been OK, but the weekend was hell." Dr. B is sympathetic, but firm. "This isn't something to rush into, they will want to make sure exactly what to do before the surgery. And they are busy, I wouldn't expect to get in any earlier than a week or two."
Our time is up, I'm out of questions. We're done here. I ask Dr. B, "is this the last time I see you?" He says I can call any time, but he's not going to set up appointments for me to come in, because he can't doing anything else, and why bill me for that? He gives me another hug, and this time I do hear him say, "You're going to be just fine."
We go out to lunch afterwards. I have a chocolate shake - Doctor's orders.
We've gotten spoiled. Up until today, the waiting has been minimal. We even left our books in the car, figuring that we wouldn't need them. Wrong! Dr. B comes out in about 20 minutes, calls for another patient, and comes to us and apologizes. "I'm so sorry for the delay, I'll see you right after this lady."
Dayton hates waiting. But I keep telling him, "f the test results were bad, we would have heard on Tuesday."
Finally Nurse Selinda calls me, and we follow her. Again I am weighed, then we are shown into another small room. The chairs aren't cushioned, and I'm uncomfortable.
Dr. B finally arrives, shakes Dayton's hand, again apologizes for the delay. "My nurse is off all this week, and things aren't running as smoothly as usual." He opens my chart. "Now, you are going to schedule a CT and chest x-ray, right?"
My heart falls. He didn't get the message that I've already done that. It's not that the results were good and he didn't call, it's that he didn't know the results were in and so he didn't check. I tell him that I left the message on Monday that they were done, and that I had questions about the hospital referral. He shuffles through the file, and I can hear Dayton moving restively behind me.
"OK, here they are. Let me just look at them for a minute. OK, chest x-ray. Upper lungs fine, there are some nodules in the lower lungs. That's not a big deal, nothing we have to cope with right now."
On to the CT. "Upper GI looks fine." I cheer, and Dr. B smiles. "Lower organs normal, except for the uterus, and some small lesions on the left ovary. Estimated size of the uterine growth is..." and he reads off some numbers, then looks at me. "That's about the size of a golf ball." Whew. That's much bigger than we expected. He goes on to say that it looks like the node/tumor/growth is beginning to work it's way into the uterine wall, rather than just growing on the endometrial lining. That's less good, but still not bad, he says. There is no evidence that it has escaped the uterus. That's good news.
So we talk. I ask him, "exactly what cancer do I have?" It's endometrial cancer. "What causes it?" They don't know, although it seems to affect two types of the population - skinny white women, and obese black women. I always knew there was a large black woman inside of me, trying to get out!
We talk about the hospital options. He's been trying to get hold of Rush, just as I asked last week, but no luck yet. "That's OK, because I checked with our insurance company, and they no longer cover Rush." So it's down to Northwestern or UW-Madison. I ask for his opinion, and he says that he believes the care is better at Madison. So we make the decision to go there. He will have his office set it up. We don't have to do anything, the nurse will call us with our appointment date & time.
I ask about estimated recovery time after surgery. 8 WEEKS!!!! I'm stunned. I ask if there is anything I should be doing between now and then. "Try to have a normal life. If there is something you want to do, go do it. This is major surgery, and while most of the time things work out just fine, you just never know." I tell him that the oncology nurse suggested packing on some extra calories. He laughs. "As a doctor I can't advise my patients to eat ice cream, but hey, it's a pleasant way to add some calories fast. And skip the frozen yogurt - why bother?"
Dayton asks how quickly this can be done. "I hate watching my wife go through so much pain. The past few days have been OK, but the weekend was hell." Dr. B is sympathetic, but firm. "This isn't something to rush into, they will want to make sure exactly what to do before the surgery. And they are busy, I wouldn't expect to get in any earlier than a week or two."
Our time is up, I'm out of questions. We're done here. I ask Dr. B, "is this the last time I see you?" He says I can call any time, but he's not going to set up appointments for me to come in, because he can't doing anything else, and why bill me for that? He gives me another hug, and this time I do hear him say, "You're going to be just fine."
We go out to lunch afterwards. I have a chocolate shake - Doctor's orders.
We Wait...
Tuesday, July 31: We don't hear from the doctor's office. Dayton mentions that his grandson is playing in a big tournament that afternoon, and I say, "Go! There's nothing you can do here. Go!" So he does.
My Mom calls and stops in for the afternoon. It's the first time we've seen each other since this started. Of course we both cry. She and I are more than mother and daughter, we are good friends, too. It's such a precious thing to spend the afternoon together, just the two of us, well, and Geronimo. We sit on the couch with the pup between us and talk. Talk about her cancer experience years ago, talk about what I'm going through, talk about life. I know she's scared. We lost my Dad to cancer less than two years ago. But he refused treatment. I'm not doing that, I'm doing everything I can to fight.
I do get a little cramp while she is there, but luckily it is minor. I just stretch out on the floor for 10 minutes, then I'm ready to sit up again. We go out to dinner, just the two of us, and talk some more. It is so relaxing to be with my Mom. When she finally heads for home, I feel so much more comfortable spiritually.
Dayton calls, the grandson's team has won their afternoon game and is playing again at 7:00 p.m. He's staying for the late game. I'm so happy he went. He needs to do normal stuff, too. It's so much harder for him without having the big support network that I do.
After Mom leaves, I make one phone call. Susie is an oncology nurse, the wife of one of Dayton's business associates. She heard about me, and said she'd love to talk. So I call her, and she is absolutely terrific. She comforts me, tells me what kinds of questions I should be asking, talks about some treatment options, talks about recovery. I want to meet her in person, already I feel she is my friend.
By the time Dayton comes home, Geronimo and I are curled up together in bed. "Did they win?" I ask drowsily. "Nope, they lost, but I'm glad I stayed." We hold each other for a moment, then I turn back over into sleep.
Wednesday, August 1st. Dr. B's office calls. "Just to remind you about your appointment tomorrow at 10:00 a.m." I'm a little confused, I thought that was the appointment we had changed to last week. She checks with the nurse, who calls back later in the afternoon. "Dr. B would like you to keep your appointment tomorrow to go over all the test results and answer your questions." OK, that's fine. We'll be there.
I go out and do errands around town today. It feels good to drive my car, and do normal stuff. Post office, oil change, groceries. Nothing special. When I get back home, and start carrying up the groceries, my neighbor comes running out. "Don't be carrying all that, let me give you a hand." I laugh at her. "Sherry, I'm not sick, I just have cancer."
Two mild days. I can live like this if I have.
My Mom calls and stops in for the afternoon. It's the first time we've seen each other since this started. Of course we both cry. She and I are more than mother and daughter, we are good friends, too. It's such a precious thing to spend the afternoon together, just the two of us, well, and Geronimo. We sit on the couch with the pup between us and talk. Talk about her cancer experience years ago, talk about what I'm going through, talk about life. I know she's scared. We lost my Dad to cancer less than two years ago. But he refused treatment. I'm not doing that, I'm doing everything I can to fight.
