So in a continuation of yesterday's "good day" status, I started my "Farewell Tour". It's not that I plan on dying or never seeing people again, it more like a rock star's farewell tour when they "retire" and they are back again a month later. Since it is a good idea for me to sequester myself during my chemo treatment, I went around to some friends yesterday checking in. It was good. There were many people I hadn't seen since before my surgery. In fact, yesterday was the first day I had driven by myself in three weeks! And as far as I know, I didn't run over anyone.
A friend of mine lost his wife to cancer about a decade ago. During her battles she became a very strong advocate for the mental welfare of all those affected by cancer. She worked so tirelessly at this she has a facility named in her honor at the Wellness Community. My friend, her husband, urged me to give it a try. For the past few weeks I had planned to go to one of the meetings, and never actually made it to one. My wife said she would go with me. I said, I didn't need her to go, but she was welcome to come. She would never say she wanted to come, but she wouldn't exactly let me go by myself. So we head over last night for the Newcomers meeting. I don't even know why I am going or what I expect to get out of it. All I know is my friend who lost his wife said it would help us to go. The creator of NoBoobsAboutIt.com, who has also been very supportive and helpful, urged me that those things would be beneficial to us as well.
Since I have never been to one of these I am basically expecting all of us to sit around in a circle in a very sterile looking room and go around one by one like a 12-step program. "Hi, I'm Tom and I got my nut cut off three weeks ago." Everyone in a monotone voice, "Hi, Tom". But, that isn't what it was like at all. It was a very nice room, with very cushy chairs and back pillows that make it impossible to sit up straight. We just randomly pick two chairs and realize we are sitting underneath a painting that my friend had painted of his dearly departed wife. That was almost too much for me. It was like my friend's wife was looking over us, guiding us. The meeting starts. Only one other couple shows up so we are motioned to the couch, which is also a little difficult to find a comfortable position. The therapist, who assures us he is not acting as a therapist for the purposes of this meeting, goes over the programs at the facility and we take a tour. We come back to our little circle and someone mentions how some people view a connection between the emotional state and where your cancer happens. As an example she talks about one person who said they felt like their marriage "strangling" her and turned out she had tumors on either side of her neck. In the room are a testicular cancer patient, a breast cancer patient, and two colon cancer survivors. I don't hear much of the rest of what she was saying, because I am using that theory to try to figure out who is causing us a pain in the ass, balls, and boobs. I would explore this theory in more depth later on the way home and how best to avoid cancer to my remaining gentleman's bits, with my wife rejecting each suggested "treatment" I came up with. I guess she just doesn't care about medical research.
Back to the meeting, we later break out for a one on one meeting with the currently non-therapying therapist. I sit down at a big table in another uncomfortable chair. What is it with this place? Then I realize, I may not be the chair, it may be the giant gash at my waistline that is keeping me from getting comfortable. I try some reclining Tai-Chi and yoga so I can get into a position where I can focus on what he's saying. He asked how I heard of the place, and I mention a nurse told us to go as well as my friend and I say my friend's name. He looks at me with a blank stare and admits he doesn't know who that is. During the tour, I noticed that my friend and/or his wife's name is literally on just about every wall in the place. I explain that my friend is the guy mentioned there, and there, and there, and he painted that, and that, and his wife is mentioned there, and there, and there...OK, I didn't say it quite like that, but I did point out his relationship to the building's name. The therapist is very surprised and asked me to tell him that he said hello even though he knows he won't know who he is but he wants me to tell him he says hello anyway. That moment almost made me bust out laughing. Although, my friend is very supportive to those with cancer and supports the mission in every way he can, I don't think he has any power whatsoever on the daily hirings and firings of the facility. We start talking about what we will get out of the official group meetings. I mention that I feel like as a Stage I guy, I am afraid the Stage IV people will look down on my and try to beat me up at lunch. He assures me they won't, but I am still a little afraid, although watching a bunch of chemo patients rumble would probably be the least exciting fight ever. He sees my "It's all fun and games until someone loses a nut" shirt (yes I found one!) and he says that is a good attitude to have. I tell him about some of the other shirts I have been wearing lately, including the one that looks like a pack of Camel cigarettes except in the place of "Camel" is "Cancer" with "Genuine Fate" replacing "Genuine Taste". He laughs, and quickly stops and gets in to therapist mode even though he isn't a therapist at this point in time. He explains that although he is not allowed to give advice, he would really appreciate it if I would not wear that particular shirt to the facility, as not all the participants would appreciate that type of humor. We schedule me into a group and I have my wife come in.
She comes out of her meeting and it looks like she has been crying. Part of me is glad, I feel like she has been bottling in a lot of this stuff, so I am thankful that the non-therapying therapist was able to let her get that off her chest. Another part of me feels like my heart is ripped out, because more than likely I am the reason for those tears. Another reason that if I ever find cancer's ass, I am going to kick it. I restrain myself from kicking to two colon cancer people. After all they are colon cancer survivors, so they don't possess cancer's ass anymore, no sense in kicking them. She comes out and the anti-therapist apologizes for taking so long to my cancer support babysitter, something he also did for me. I wonder if he were an actually therapizing if he would have tapped his watch and said "session's up"? I don't care, I feel a little better. And my wife seems to feel really good about her meeting and her scheduled group too. We weren't real sure why we were going, but we both seem really glad we went.
We celebrate with a night of fine dining at what a friend calls the WC Steakhouse. No, sliders, just chicken rings and cheese sticks. Yes, its a big bag of crappy, greasy goodness, but after today, White Castle never tasted so good. I don't know what to expect at my first cancer patient's meeting tomorrow, I just know I am going and I can't wear a certain shirt.
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And one footnote. Since I have been e-mailing back and forth to my NoBoobsAboutIt.com buddy, I have always been going to her site from our correspondences. I went to Yahoo search it to make sure I put her site name on here correctly. Instead of a breast cancer site being amongst the results I saw Boobs for Troops. Yes it is exactly what it sounds like. My wife asked if they were covered or uncovered, and I told her some were wearing red, white, and blue pasties. At least our troops know what they are fighting for! God Bless America!!!
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Heading Towards Healing!
Today we met with the new oncologist. Today was a good day! Our new oncologist is nothing like Dr. Jekyll that we had last week.
First of all, even though this facility is also in a high traffic area, it's in our high traffic area. So we cut about twenty minutes on our drive each direction. And the office was colorful and inviting, the previous place had all the ambiance of Driver's License Branch with longer lines and wait times. The old place, because of the long lines, put the nurses stations nearly right on top of each other. When they took my vitals, my temperature was 197.2' because I was so close to another patient the thermometer measured both of us. The new place was spacious and friendly. It had room for my wife to come in while my important numbers were gathered. It was so swanky, I could have sworn I saw someone walk by with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, but it may have just been a tray of specimen cups, it's hard to tell from a distance. What I am getting at is before we even met the new oncologist, we are already in love with this place.
The doctor walks in. Talk, thin, older, soft spoken with glasses, kind of what you would expect a compassionate doctor that is getting ready to talk about very serious things to look like. And what made me really feel at ease, he asked me to start from the beginning. He had gone over my chart already, but he wanted to hear it in my own words. I'm glad. Who knows what Dr. Jekyll wrote on my chart? I imagine it's something like, "Patient has cancer or something, somewhere in the lower half, wants some treatment, I wonder what's for lunch, Jimmy John's, no had that yesterday, wonder where the nurses are going, I thought I heard one say Arby's, that sounds good, although their chicken is spicier than it used to be, I'll just get a roast beef, that's always a safe bet, I wonder where this guy's going to eat, oh that's my patient, what's he still doing here, I think he just asked me something, just tell him he's good and we'll schedule another appointment next week, maybe I'll get Jimmy John's after all" The fact that we are starting over from scratch doesn't seem so much like we are going backward in my treatment, it feels like a fresh start. He listens intently to both of us and doesn't once make any notes on my chart about lunch. He asks about my gastro-intestinal issues. Dr. Jekyll's way of dealing with my GI issues was to just say that I didn't have any. I feel like I am in a dream things are going so well.
After our initial conversation, we move to treatment options. He agrees that chemo is the best option, BUT he wasn't completely sure, so he called a colleague he knew at Indiana University (nice place!) that has a little bit of experience with testicular cancer. He was one of Lance Armstrong's doctors! Now at first we are very impressed (and we still are), but I imagine Lance probably had more than one oncologist. But hey, if he wants to work some Lance magic on me that will be just fine. I don't need to win the Tour de France, I will settle for just being able to walk down to the end of the driveway without having to wobble and collapsing on the couch when I get back. And how much Lance magic will he be working on me? Will I have to follow in his footsteps and divorce my wife, hook up with Sheryl Crow and one of the Olsens? I don't even like Sheryl Crow, and I guess if I have to take one of the Olsens, I'll go for Lizzie. She won't be as stuck up as Mary Kate or Ashley, but she still probably has some of their billions. Oh, the doctor's still talking to me. He says he was leaning towards a single larger dose in my case and Lance's doctor agreed. Dr. Jekyll wanted two smaller doses. For those uninitiated to the wonderful world of chemo (including me until just a few days ago) although two smaller doses sounds like the easier option, it's actually worse. It seems the longer you are on chemo, the more the side effects compound onto each other. One large dose can get the job done just as effectively with far less complications. Good news, except now I have to get that haircut. He said I may loose a little from the treatment, but definitely not all. If there is one thing worse than shaggy hair with widow's peaks, it's splotchy shaggy hair with widow's peaks.