I do get a little cramp while she is there, but luckily it is minor. I just stretch out on the floor for 10 minutes, then I'm ready to sit up again. We go out to dinner, just the two of us, and talk some more. It is so relaxing to be with my Mom. When she finally heads for home, I feel so much more comfortable spiritually.
Dayton calls, the grandson's team has won their afternoon game and is playing again at 7:00 p.m. He's staying for the late game. I'm so happy he went. He needs to do normal stuff, too. It's so much harder for him without having the big support network that I do.
After Mom leaves, I make one phone call. Susie is an oncology nurse, the wife of one of Dayton's business associates. She heard about me, and said she'd love to talk. So I call her, and she is absolutely terrific. She comforts me, tells me what kinds of questions I should be asking, talks about some treatment options, talks about recovery. I want to meet her in person, already I feel she is my friend.
By the time Dayton comes home, Geronimo and I are curled up together in bed. "Did they win?" I ask drowsily. "Nope, they lost, but I'm glad I stayed." We hold each other for a moment, then I turn back over into sleep.
Wednesday, August 1st. Dr. B's office calls. "Just to remind you about your appointment tomorrow at 10:00 a.m." I'm a little confused, I thought that was the appointment we had changed to last week. She checks with the nurse, who calls back later in the afternoon. "Dr. B would like you to keep your appointment tomorrow to go over all the test results and answer your questions." OK, that's fine. We'll be there.
I go out and do errands around town today. It feels good to drive my car, and do normal stuff. Post office, oil change, groceries. Nothing special. When I get back home, and start carrying up the groceries, my neighbor comes running out. "Don't be carrying all that, let me give you a hand." I laugh at her. "Sherry, I'm not sick, I just have cancer."
Two mild days. I can live like this if I have.
Doing the Barium Two-Step
Monday, July 30: We're back at the clinic for the CT and chest X-ray. I was up at 6:00 a.m. to drink half of the jug of "Readi-cat" - a Barium Sulfate Suspension. It's white, sort of the consistency of thick milk, and smells vaguely of grapefruit. I'm supposed to drink one half of it 2 hours before the procedure, and the other half one hour before. The instructions warned that it "may cause diarrhea ."
Yeah, like the Pope may be Catholic.
I drink the rest of the Barium at 7:00. It would have been nicer if they had labeled on the jug just where the halfway mark was, because I underestimated the first dose, and start gagging as I try to force the last couple swallows down. Nasty stuff - an odd flavor and an odd texture. But no after effects.
Dayton reminds me that we have to leave by 7:20 in order to get to the clinic by 8:00. I hurry to get cleaned up, and just before it's time to leave, I visit the bathroom one more time.
That's when the diarrhea hits. The word "geyser" comes to mind.
We're a little late for the appointment. As we check in, I'm doing the bouncy little Barium two-step again. The clerk and the technician are pleasant, and I'm pleasant right back. "Sorry we're late, it's that lovely stuff you had me drink," they laugh back, "oh, yes, doesn't it have a great effect," and I chuckle and bounce a little more, "so, is there a bathroom I could use," and they say, "oh, sure, we'll take you back in a bit," and my smile becomes more of a grimace and I say pleasantly but with a bit more force, "do you think I could see that bathroom real soon, like in the next 60 seconds?" And they technician really LOOKS at me, not just the generic patient waiting for the first opening, and says, "Oh, honey, sure thing, come on with me," and I barely say goodbye to Dayton as I bounce after her.
Flush toilets. What a wonderful invention.
Laura is the technician and she takes me into the CT room. There is a narrow, cushioned bed pointing into to a large, donut-shaped apparatus. Laura has me sit down on the bed, and gives me one more cup of the barium solution. "Just try to get down a couple swallows so we have it in your stomach." I choke down half the cup, then she has me lie down on the bed, and places a cushion beneath my knees. It's a surprisingly comfortable position. She brings a sheet over, and has me cover my middle, then asks me to unzip and slide my shorts down to my knees. "So the metal doesn't get in the way of the imaging." I get to keep my underpants on, and that feels like a small triumph.
The bed is then raised, and Laura cautions me not to try to get out of it because I am fairly high in the air. She goes in and out of the room, adjusting my arms - up over my head, now over my chest, now rest them on the side of the machine. Somebody with a sense of humor has pasted a dog sticker right below the laser panel, so I have something to look at. Occasionally a mechanical voice issues a command. "Hold your breath." I do. "Breathe!" I do. Who am I to argue with a machine that outweighs me by probably several thousand pounds? Although I would have programmed it to say, "Now, please, take a deep breath and hold it. OK, now let it go and breath normally." Of course, that would take longer.
Laura comes back in. "Now we're going to insert the iodine into your system and get the rest of the images. Some people feel a warm flush starting at the back of their neck and reaching to their groin." She turns my right arm towards her, and I brace for the needle. "These are thick needles, and sometimes it's a little tough to get them in. There, all set."
Another blessing from this process. I have been through so much other pain, that the stick of the needle barely registered. I'm even able to look at it- well, for a second, at least. I'm not that brave!
Not only that, but as the iodine enters my system, I do feel that warm flush. It feels wonderful, and it washes away the crampiness. I could stay here all day.
Again Laura leaves the room, and the machine barks its commands. "Hold your breath! Breathe! Hold your breath! Breathe!" The table slides in and out of the donut hole, and I am so comfortable that I could take a nap. This is NOT what I expected.
We're finished, and Laura lowers the bed, and helps me sit up. I feel a little dizzy at first, then get my balance. Laura helps me to my feet. "You're having a chest X-ray next, I'll walk you over there and get you settled." As we leave the room, I spot a large candy jar. "May I have one?" She laughs. "Of course, we think everybody deserves a treat! Take one for your husband, too." That's actually what I take it for, I don't generally eat candy myself.
Except for chocolate. And I seem to have lost my taste for it these past few days. Now that's a major tragedy!
In the woman's dressing room, Laura shows me to a cubicle, and directs me to take off everything above the waist - hey, now that's different! - and put on a gown and robe. Then I wait for the next technician. I've brought a book to while away the time, and it's a good thing. There are magazines here, but all about childbearing and child rearing.
Anne comes to get me for the Chest X-ray. I've had these done before, and it's no big deal. Stand in front of the screen, now stand sideways. All done! She points the way back to the dressing room and tells me I'm free to go.
We're out of the clinic by 9:30. I stop by Dr. B's office as instructed to let him know that I've had the tests done, and then we head for breakfast and home. And several more trips to the bathroom - it takes hours for the barium to finish working through my system. The iodine seems to put a damper on the cramps for the rest of the day, another unexpected blessing.
And my daily afternoon nap. It's becoming a necessity rather than a luxury.
Yeah, like the Pope may be Catholic.
I drink the rest of the Barium at 7:00. It would have been nicer if they had labeled on the jug just where the halfway mark was, because I underestimated the first dose, and start gagging as I try to force the last couple swallows down. Nasty stuff - an odd flavor and an odd texture. But no after effects.