Obviously I am still concerned about the GI issues. I tell him about the appointment I scheduled with the GI doc to help regulate my medications during the rest of my treatment. I ask for the exact dosage and name so I can take the information to my appointment. He said he will send a note to that doctor, but "I will just tell Steve when I see him at the hospital today." What?!?! I know I am in a dream now. Not only does he acknowledge that I have GI issues, and wants to work with me, he knows my GI doc on a first name basis and sees him everyday at the hospital where they both do procedures! He does a quick physical exam, including lifting my shirt, where he seems my GI surgery scars and makes a comment about the "old way" that involved about an eight inch gash rather than five small holes. Hmmm, someone should tell Dr. Jekyll if I am making up this GI thing, I went through an awful lot of trouble to create scars twelve years ago just to mess with him.
He explains my situation to me in depth. He explains the differences in types of stages of cancer and that I am a "Clinical Stage I". He is throwing out percentages of reoccurring, chances of living cancer free, all the stuff we never heard from the last guy. We still have questions. He keeps patiently answering them. Should we hold off on the baby making? An emphatic YES. Wow, Dr. Jekyll said don't worry about it. I would hate to think about the kid we may have made. Who knows, they may have been able to glow in the dark and been their own night-light. Do I need to stay away from babies? Another very strong YES, and especially their dirty diapers. That one I try to practice on a daily basis anyway, but I appreciate the reinforcement. Dr. Jekyll also told us not to worry about that. If there is one thing worse that creating your own luminescent child, it is turning your friend's kids into glowworms. Dr. Jekyll said my bathroom routine doesn't have to change, where this doc says I could get seriously ill if I floss when my white blood cells are at their lowest and for the duration of my treatment I will always have to flush the toilet twice. I am still not quite sure I understand this one. I have already been accused of having atomic turds. Maybe it is just to flush the incandescent pee to keep fireflies out of the house. Whatever the reason the water company will thank me. Then he tells us there will be plenty more that we haven't or won't think to ask that we will need to know about as well. That is why they give all of their chemo patients and their families/support system a "class" on what to expect, what to do, what not to do. I am waiting for someone to come around the corner with a camera and tell us this is all a prank. This is so different from our last doctor and so exactly how an oncologist appointment should go.
We finish up by scheduling our next several appointments including the class, chemo, blood-work, follow-up appointments, as well as taking blood-work right now to make sure my white blood cells and platelets are high enough to start chemo. This can't be real. Someone pinch me. OOWW!! That wasn't a pinch, more of a stick with a large needle and two vials of blood, but at least I know I'm not dreaming. This is real. She tests the blood real quick and clears me to start chemo. I am heading towards healing again! November 15th, that's when I can breathe. That's when I can say I'm done with "treatment" and only have to worry about "observation". Two doctor's appointments next week. Chemo the week after that. Ten days later I will feel like crap. But within two weeks or so of that, I should feel like a new man, or at least half a new man since I lost one of my dangling bits. A definitely cancer free man! I can't wait. Today is a great day!
First of all, even though this facility is also in a high traffic area, it's in our high traffic area. So we cut about twenty minutes on our drive each direction. And the office was colorful and inviting, the previous place had all the ambiance of Driver's License Branch with longer lines and wait times. The old place, because of the long lines, put the nurses stations nearly right on top of each other. When they took my vitals, my temperature was 197.2' because I was so close to another patient the thermometer measured both of us. The new place was spacious and friendly. It had room for my wife to come in while my important numbers were gathered. It was so swanky, I could have sworn I saw someone walk by with a tray of hors d'oeuvres, but it may have just been a tray of specimen cups, it's hard to tell from a distance. What I am getting at is before we even met the new oncologist, we are already in love with this place.