Dayton reminds me that we have to leave by 7:20 in order to get to the clinic by 8:00. I hurry to get cleaned up, and just before it's time to leave, I visit the bathroom one more time.
That's when the diarrhea hits. The word "geyser" comes to mind.
We're a little late for the appointment. As we check in, I'm doing the bouncy little Barium two-step again. The clerk and the technician are pleasant, and I'm pleasant right back. "Sorry we're late, it's that lovely stuff you had me drink," they laugh back, "oh, yes, doesn't it have a great effect," and I chuckle and bounce a little more, "so, is there a bathroom I could use," and they say, "oh, sure, we'll take you back in a bit," and my smile becomes more of a grimace and I say pleasantly but with a bit more force, "do you think I could see that bathroom real soon, like in the next 60 seconds?" And they technician really LOOKS at me, not just the generic patient waiting for the first opening, and says, "Oh, honey, sure thing, come on with me," and I barely say goodbye to Dayton as I bounce after her.
Flush toilets. What a wonderful invention.
Laura is the technician and she takes me into the CT room. There is a narrow, cushioned bed pointing into to a large, donut-shaped apparatus. Laura has me sit down on the bed, and gives me one more cup of the barium solution. "Just try to get down a couple swallows so we have it in your stomach." I choke down half the cup, then she has me lie down on the bed, and places a cushion beneath my knees. It's a surprisingly comfortable position. She brings a sheet over, and has me cover my middle, then asks me to unzip and slide my shorts down to my knees. "So the metal doesn't get in the way of the imaging." I get to keep my underpants on, and that feels like a small triumph.
The bed is then raised, and Laura cautions me not to try to get out of it because I am fairly high in the air. She goes in and out of the room, adjusting my arms - up over my head, now over my chest, now rest them on the side of the machine. Somebody with a sense of humor has pasted a dog sticker right below the laser panel, so I have something to look at. Occasionally a mechanical voice issues a command. "Hold your breath." I do. "Breathe!" I do. Who am I to argue with a machine that outweighs me by probably several thousand pounds? Although I would have programmed it to say, "Now, please, take a deep breath and hold it. OK, now let it go and breath normally." Of course, that would take longer.
Laura comes back in. "Now we're going to insert the iodine into your system and get the rest of the images. Some people feel a warm flush starting at the back of their neck and reaching to their groin." She turns my right arm towards her, and I brace for the needle. "These are thick needles, and sometimes it's a little tough to get them in. There, all set."
Another blessing from this process. I have been through so much other pain, that the stick of the needle barely registered. I'm even able to look at it- well, for a second, at least. I'm not that brave!
Not only that, but as the iodine enters my system, I do feel that warm flush. It feels wonderful, and it washes away the crampiness. I could stay here all day.
Again Laura leaves the room, and the machine barks its commands. "Hold your breath! Breathe! Hold your breath! Breathe!" The table slides in and out of the donut hole, and I am so comfortable that I could take a nap. This is NOT what I expected.
We're finished, and Laura lowers the bed, and helps me sit up. I feel a little dizzy at first, then get my balance. Laura helps me to my feet. "You're having a chest X-ray next, I'll walk you over there and get you settled." As we leave the room, I spot a large candy jar. "May I have one?" She laughs. "Of course, we think everybody deserves a treat! Take one for your husband, too." That's actually what I take it for, I don't generally eat candy myself.
Except for chocolate. And I seem to have lost my taste for it these past few days. Now that's a major tragedy!
In the woman's dressing room, Laura shows me to a cubicle, and directs me to take off everything above the waist - hey, now that's different! - and put on a gown and robe. Then I wait for the next technician. I've brought a book to while away the time, and it's a good thing. There are magazines here, but all about childbearing and child rearing.
Anne comes to get me for the Chest X-ray. I've had these done before, and it's no big deal. Stand in front of the screen, now stand sideways. All done! She points the way back to the dressing room and tells me I'm free to go.
We're out of the clinic by 9:30. I stop by Dr. B's office as instructed to let him know that I've had the tests done, and then we head for breakfast and home. And several more trips to the bathroom - it takes hours for the barium to finish working through my system. The iodine seems to put a damper on the cramps for the rest of the day, another unexpected blessing.
And my daily afternoon nap. It's becoming a necessity rather than a luxury.
Another "Normal" Weekend
Saturday/Sunday, July 28-29: "Try to live your life as normally as possible," Dr. B urged us. So we spent the weekend on the boat, as usual.
But it wasn't normal. How could it be normal?
Dayton had boat business stuff to do Saturday, as normal. I had storytelling business stuff to do, as normal. That took most of the afternoon. When Dayton got back, we untied the boat and went off to one of our favorite anchorages. Like normal, we grilled hamburgers and boiled sweet corn for dinner. Like normal, we watched the stars dance for a while before going to bed.
But it's not normal to wake up in the middle of night in severe pain. It's not normal at 2:00 in the morning for me to be curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed, sobbing and screaming, "WHY ME??? IT'S NOT FAIR!!!!!"
I no longer have a normal life.
Things are better on Sunday. I take my kayak out and paddle around for a while. It's good to get away - away from Geronimo's whining, away from Dayton's concerned looks, away from everything. But I can't stay away for very long. For one thing, it's just too darn hot! But for a little while, I feel like I've run away from life.
We head for home late Sunday afternoon. There's a Taco Bell on the way, we stop to pick up dinner. I walk in, place my order, walk back out to keep Geronimo company - it's hot we left the car running with the air conditioner going. And halfway out the door I get hit with yet another jolt of pain. Dayton has to clear out the back seat of the car in a hurry so I can lay myself down. I claw through the bags to find my Vicidin bottle and swallow another pill. The pharmacist said to use them sparingly, try to only use them at night, but I can't wait for night, I can't wait for anything except for the pain to stop.
When it does finally ebb, I sit up and eat my fajita. Just as if life were normal.
But it wasn't normal. How could it be normal?
Dayton had boat business stuff to do Saturday, as normal. I had storytelling business stuff to do, as normal. That took most of the afternoon. When Dayton got back, we untied the boat and went off to one of our favorite anchorages. Like normal, we grilled hamburgers and boiled sweet corn for dinner. Like normal, we watched the stars dance for a while before going to bed.
But it's not normal to wake up in the middle of night in severe pain. It's not normal at 2:00 in the morning for me to be curled up in a ball in the middle of the bed, sobbing and screaming, "WHY ME??? IT'S NOT FAIR!!!!!"
I no longer have a normal life.
Things are better on Sunday. I take my kayak out and paddle around for a while. It's good to get away - away from Geronimo's whining, away from Dayton's concerned looks, away from everything. But I can't stay away for very long. For one thing, it's just too darn hot! But for a little while, I feel like I've run away from life.
We head for home late Sunday afternoon. There's a Taco Bell on the way, we stop to pick up dinner. I walk in, place my order, walk back out to keep Geronimo company - it's hot we left the car running with the air conditioner going. And halfway out the door I get hit with yet another jolt of pain. Dayton has to clear out the back seat of the car in a hurry so I can lay myself down. I claw through the bags to find my Vicidin bottle and swallow another pill. The pharmacist said to use them sparingly, try to only use them at night, but I can't wait for night, I can't wait for anything except for the pain to stop.
When it does finally ebb, I sit up and eat my fajita. Just as if life were normal.
Some Good Things
So, it's not all bad. There is good coming out of this experience. If things happen for a reason, here are some of those reasons.
By the end of Friday, all three of Dayton's children had checked in. Shawn came to the clinic, Mike called soon afterwards, and Date called later that evening. They've been estranged from their Dad for a couple months over the family business. My diagnosis has helped them reach out beyond the egos and the frustration to reaffirm their love for each other. I can only hope it continues.
And besides, how many woman can say that even their husband's ex-wife is praying for them??? Truly I am blessed.
My friends have been wonderful. Two of my east coast girlfriends offered to jump on a plane and come stay with me. One girlfriend is doing raiki long distance for me. Another has asked if I'm open to her doing something through the "collective unconscious." Hey, I'm open to anything that will get me through this experience! I've heard from women who have had the hysterectomy, and said it was just fine. I've heard from women who have had this cancer, and are doing just fine now. I've heard from so many wonderful, caring, kind people. Storytellers have sent me stories, and jokes, and poems, and love.
One friend, also a cancer survivor, gave me the website and toll-free number of the American Cancer Society. One friend suggested journaling - hence this blog. Another friend said, "isn't smoking pot good for cancer pain? I'm sure my son could get some for you!"
Lots of emails and phone calls. The funniest email so far came from Jim in Ohio:
"I got an email about your trouble.
I went to St. Patricks'Catholic Church to light a candle for you.
A loud voice from above said" What are you doing back?"
I said I was lighting a candle for Leanne Johnson.
The voice answered "Oh, in that case come on in.
But don't stay too long. "
Whether God is sure of me or not.
He's heard of you. He likes you."
We've told our family, our friends, and our neighbors. I guess Dayton has spent some time now talking with Ed across the street. Ed told me that Dayton told him that he didn't realize how much he loved me until this happened. So maybe that's another blessing, that we've been reawakened to realize just how much we all mean to each other.
There is a reason for everything. I have to believe this.
By the end of Friday, all three of Dayton's children had checked in. Shawn came to the clinic, Mike called soon afterwards, and Date called later that evening. They've been estranged from their Dad for a couple months over the family business. My diagnosis has helped them reach out beyond the egos and the frustration to reaffirm their love for each other. I can only hope it continues.
And besides, how many woman can say that even their husband's ex-wife is praying for them??? Truly I am blessed.
My friends have been wonderful. Two of my east coast girlfriends offered to jump on a plane and come stay with me. One girlfriend is doing raiki long distance for me. Another has asked if I'm open to her doing something through the "collective unconscious." Hey, I'm open to anything that will get me through this experience! I've heard from women who have had the hysterectomy, and said it was just fine. I've heard from women who have had this cancer, and are doing just fine now. I've heard from so many wonderful, caring, kind people. Storytellers have sent me stories, and jokes, and poems, and love.
One friend, also a cancer survivor, gave me the website and toll-free number of the American Cancer Society. One friend suggested journaling - hence this blog. Another friend said, "isn't smoking pot good for cancer pain? I'm sure my son could get some for you!"
Lots of emails and phone calls. The funniest email so far came from Jim in Ohio:
"I got an email about your trouble.
I went to St. Patricks'Catholic Church to light a candle for you.
A loud voice from above said" What are you doing back?"
I said I was lighting a candle for Leanne Johnson.
The voice answered "Oh, in that case come on in.
But don't stay too long. "
Whether God is sure of me or not.
He's heard of you. He likes you."
We've told our family, our friends, and our neighbors. I guess Dayton has spent some time now talking with Ed across the street. Ed told me that Dayton told him that he didn't realize how much he loved me until this happened. So maybe that's another blessing, that we've been reawakened to realize just how much we all mean to each other.
There is a reason for everything. I have to believe this.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Diagnosis
Friday, July 27. Dayton is in a pissy mood. He wants to be out on the boat, but we have to go the Doctor's office first. It's cutting into his day. We get everything packed and ready to go, we'll go from the Doc straight to the marina. Just as we get ready to leave, the nurse calls. "Doctor B is still in surgery, running late, could you come in at 11?" I say OK, then tell Dayton. He's ticked even more. "This is taking up my whole day! What a waste of time."
Since we're packed and ready to leave, we decide to stop for breakfast on the way. Stockholm Inn has great Swedish pancakes. It's been rainy and cloudy all morning, and that's good, since we want to bring Geronimo with. He can guard the car (he does an excellent job of that), and then we can go straight to the boat. But with the hour delay, the clouds are beginning to break up when we reach the clinic. "I'll go out and check on him if we have to wait long," grumbles Dayton. "I hope this Doctor doesn't make us wait."
The waiting room is the busiest I've seen, and it seems that all the women are pregnant or carrying new-born babies. It's odd to be sharing the room with them, my problem may originate in the same organ, but they are normal, and I am not. It's a little depressing. Don't get me wrong, I've never had children, and I've never wanted children, and I've never regretted that decision. I just feel like an outsider.
At 11:05 am., the nurse calls my name, and I ask if Dayton can come in too. "Of course," and we are escorted to one of the tiny exam rooms. She takes my blood pressure, then says the doc will be right in.
Dr. B comes in. He shakes Dayton's hand, he takes my hand, then stands at the desk with my file. "I wanted you to come in today, because we got the biopsy results late yesterday. I almost called and asked you to come in last night, but it was late. And I thought about waiting until your follow-up next week, but this is your life, and you deserve to know. We found cancerous cells in your uterus."
I have cancer.
I have cancer.
I have cancer.
The world is still and quiet. Dayton has stopped breathing - the man who is never still is as still as a statue.
I have cancer.
I watch Doctor B as he pulls out the biopsy report. "Here, I want you to see it in writing. I want you to see that this is the report on your biopsy. See, here is your name. See, here is the result." He reads the words. I understand.
I have cancer.
Dayton moves, and takes my hand. I can't look at him. I just keep looking at Doctor B. He keeps talking. I start shaking. I'm so cold. Dayton puts his arm around me, Doctor B hands me the box of tissues. I hear him saying things like "I am so sorry. I was so surprised. I thought the tissues looked fine. But that's why we sent them to the labs, so they can find the things we can't see. You deserved to know, you needed to know."
I have cancer. I have cancerIhavecancerIhavecancerIhavecancer.
Oh my God, how can I tell my mom that I have cancer?????
That's when I start to cry. Not hard, not long. Just a short weep. But I can't lose control right now, I have to listen to what he is saying. And I can see how much he hates telling me all this.
And I can feel Dayton shaking, and I can hear him trying to control his breathing, and I know he's trying so hard not to fall apart, and I can't do anything to comfort him. Because this is me. I'm the one with cancer.