The doctor walks in. Talk, thin, older, soft spoken with glasses, kind of what you would expect a compassionate doctor that is getting ready to talk about very serious things to look like. And what made me really feel at ease, he asked me to start from the beginning. He had gone over my chart already, but he wanted to hear it in my own words. I'm glad. Who knows what Dr. Jekyll wrote on my chart? I imagine it's something like, "Patient has cancer or something, somewhere in the lower half, wants some treatment, I wonder what's for lunch, Jimmy John's, no had that yesterday, wonder where the nurses are going, I thought I heard one say Arby's, that sounds good, although their chicken is spicier than it used to be, I'll just get a roast beef, that's always a safe bet, I wonder where this guy's going to eat, oh that's my patient, what's he still doing here, I think he just asked me something, just tell him he's good and we'll schedule another appointment next week, maybe I'll get Jimmy John's after all" The fact that we are starting over from scratch doesn't seem so much like we are going backward in my treatment, it feels like a fresh start. He listens intently to both of us and doesn't once make any notes on my chart about lunch. He asks about my gastro-intestinal issues. Dr. Jekyll's way of dealing with my GI issues was to just say that I didn't have any. I feel like I am in a dream things are going so well.
After our initial conversation, we move to treatment options. He agrees that chemo is the best option, BUT he wasn't completely sure, so he called a colleague he knew at Indiana University (nice place!) that has a little bit of experience with testicular cancer. He was one of Lance Armstrong's doctors! Now at first we are very impressed (and we still are), but I imagine Lance probably had more than one oncologist. But hey, if he wants to work some Lance magic on me that will be just fine. I don't need to win the Tour de France, I will settle for just being able to walk down to the end of the driveway without having to wobble and collapsing on the couch when I get back. And how much Lance magic will he be working on me? Will I have to follow in his footsteps and divorce my wife, hook up with Sheryl Crow and one of the Olsens? I don't even like Sheryl Crow, and I guess if I have to take one of the Olsens, I'll go for Lizzie. She won't be as stuck up as Mary Kate or Ashley, but she still probably has some of their billions. Oh, the doctor's still talking to me. He says he was leaning towards a single larger dose in my case and Lance's doctor agreed. Dr. Jekyll wanted two smaller doses. For those uninitiated to the wonderful world of chemo (including me until just a few days ago) although two smaller doses sounds like the easier option, it's actually worse. It seems the longer you are on chemo, the more the side effects compound onto each other. One large dose can get the job done just as effectively with far less complications. Good news, except now I have to get that haircut. He said I may loose a little from the treatment, but definitely not all. If there is one thing worse than shaggy hair with widow's peaks, it's splotchy shaggy hair with widow's peaks.
Obviously I am still concerned about the GI issues. I tell him about the appointment I scheduled with the GI doc to help regulate my medications during the rest of my treatment. I ask for the exact dosage and name so I can take the information to my appointment. He said he will send a note to that doctor, but "I will just tell Steve when I see him at the hospital today." What?!?! I know I am in a dream now. Not only does he acknowledge that I have GI issues, and wants to work with me, he knows my GI doc on a first name basis and sees him everyday at the hospital where they both do procedures! He does a quick physical exam, including lifting my shirt, where he seems my GI surgery scars and makes a comment about the "old way" that involved about an eight inch gash rather than five small holes. Hmmm, someone should tell Dr. Jekyll if I am making up this GI thing, I went through an awful lot of trouble to create scars twelve years ago just to mess with him.
He explains my situation to me in depth. He explains the differences in types of stages of cancer and that I am a "Clinical Stage I". He is throwing out percentages of reoccurring, chances of living cancer free, all the stuff we never heard from the last guy. We still have questions. He keeps patiently answering them. Should we hold off on the baby making? An emphatic YES. Wow, Dr. Jekyll said don't worry about it. I would hate to think about the kid we may have made. Who knows, they may have been able to glow in the dark and been their own night-light. Do I need to stay away from babies? Another very strong YES, and especially their dirty diapers. That one I try to practice on a daily basis anyway, but I appreciate the reinforcement. Dr. Jekyll also told us not to worry about that. If there is one thing worse that creating your own luminescent child, it is turning your friend's kids into glowworms. Dr. Jekyll said my bathroom routine doesn't have to change, where this doc says I could get seriously ill if I floss when my white blood cells are at their lowest and for the duration of my treatment I will always have to flush the toilet twice. I am still not quite sure I understand this one. I have already been accused of having atomic turds. Maybe it is just to flush the incandescent pee to keep fireflies out of the house. Whatever the reason the water company will thank me. Then he tells us there will be plenty more that we haven't or won't think to ask that we will need to know about as well. That is why they give all of their chemo patients and their families/support system a "class" on what to expect, what to do, what not to do. I am waiting for someone to come around the corner with a camera and tell us this is all a prank. This is so different from our last doctor and so exactly how an oncologist appointment should go.