He's talking about more tests, and referring me to a specialist. I will have to have a full hyterectomy, and they will pull the lymph nodes and check them, too. But there is nobody in town that specializes in gynecologic oncology. He suggests Rush, Northwestern, UW-Madison. I latch on to Rush - that's where my Mom had her cancer surgery years ago. He asks if I want him to go ahead and set things up, and I say, "yes, please."
He leaves the room, and Dayton holds me. I start berating myself. "It's my own fault. It's my own damn fault. Why was I so stupid to go so long without being checked? I know better than this! I knew the risks! Why didn't I get myself checked?" Dayton tries to soothe me, "Hon, it's not your fault." Dr. B walks back in and Dayton says, "Tell her, it's not her fault."
And Dr B says, "No, it is NOT your fault. Even if you had come in 6 months ago, we would not have found this. This is not a cancer that is normally tested for. We don't usually find it until the patient is in pain. Please, if nothing else, don't blame yourself. It is not your fault."
I'm absolved. I'm still in shock, but the blame is gone.
He wants me to schedule a pelvic CT and a chest X-ray. I'm to call his office as soon as the tests are done. We'll move on from there. He gives me a prescription for Vicidin, so that I'm not in as much pain. He's going to be gone all weekend, but he offers his pager number in case I want to call him. I don't want it. I just want to get out of this building as fast as possible.
As we stand, he gives me a big hug. "You're going to be OK," I think he says. He shakes Dayton's hand. "Call the office if you need anything." I can't talk. I walk out of the office. Dayton catches up with me at the elevators. "Do you want to go make those appointments? They are on the first floor." We reach the first floor, and I walk toward the outside doors. They are so far away. "Hon, do you want to go make those appointments?"
"I need Geronimo. I need to see Geronimo." We go out the doors to the parking lot. As soon as the outside air hits, I start to whimper. "I have cancer. Oh, God, I have cancer. I could die of this."
Geronimo is frantic when we reach the car. It's gotten sunny, and he's hot. Dayton clips the leash on and the pup and I take off. There a grassy area surrounding the parking lot, and I take the pup over there. I walk him - but I feel blind and empty. I don't know where Dayton is, I just need to walk.
After a while Dayton comes to me and holds me. I'm just stunned, I can't process this. "Come on, hon, let's go make those appointments." So I go back in the clinic, find radiology, and ask to be scheduled for the tests. Monday morning at 8:00 is the first opening, and I take it. The cheerful clerk hands me a jug. "Drink half of this 2 hours before the CT, and the rest 1 hour before." She gives me a page of instructions. I tuck them into my red folder, and go back out to the parking lot to Dayton.
He's already started calling people. His daughter Shawn is there in the parking lot. She sees me and comes running up, throws her arms around me. "We love you, Leanne. I called my brothers, and I called my mom, and we're all praying for you."
Of course I cry and she cries and Dayton cries and Geronimo fusses because he's hot and nobody is paying any attention to him. Shawn asks, "have you called your mom yet?"
"I can't, I can't, I can't tell my mom. I'll tell her next week. She has my niece with her this week, let her enjoy their time together before I have to tell her this." Shawn insists, "No, you need to tell her." I try again. "I can't tell her over the phone. I have to tell her in person. And we're going to the boat now. I'll go see her next week and tell her." And Shawn fixes her eyes on her dad and says, "If you want to go tell your Mom in person then Dad will take you now, won't you, Dad?"
But I can't tell her right now. I promise that I'll call her later today, after we get to the boat. I promise. I will tell my mom.
It's a 90-minute drive to the marina. Sometimes we talk, sometimes I just stare out the window and weep. About 15 minutes before the marina, we pull over in Galena so Dayton can take a call on his cell phone. I remember that my phone is still turned off, so I turn it on.
There is one message. It came in at 11:11 a.m. "Hi, it's Mom. Just calling to see if you're doing OK."
11:11. That's when Doctor B was giving us the diagnosis. She didn't kow about the appointment this morning. I didn't tell her. But Mom already knows. I'll have to confirm it, but deep inside, she knows.
That's when I lose it. Deep, wracking sobs. I'm curled over again, but this time the pain is emotional, not physicial. When Dayton comes back to the car, it takes a long time for him to quiet me down.
At the boat, I make a cup of tea, then run down the battery of my cell phone. Mom's not home, so I call Donna, Linda, Mom again (no answer) Sue, Karen, Mom again (no answer), Kathy, my sister (no answer), Mom again. Dayton goes off to do boat stuff while I'm calling, and it's good to have some privacy for the calls. Each call gets a little easier. It helps to tell people. Everybody has a pearl of wisdom to share that will help me get through this. I am so blessed with my friends.
I finally get hold of Mom on her cell phone. She's at the mall with my niece. I can't give her the news there. I keep my voice light. "Oh, I just thought I'd fill you in on my week. We're about ready to go get dinner and groceries. How about I call you at home when I get back."
It works.
I have a glass of wine at dinner. I deserve it. I have cancer, and if I want a drink at dinner, then I will have one. I won't take the Vicidin until bedtime anyway.
Back at the boat, I try Mom again. And she is home. I ask her about her week, she tells me of the fun she and Shawnee have had. But we're not fooled. She knows, and when she is ready, she asks.
And I tell my Mom that I have cancer. It is one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. She does OK, we both hold it together. She asks me to call my sister, and I tell her I've already tried a couple times, but I'll keep trying. We hang up.
Dayton asks, "how did she take it?" And I tell him, "I know she fell apart as soon as hung up the phone. But Shawnee is there, and my Uncle Bill is staying there too, and so she is not alone. And she will be OK."
I call my sister, and tell her the news, too. And finally I'm done calling for the day. I'm done with the day. There is nothing left to do but take the pill that will help me deal with the cancer pain, and try to sleep.
Since we're packed and ready to leave, we decide to stop for breakfast on the way. Stockholm Inn has great Swedish pancakes. It's been rainy and cloudy all morning, and that's good, since we want to bring Geronimo with. He can guard the car (he does an excellent job of that), and then we can go straight to the boat. But with the hour delay, the clouds are beginning to break up when we reach the clinic. "I'll go out and check on him if we have to wait long," grumbles Dayton. "I hope this Doctor doesn't make us wait."
The waiting room is the busiest I've seen, and it seems that all the women are pregnant or carrying new-born babies. It's odd to be sharing the room with them, my problem may originate in the same organ, but they are normal, and I am not. It's a little depressing. Don't get me wrong, I've never had children, and I've never wanted children, and I've never regretted that decision. I just feel like an outsider.
At 11:05 am., the nurse calls my name, and I ask if Dayton can come in too. "Of course," and we are escorted to one of the tiny exam rooms. She takes my blood pressure, then says the doc will be right in.
Dr. B comes in. He shakes Dayton's hand, he takes my hand, then stands at the desk with my file. "I wanted you to come in today, because we got the biopsy results late yesterday. I almost called and asked you to come in last night, but it was late. And I thought about waiting until your follow-up next week, but this is your life, and you deserve to know. We found cancerous cells in your uterus."
I have cancer.
I have cancer.
I have cancer.
The world is still and quiet. Dayton has stopped breathing - the man who is never still is as still as a statue.
I have cancer.
I watch Doctor B as he pulls out the biopsy report. "Here, I want you to see it in writing. I want you to see that this is the report on your biopsy. See, here is your name. See, here is the result." He reads the words. I understand.
I have cancer.
Dayton moves, and takes my hand. I can't look at him. I just keep looking at Doctor B. He keeps talking. I start shaking. I'm so cold. Dayton puts his arm around me, Doctor B hands me the box of tissues. I hear him saying things like "I am so sorry. I was so surprised. I thought the tissues looked fine. But that's why we sent them to the labs, so they can find the things we can't see. You deserved to know, you needed to know."
I have cancer. I have cancerIhavecancerIhavecancerIhavecancer.
Oh my God, how can I tell my mom that I have cancer?????
That's when I start to cry. Not hard, not long. Just a short weep. But I can't lose control right now, I have to listen to what he is saying. And I can see how much he hates telling me all this.
And I can feel Dayton shaking, and I can hear him trying to control his breathing, and I know he's trying so hard not to fall apart, and I can't do anything to comfort him. Because this is me. I'm the one with cancer.
He's talking about more tests, and referring me to a specialist. I will have to have a full hyterectomy, and they will pull the lymph nodes and check them, too. But there is nobody in town that specializes in gynecologic oncology. He suggests Rush, Northwestern, UW-Madison. I latch on to Rush - that's where my Mom had her cancer surgery years ago. He asks if I want him to go ahead and set things up, and I say, "yes, please."
He leaves the room, and Dayton holds me. I start berating myself. "It's my own fault. It's my own damn fault. Why was I so stupid to go so long without being checked? I know better than this! I knew the risks! Why didn't I get myself checked?" Dayton tries to soothe me, "Hon, it's not your fault." Dr. B walks back in and Dayton says, "Tell her, it's not her fault."
And Dr B says, "No, it is NOT your fault. Even if you had come in 6 months ago, we would not have found this. This is not a cancer that is normally tested for. We don't usually find it until the patient is in pain. Please, if nothing else, don't blame yourself. It is not your fault."
I'm absolved. I'm still in shock, but the blame is gone.
He wants me to schedule a pelvic CT and a chest X-ray. I'm to call his office as soon as the tests are done. We'll move on from there. He gives me a prescription for Vicidin, so that I'm not in as much pain. He's going to be gone all weekend, but he offers his pager number in case I want to call him. I don't want it. I just want to get out of this building as fast as possible.
As we stand, he gives me a big hug. "You're going to be OK," I think he says. He shakes Dayton's hand. "Call the office if you need anything." I can't talk. I walk out of the office. Dayton catches up with me at the elevators. "Do you want to go make those appointments? They are on the first floor." We reach the first floor, and I walk toward the outside doors. They are so far away. "Hon, do you want to go make those appointments?"
"I need Geronimo. I need to see Geronimo." We go out the doors to the parking lot. As soon as the outside air hits, I start to whimper. "I have cancer. Oh, God, I have cancer. I could die of this."
Geronimo is frantic when we reach the car. It's gotten sunny, and he's hot. Dayton clips the leash on and the pup and I take off. There a grassy area surrounding the parking lot, and I take the pup over there. I walk him - but I feel blind and empty. I don't know where Dayton is, I just need to walk.
After a while Dayton comes to me and holds me. I'm just stunned, I can't process this. "Come on, hon, let's go make those appointments." So I go back in the clinic, find radiology, and ask to be scheduled for the tests. Monday morning at 8:00 is the first opening, and I take it. The cheerful clerk hands me a jug. "Drink half of this 2 hours before the CT, and the rest 1 hour before." She gives me a page of instructions. I tuck them into my red folder, and go back out to the parking lot to Dayton.
He's already started calling people. His daughter Shawn is there in the parking lot. She sees me and comes running up, throws her arms around me. "We love you, Leanne. I called my brothers, and I called my mom, and we're all praying for you."
Of course I cry and she cries and Dayton cries and Geronimo fusses because he's hot and nobody is paying any attention to him. Shawn asks, "have you called your mom yet?"
"I can't, I can't, I can't tell my mom. I'll tell her next week. She has my niece with her this week, let her enjoy their time together before I have to tell her this." Shawn insists, "No, you need to tell her." I try again. "I can't tell her over the phone. I have to tell her in person. And we're going to the boat now. I'll go see her next week and tell her." And Shawn fixes her eyes on her dad and says, "If you want to go tell your Mom in person then Dad will take you now, won't you, Dad?"
But I can't tell her right now. I promise that I'll call her later today, after we get to the boat. I promise. I will tell my mom.
It's a 90-minute drive to the marina. Sometimes we talk, sometimes I just stare out the window and weep. About 15 minutes before the marina, we pull over in Galena so Dayton can take a call on his cell phone. I remember that my phone is still turned off, so I turn it on.
There is one message. It came in at 11:11 a.m. "Hi, it's Mom. Just calling to see if you're doing OK."
11:11. That's when Doctor B was giving us the diagnosis. She didn't kow about the appointment this morning. I didn't tell her. But Mom already knows. I'll have to confirm it, but deep inside, she knows.
That's when I lose it. Deep, wracking sobs. I'm curled over again, but this time the pain is emotional, not physicial. When Dayton comes back to the car, it takes a long time for him to quiet me down.
At the boat, I make a cup of tea, then run down the battery of my cell phone. Mom's not home, so I call Donna, Linda, Mom again (no answer) Sue, Karen, Mom again (no answer), Kathy, my sister (no answer), Mom again. Dayton goes off to do boat stuff while I'm calling, and it's good to have some privacy for the calls. Each call gets a little easier. It helps to tell people. Everybody has a pearl of wisdom to share that will help me get through this. I am so blessed with my friends.
I finally get hold of Mom on her cell phone. She's at the mall with my niece. I can't give her the news there. I keep my voice light. "Oh, I just thought I'd fill you in on my week. We're about ready to go get dinner and groceries. How about I call you at home when I get back."
It works.
I have a glass of wine at dinner. I deserve it. I have cancer, and if I want a drink at dinner, then I will have one. I won't take the Vicidin until bedtime anyway.
Back at the boat, I try Mom again. And she is home. I ask her about her week, she tells me of the fun she and Shawnee have had. But we're not fooled. She knows, and when she is ready, she asks.
And I tell my Mom that I have cancer. It is one of the hardest things I have ever done in my life. She does OK, we both hold it together. She asks me to call my sister, and I tell her I've already tried a couple times, but I'll keep trying. We hang up.
Dayton asks, "how did she take it?" And I tell him, "I know she fell apart as soon as hung up the phone. But Shawnee is there, and my Uncle Bill is staying there too, and so she is not alone. And she will be OK."