We finish up by scheduling our next several appointments including the class, chemo, blood-work, follow-up appointments, as well as taking blood-work right now to make sure my white blood cells and platelets are high enough to start chemo. This can't be real. Someone pinch me. OOWW!! That wasn't a pinch, more of a stick with a large needle and two vials of blood, but at least I know I'm not dreaming. This is real. She tests the blood real quick and clears me to start chemo. I am heading towards healing again! November 15th, that's when I can breathe. That's when I can say I'm done with "treatment" and only have to worry about "observation". Two doctor's appointments next week. Chemo the week after that. Ten days later I will feel like crap. But within two weeks or so of that, I should feel like a new man, or at least half a new man since I lost one of my dangling bits. A definitely cancer free man! I can't wait. Today is a great day!
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
The Dying-Cancer-Boy-Look
Cancer changes you. I feel my cancer is a relatively small thing on the cancer barometer. There are many more people going through much tougher battles. And it may sound like a cliche, but no matter what cancer you have, it really does affect your awareness of mortality and how quickly your situation can change.
Anyone that knows me knows I love sunshine, July and August heat, and everything else that goes along with summer (except maybe mosquito bites and sweatiness in areas you don't want to sweat in, but I have less to sweat there now). So, I have been a little down the past few days. Tomorrow will be one month since all this began. The part that is really bothering me is that is a month, the last month of summer, that I have spent in doctor's offices, in magnetic testing tube thingys, in an operating room, dropping my pants out of habit anytime someone in a white coat and a name tag walks by (which makes for an awkward moment at Wal-Mart's vision center), and sitting around watching TV (with and without ice on my crotch). It really drove that fact home with the cold snap we have gotten here the past few days. Today, I switched the heat pump from AC to heat. I keep saying I am not going to let cancer affect me or change my plans, but it has robbed me. It has robbed me of a month of summer. Before I am able to get outside again and do yard work or work on my endless projects in my shop, the summer is gone. I am actually very perturbed about it. I wish I knew where cancer's ass was so I could kick it. Unfortunately, since I had a 2cm tumor, cancer's ass was probably right next to the rest of my testicle, so besides not being limber enough to kick it, I am not inclined to kick myself in that area just to teach cancer a lesson.
One of our rites of Autumn here is visiting the neighboring county's fair. It is a glorious marathon of trying to eat one of everything that the "carnies" thought to fry and charge six dollars for. Since all this started, my stomach issues have been completely unpredictable. We were there for a very short time when my stomach decided it wanted to go home. Usually that doesn't happen until at least after the corndog and the deep fried Oreo's. We didn't even make over to those stands yet before the gastric uprising commenced! So, it hits me again. It's that (insert string of profanities here) cancer that is affecting my life again! And the part that really sucks, is you don't know what to do about it. You want to lash out, but who do you lash out at? You quickly go from being thrown into a rage, to being thrown into a depression. I see on message boards, that for some reason us seriously ill people love reading (including me), about dealing with family members that are angry. And it's easy to see how that happens. Who is healthier, the ones that blow up on everything and everybody, or the ones like me that turtle up and cry a little to themselves when no one is watching? I don't know the answer. But I do know that by not blowing up on my wife, I can still give the dying-cancer-boy-look with my eyes and sometimes get her to bring me a glass of ice for my Pepsi (although she is quickly becoming immune to that look). I don't know if the ragers get that luxury. It's hard to get someone to bring you Pepsi ice, when no one comes around anymore.
And as for the dying-cancer-boy-look, yeah most of it is just for fun and profit, but there is a lot more seriousness behind it than I would like to admit. My family has only taken one true family vacation. That was to Walt Disney World fifteen years ago. Don't get me wrong, we traveled a lot, mainly moving or to see family. And if there was something along the way that was interesting, we were allowed to look out the window as we went by eating our fast food in the car to save time. And it's not that there is anything wrong with that, I would just like to have another family vacation. After fifteen years, we have forgotten most of the reasons we hate traveling with each other, so it's about time for a little reminder. "You never know if we will get another chance." I would say as I try to urge our clan to agree to a trip, alluding to the potpourri of medical maladies floating around our gene pool. And I'll be perfectly honest and say, I didn't think that I was the odds on favorite to be the first winner of the debility lottery (and if anyone in my family is reading this let me just say, I wasn't thinking about you, I was thinking of a totally different person in the family). But it was me and I think that is why it is affecting me this way. I thought I was in the healthier half.