I call my sister, and tell her the news, too. And finally I'm done calling for the day. I'm done with the day. There is nothing left to do but take the pill that will help me deal with the cancer pain, and try to sleep.
Quiet Before the Storm
Thursday, July 26. Had to cancel a rehearsal for today. It's not a bad day, some minor pain but manageable. I work in my office for hours, trying to get things caught up. If I'm having surgery soon, I want to tie up as many loose ends as possible.
Nurse Roberta calls later in the afternoon. "Dr B would like you and your husband to come in tomorrow at 10:00." "Well, sure," I say, "what exactly are we coming in for." She answers cheerfully, "he wants a consultation with you."
Dayton is excited. "See, it's because I called. They are expediting everything. I bet they're going to do all the pre-surgical stuff tomorrow, and get you in next week."
"But why do they want to make sure you come with? Maybe they got the results, maybe it's cancer."
And Dayton reacts quickly. "Don't even SAY that! You have to stay positive! Don't even THINK that! They are just trying to help you out because I called. Maybe the Doctor wants to tell me to lay off, to stop being so pushy.
Maybe.
It's a pretty good day, all in all. We order pizza for supper, and halfway through, I bite into something hard. "Bone?" I pull it out, and realize that I've broken a tooth! It's probably the one that is scheduled to have a cap put on next month anyway. We'll talk with Dr. B tomorrow, and based on when they can do the surgery, I'll give the dentist a call. How annoying. Like my friend Mary told me, "After 40 it's patch, patch, patch."
Nurse Roberta calls later in the afternoon. "Dr B would like you and your husband to come in tomorrow at 10:00." "Well, sure," I say, "what exactly are we coming in for." She answers cheerfully, "he wants a consultation with you."
Dayton is excited. "See, it's because I called. They are expediting everything. I bet they're going to do all the pre-surgical stuff tomorrow, and get you in next week."
"But why do they want to make sure you come with? Maybe they got the results, maybe it's cancer."
And Dayton reacts quickly. "Don't even SAY that! You have to stay positive! Don't even THINK that! They are just trying to help you out because I called. Maybe the Doctor wants to tell me to lay off, to stop being so pushy.
Maybe.
It's a pretty good day, all in all. We order pizza for supper, and halfway through, I bite into something hard. "Bone?" I pull it out, and realize that I've broken a tooth! It's probably the one that is scheduled to have a cap put on next month anyway. We'll talk with Dr. B tomorrow, and based on when they can do the surgery, I'll give the dentist a call. How annoying. Like my friend Mary told me, "After 40 it's patch, patch, patch."
My Knight in Shining Cell Phone
Wednesday, July 25: I'm one of those annoying super organized people. A couple days ago, I had taken all the medical papers, business cards, etc. and put them into a red folder. And I told Dayton, "in case you need it, here's all the medical stuff. Here's the Doctor's business card and his phone number." Dayton asked, "Why would I need that?"
It's the day after the biopsy, the one that didn't hurt. I've been taking the Ibuprofin religiously every 4 hours, just like Doctor B said. And I'm tired, so I've laid down for a nap. Geronimo is curled up with me, and all is well with the world.
Until I oversleep the next dosage time by 20 minutes.
A searing pain wakes me. This isn't a cramp. This feels like my left side is going to explode. I can't get up to get the pills, I can't get out of a fetal position. My feet are toeing into the mattress, my hands are clenching the blankets, sweat is pouring out of my body, and I am rocking, moaning, swearing, barely holding back from shrieking. I'm not crying - it hurts too much to cry.
It's not pretty. Geronimo is whining and whimpering - he's scared. I'm scared too. Where is the ambulance? Get me to the hospital! I'm screaming the words in my head, but only whimpers escape my lips.
Dayton helps me sit up long enough to swallow some pills and water. I'm in some other state of consciousness - not really in this painful body, just standing outside watching. Gradually, the pain fades.
That's when I hear him. My knight in shining cell phone. He's on the phone with the doctor's office, and is advocating for me. "I understand you have your procedures. I understand you need to wait for the biopsy results before you can do the surgery. But can we at least get her scheduled for the surgery now? You say there is one opening for next week, can we get her on the schedule? The biopsy reports should be back by then. Please understand, I'm not trying to be pushy. But this is my wife, and I love her, and I can't stand seeing her in this agony."
My hero.
After the meds kick in, after I stagger out of bed, he tells me that they are going to try to expedite the surgery. "They wanted me to bring you to the emergency room, but when I explained that we're 45 minutes away, and your cramps usually only last 10-20 minutes, they realized that it wouldn't do any good."
Nurse Karen calls just before dinner and talks with Dayton again. "Yes, she's up and around. How would she rate that episode on a scale of 1-10?" I call out "8".
He hangs up finally, and takes me in his arms. "They really are nice people," he says. "They're going to try to get you in for the surgery next week, but they need to talk with the Doctor."
I set my alarm so I don't miss any more dosage times.
It's the day after the biopsy, the one that didn't hurt. I've been taking the Ibuprofin religiously every 4 hours, just like Doctor B said. And I'm tired, so I've laid down for a nap. Geronimo is curled up with me, and all is well with the world.
Until I oversleep the next dosage time by 20 minutes.
A searing pain wakes me. This isn't a cramp. This feels like my left side is going to explode. I can't get up to get the pills, I can't get out of a fetal position. My feet are toeing into the mattress, my hands are clenching the blankets, sweat is pouring out of my body, and I am rocking, moaning, swearing, barely holding back from shrieking. I'm not crying - it hurts too much to cry.
It's not pretty. Geronimo is whining and whimpering - he's scared. I'm scared too. Where is the ambulance? Get me to the hospital! I'm screaming the words in my head, but only whimpers escape my lips.
Dayton helps me sit up long enough to swallow some pills and water. I'm in some other state of consciousness - not really in this painful body, just standing outside watching. Gradually, the pain fades.
That's when I hear him. My knight in shining cell phone. He's on the phone with the doctor's office, and is advocating for me. "I understand you have your procedures. I understand you need to wait for the biopsy results before you can do the surgery. But can we at least get her scheduled for the surgery now? You say there is one opening for next week, can we get her on the schedule? The biopsy reports should be back by then. Please understand, I'm not trying to be pushy. But this is my wife, and I love her, and I can't stand seeing her in this agony."
My hero.
After the meds kick in, after I stagger out of bed, he tells me that they are going to try to expedite the surgery. "They wanted me to bring you to the emergency room, but when I explained that we're 45 minutes away, and your cramps usually only last 10-20 minutes, they realized that it wouldn't do any good."
Nurse Karen calls just before dinner and talks with Dayton again. "Yes, she's up and around. How would she rate that episode on a scale of 1-10?" I call out "8".
He hangs up finally, and takes me in his arms. "They really are nice people," he says. "They're going to try to get you in for the surgery next week, but they need to talk with the Doctor."