Now to be fair, I have been playing the cancer card pretty thick, with almost no success. It hasn't worked for a trip to Walt Disney World, money for a Paul Reed Smith, a ride to any car show, a nicer TIG welder, a new tool cabinet (I wasn't even asking for the tools, just a place to put ones I already have), a friend to name their baby "Thomasina", a trip to Cassano's, or much of anything else I have tried pity-eyes on...yet. And when I do get my wife to get me those ice cubes for my Pepsi, you can tell she threw them in the glass with extreme prejudice. And for anyone wondering, yes she does read these occasionally, and I do have to say "no one really thinks you are that mean sweetie, they know I am joking", but I'm not, she really is that mean to me.
However, there is a bit of truth to my pity eyes. I will tell you it has run through my mind at least a thousand times about all the "what ifs". All of the "what ifs" end with me having a lot more aggressive treatment or death. What if I hadn't noticed it? What if I continued to be embarrassed, ashamed, unsure, and scared to call my doctor? What if I hadn't had a great doctor that sent me immediately to a urologist? What if I had not argued with that nurse practitioner that he wasn't feeling in the right place and I walked out without seeing the urologist? What if I didn't have a such a great urologist? How far would it have spread before I couldn't ignore it anymore? I thank God that things didn't turn out like that, but you can't help but wonder about what if they did? And you wonder about the future "What ifs". And you come to the realization that you don't know what fate has planned out for you. I have spent the last two and a half weeks sitting on my couch thinking about all of the projects I wish I would have worked on in my shop on days I came home "tired", now that I am sitting home temporarily crippled and unable to do those things. Even though I know my cancer isn't going to kill me, it has sent a very big reminder that there is a finite amount of time in this life. I don't want to wait for the "good time" to take that trip. I don't want to wait to show somebody I love something. I don't want to wait to "work on that later". It's funny how my recent hours and hours in waiting rooms reminded me just how much life is wasted waiting. I'm not talking about racking up the credit cards type of stuff, I am talking about if this person were to be out of my life tomorrow, would I regret not doing this with them, or saying that to them, or even just writing that note? And there is a large amount of introspection that comes with cancer as well. You think about all the things you need to do in your life, and all the time you have spent wasted on things that didn't need done.
So, I will keep trying to dying-cancer-boy-look at least through chemo. I think after that, I can't play that card anymore. I try holding where I was sliced and diced and saying "OW, my cancer...", but so far I haven't had much success there either. I can't really grab where the cancer really was or I would look like a very bad Michael Jackson impersonator, or a 90s rapper. But you never know, maybe the pity eyes will work one of these times and I will be playing my new PRS guitar and TIG welding up a storm on my way from the car show to Disney World. If not, hopefully I can at least get a few more glasses of ice for my Pepsi from my wife...unless she reads this. But, honey, sweetheart if you are reading this, I really could use that ice. Remember it's exactly seven cubes, no more no less. Ow, my cancer.
Anyone that knows me knows I love sunshine, July and August heat, and everything else that goes along with summer (except maybe mosquito bites and sweatiness in areas you don't want to sweat in, but I have less to sweat there now). So, I have been a little down the past few days. Tomorrow will be one month since all this began. The part that is really bothering me is that is a month, the last month of summer, that I have spent in doctor's offices, in magnetic testing tube thingys, in an operating room, dropping my pants out of habit anytime someone in a white coat and a name tag walks by (which makes for an awkward moment at Wal-Mart's vision center), and sitting around watching TV (with and without ice on my crotch). It really drove that fact home with the cold snap we have gotten here the past few days. Today, I switched the heat pump from AC to heat. I keep saying I am not going to let cancer affect me or change my plans, but it has robbed me. It has robbed me of a month of summer. Before I am able to get outside again and do yard work or work on my endless projects in my shop, the summer is gone. I am actually very perturbed about it. I wish I knew where cancer's ass was so I could kick it. Unfortunately, since I had a 2cm tumor, cancer's ass was probably right next to the rest of my testicle, so besides not being limber enough to kick it, I am not inclined to kick myself in that area just to teach cancer a lesson.
One of our rites of Autumn here is visiting the neighboring county's fair. It is a glorious marathon of trying to eat one of everything that the "carnies" thought to fry and charge six dollars for. Since all this started, my stomach issues have been completely unpredictable. We were there for a very short time when my stomach decided it wanted to go home. Usually that doesn't happen until at least after the corndog and the deep fried Oreo's. We didn't even make over to those stands yet before the gastric uprising commenced! So, it hits me again. It's that (insert string of profanities here) cancer that is affecting my life again! And the part that really sucks, is you don't know what to do about it. You want to lash out, but who do you lash out at? You quickly go from being thrown into a rage, to being thrown into a depression. I see on message boards, that for some reason us seriously ill people love reading (including me), about dealing with family members that are angry. And it's easy to see how that happens. Who is healthier, the ones that blow up on everything and everybody, or the ones like me that turtle up and cry a little to themselves when no one is watching? I don't know the answer. But I do know that by not blowing up on my wife, I can still give the dying-cancer-boy-look with my eyes and sometimes get her to bring me a glass of ice for my Pepsi (although she is quickly becoming immune to that look). I don't know if the ragers get that luxury. It's hard to get someone to bring you Pepsi ice, when no one comes around anymore.
And as for the dying-cancer-boy-look, yeah most of it is just for fun and profit, but there is a lot more seriousness behind it than I would like to admit. My family has only taken one true family vacation. That was to Walt Disney World fifteen years ago. Don't get me wrong, we traveled a lot, mainly moving or to see family. And if there was something along the way that was interesting, we were allowed to look out the window as we went by eating our fast food in the car to save time. And it's not that there is anything wrong with that, I would just like to have another family vacation. After fifteen years, we have forgotten most of the reasons we hate traveling with each other, so it's about time for a little reminder. "You never know if we will get another chance." I would say as I try to urge our clan to agree to a trip, alluding to the potpourri of medical maladies floating around our gene pool. And I'll be perfectly honest and say, I didn't think that I was the odds on favorite to be the first winner of the debility lottery (and if anyone in my family is reading this let me just say, I wasn't thinking about you, I was thinking of a totally different person in the family). But it was me and I think that is why it is affecting me this way. I thought I was in the healthier half.
Now to be fair, I have been playing the cancer card pretty thick, with almost no success. It hasn't worked for a trip to Walt Disney World, money for a Paul Reed Smith, a ride to any car show, a nicer TIG welder, a new tool cabinet (I wasn't even asking for the tools, just a place to put ones I already have), a friend to name their baby "Thomasina", a trip to Cassano's, or much of anything else I have tried pity-eyes on...yet. And when I do get my wife to get me those ice cubes for my Pepsi, you can tell she threw them in the glass with extreme prejudice. And for anyone wondering, yes she does read these occasionally, and I do have to say "no one really thinks you are that mean sweetie, they know I am joking", but I'm not, she really is that mean to me.
However, there is a bit of truth to my pity eyes. I will tell you it has run through my mind at least a thousand times about all the "what ifs". All of the "what ifs" end with me having a lot more aggressive treatment or death. What if I hadn't noticed it? What if I continued to be embarrassed, ashamed, unsure, and scared to call my doctor? What if I hadn't had a great doctor that sent me immediately to a urologist? What if I had not argued with that nurse practitioner that he wasn't feeling in the right place and I walked out without seeing the urologist? What if I didn't have a such a great urologist? How far would it have spread before I couldn't ignore it anymore? I thank God that things didn't turn out like that, but you can't help but wonder about what if they did? And you wonder about the future "What ifs". And you come to the realization that you don't know what fate has planned out for you. I have spent the last two and a half weeks sitting on my couch thinking about all of the projects I wish I would have worked on in my shop on days I came home "tired", now that I am sitting home temporarily crippled and unable to do those things. Even though I know my cancer isn't going to kill me, it has sent a very big reminder that there is a finite amount of time in this life. I don't want to wait for the "good time" to take that trip. I don't want to wait to show somebody I love something. I don't want to wait to "work on that later". It's funny how my recent hours and hours in waiting rooms reminded me just how much life is wasted waiting. I'm not talking about racking up the credit cards type of stuff, I am talking about if this person were to be out of my life tomorrow, would I regret not doing this with them, or saying that to them, or even just writing that note? And there is a large amount of introspection that comes with cancer as well. You think about all the things you need to do in your life, and all the time you have spent wasted on things that didn't need done.
So, I will keep trying to dying-cancer-boy-look at least through chemo. I think after that, I can't play that card anymore. I try holding where I was sliced and diced and saying "OW, my cancer...", but so far I haven't had much success there either. I can't really grab where the cancer really was or I would look like a very bad Michael Jackson impersonator, or a 90s rapper. But you never know, maybe the pity eyes will work one of these times and I will be playing my new PRS guitar and TIG welding up a storm on my way from the car show to Disney World. If not, hopefully I can at least get a few more glasses of ice for my Pepsi from my wife...unless she reads this. But, honey, sweetheart if you are reading this, I really could use that ice. Remember it's exactly seven cubes, no more no less. Ow, my cancer.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Not without my basenji...