I set my alarm so I don't miss any more dosage times.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Biopsy
Tuesday, July 24. I'm scared, scared, scared. Every woman I've talked to who has had an endometrial biopsy has told me it is extremely painful. The booklet that Doc B. gave me says I will feel some cramping or pinching. I've been living with these awful cramps for a week now, I don't want more pain. I also don't want to live in this pain. So, I cry. I cry during my morning tea. I cry during breakfast. I cry as I read my email and try to focus on work stuff. I am such a cry-baby, I am ashamed of myself! And still I'm scared.
Doc said take 2 Ibuprofins one hour before the biopsy. I am very careful to do this! Dayton tries to jolly me into a good mood all morning. It's not funny, I'm not in a laughing mood, I want to slap him and tell him to shut up but I keep it to myself. He's doing his best, I know that. But it's not helping.
We get to the clinic, a different building from last week. I don't even have the comfort of familiar surroundings. We sit in the waiting room, me growing more and more tense. Why did I bother to bring a book? I certainly can't concentrate on the words.
They call my name. Somehow I get up, somehow I smile at the nurse. She's wearing scrubs with Eeyore and Winnie the Pooh on them. I love Eeyore, but I don't relax. She checks my weight - same as Friday, she checks my height - again, same. She checks my blood pressure and it's actually a little lower than it's been. Funny, I'm so scared and yet my BP is back down in the normal range. She starts taking my history - again. She asks if I've had this procedure before, and I lose it, and start sobbing.
Years ago, the nurses would have scolded and said, "Oh, come on, it's not going to be that bad." Not Selinda. She gets up and folds her ample arms around me and holds me tight. "It's OK," she murmers, "we'll take care of you, don't worry." I pull myself together, and she asks me to take off everything below the waist, and get on the table while she gets the doctor. So, I do. I hate this. I hate this. I HATE this!!!!!
There's a knock on the door, and I mumble something. Doc B comes in, smiling. "How are you today?" And I burst into tears - again. Poor man, he wasn't expecting this. He reaches over and gives me a quick hug. "It won't be so bad, you'll see." I sob out, "I'm so scared, the cramps are back, they're worse than before, what if it's cancer?"
Doc B steps back and says, "You know, I think that you've worked yourself up so much that it would be kinder if we just get the procedure over quickly, and then we can talk."
And the biopsy is done. I lay back, and try to relax. The nurse hands hime things - I don't want to see the probes. I feel the speculum go in, it's not too bad. I feel other things go in, not sure what they are, but they don't hurt. I'm starting to relax, and so I try to joke, "So, are you done yet?" And to my surprise he says, "Yes, just one more swipe - I told you it wouldn't hurt."
It didn't hurt. It didn't hurt. I can't believe it - I had the biopsy and it didn't hurt!
He finishes, and the nurse helps me sit up. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, what questions can I answer for you? The tissues look normal to the eye, although of course we won't know for certain until we get the lab results." We talk, and I ask about controlling the cramps. The nurse suggests upping the dose of Ibuprofin and he agrees. "Take 2 tablets every 4 hours. It's better to keep it in your system than trying to take one just before the pain gets bad."
Then I'm free to go. It will take about a week to get the results, they say. So I make an appointment for the following week. "It will just be a consultation," says the nurse. "You won't even have to take your clothes off!" "Well, that will be different," and we leave the clinic.
I'm giddy. We stop at Starbucks for Chai. We stop at Office Max for print cartridges. We stop at 3 Sisters Cafe before we get home and treat ourselves to ice cream. It's a wonderful afternoon. I feel TERRIFIC!!!! I keep saying over and over in the car, "It didn't hurt! It didn't hurt!"
The euphoria lasts until 5:30 p.m. Then I drift to the couch, tired and crampy. "Maybe it will take a while for the extra drugs to catch up." It's another long night.
Doc said take 2 Ibuprofins one hour before the biopsy. I am very careful to do this! Dayton tries to jolly me into a good mood all morning. It's not funny, I'm not in a laughing mood, I want to slap him and tell him to shut up but I keep it to myself. He's doing his best, I know that. But it's not helping.
We get to the clinic, a different building from last week. I don't even have the comfort of familiar surroundings. We sit in the waiting room, me growing more and more tense. Why did I bother to bring a book? I certainly can't concentrate on the words.
They call my name. Somehow I get up, somehow I smile at the nurse. She's wearing scrubs with Eeyore and Winnie the Pooh on them. I love Eeyore, but I don't relax. She checks my weight - same as Friday, she checks my height - again, same. She checks my blood pressure and it's actually a little lower than it's been. Funny, I'm so scared and yet my BP is back down in the normal range. She starts taking my history - again. She asks if I've had this procedure before, and I lose it, and start sobbing.
Years ago, the nurses would have scolded and said, "Oh, come on, it's not going to be that bad." Not Selinda. She gets up and folds her ample arms around me and holds me tight. "It's OK," she murmers, "we'll take care of you, don't worry." I pull myself together, and she asks me to take off everything below the waist, and get on the table while she gets the doctor. So, I do. I hate this. I hate this. I HATE this!!!!!
There's a knock on the door, and I mumble something. Doc B comes in, smiling. "How are you today?" And I burst into tears - again. Poor man, he wasn't expecting this. He reaches over and gives me a quick hug. "It won't be so bad, you'll see." I sob out, "I'm so scared, the cramps are back, they're worse than before, what if it's cancer?"
Doc B steps back and says, "You know, I think that you've worked yourself up so much that it would be kinder if we just get the procedure over quickly, and then we can talk."
And the biopsy is done. I lay back, and try to relax. The nurse hands hime things - I don't want to see the probes. I feel the speculum go in, it's not too bad. I feel other things go in, not sure what they are, but they don't hurt. I'm starting to relax, and so I try to joke, "So, are you done yet?" And to my surprise he says, "Yes, just one more swipe - I told you it wouldn't hurt."
It didn't hurt. It didn't hurt. I can't believe it - I had the biopsy and it didn't hurt!
He finishes, and the nurse helps me sit up. "Now that we've gotten that out of the way, what questions can I answer for you? The tissues look normal to the eye, although of course we won't know for certain until we get the lab results." We talk, and I ask about controlling the cramps. The nurse suggests upping the dose of Ibuprofin and he agrees. "Take 2 tablets every 4 hours. It's better to keep it in your system than trying to take one just before the pain gets bad."
Then I'm free to go. It will take about a week to get the results, they say. So I make an appointment for the following week. "It will just be a consultation," says the nurse. "You won't even have to take your clothes off!" "Well, that will be different," and we leave the clinic.
I'm giddy. We stop at Starbucks for Chai. We stop at Office Max for print cartridges. We stop at 3 Sisters Cafe before we get home and treat ourselves to ice cream. It's a wonderful afternoon. I feel TERRIFIC!!!! I keep saying over and over in the car, "It didn't hurt! It didn't hurt!"
The euphoria lasts until 5:30 p.m. Then I drift to the couch, tired and crampy. "Maybe it will take a while for the extra drugs to catch up." It's another long night.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)