Cancer plays funny games with your head. I never thought I had a problem hearing my diagnosis. I constantly think I am strong and can handle it, and then I find something happening that says otherwise. From the beginning, it never entered my mind for a second that I would die from this, mainly because testicular cancer caught early is extremely survivable, that's why the checks are so important. Also partially because I can be extremely stubborn and that is not the way I wanted to die. For one thing, my wife and I haven't quite worked out my funeral plans for when the inevitable comes. We honored my father-in-law's wishes and spread his ashes at one of his favorite lakes. I would like to do the same with my favorite place in the world. I have told her I want to be left at Walt Disney World on either the Pirates of the Caribbean, the Jungle Cruise, or Haunted Mansion, but I also don't want to be cremated. Since she hasn't figured out all the minute details on how to make that happen, I better not die yet. But, if it's my final wish, she has to do it, right?
Back to the cancer, a couple things have bothered me. The first is I don't know how long I have to fight this. Not how long do I "have", as in "Be honest doc, how long do I have?" But how many years does the fight generally take? I know I am going to beat this, but am I done now after my surgery? Will I be done after chemo? Am I done after the ten years of monitoring? When are you "done"? It seems I am in limbo on everything from applying for jobs, to planning a trip to Florida, to even getting a haircut. After all, I would feel stupid if I got a haircut if it was just going to fall out in the next week or two anyway.
The other thing is just the word cancer. It invokes so much fear. So often you hear on TV or in the movies, the word cancer preceded by the words "is dying of". And the media also portrays people with all types cancer, all the same. They are always lying in a hospital bed, bald and grey, tubes coming in and out of them, basically creating a "cancer patient" look. These are the things that go through your mind when you get your diagnosis. And you only seem to hear the horrible fights with cancer, the long drawn out battles that are constantly touch and go. Not ones like mine, with a slice, a lot of waiting, and a lot of sitting on the couch watching the Top Gear marathon. OK, I will admit, it probably doesn't make for good television to film someone sitting on the couch watching television, but that is the reality of my cancer. Well, that and the occasional restlessness that leads to me doing something dumb, which leads to me hurting the slice, and leads to even more time on the couch even after the Top Gear marathon ends tomorrow at midnight. Maybe instead of doctors just telling you that you are stage I, II, III, IV, they can show a picture.
"You are here at Stage I." he would say, holding up a photo.
"But doc, that's just a guy sitting on the couch."
"Exactly. The Top Gear marathon starts next weekend, I think if we do the operation now, that will give you a great excuse to watch the whole seventy-two hours."
The picture could have a little sticky icepack that he could move around on the photo, depending on where you get sliced and diced. I don't know if that would help or not, but it certainly wouldn't hurt.
It's these things that hide constantly in your subconscious that lead to the dream I had this morning. In real life we recently rescued an abused and neglected basenji. Yes, after already owning one basenji, we decided it was in our best interest to make the same mistake again. The ironic thing is because of her history, we are working hard to get her to open up and act like a regular dog, however, in my dream she was THE most affectionate dog in the world! The dream had me lying in bed recovering from my last chemo treatment in a scene that looked a lot like the ones you see in the movies. I am laying there, gray and bald and all "tubey", when a lady walks in and grabs Daisy the basenji and starts to walk out of the house (not our house, apparently in my dream they just stick you in a random house to recover from chemo). I ask what she is doing with our dog and she says, "Oh, she's just a therapy dog, and you are going to be better soon, so we're taking her back." I start crying, a lot. I keep protesting that we rescued her and the lady says that they just told me that she was a rescue, she was really just a "therapy loaner". In real life, Daisy has been a big help to me while I have been recovering from surgery. One of the few places she feels safe is on the bed, so her and I had a lot of quality time together the first week. I wake up with a jolt, Daisy laying at my feet on the bed. And I realize I was crying, not just in my dream but for real. My eyes are wet, my cheek is wet, and the pillow is wet. A lot of crying, especially to be something I did in my sleep. I haven't let that many fluids out since I was eight and had that dream I was peeing after drinking a big glass of milk and going to bed (or my teenage years when I had the dreams about Christie Turlington or the girl I saw at the store yesterday). But waking up like that this morning just hits you. It says, I may be convincing some people I am taking this well, but I haven't quite completely convinced myself yet.
Although we haven't gone to the new oncologist yet, he has sent us information about the Wellness Community. We have put off going to a group meeting for those dealing with cancer. No real reason, just other things come up, like arguing with our former, crazier oncologist. They have special meetings too at this place. This weekend was a "drum circle". A really cool idea, except in the back of my mind, most of the people I know that did drum circles in college would gladly get cancer just for the medical marijuana. We decided to pass. I think we will go to one of the general meetings this week. It seems talking/writing about things has been a big help, hopefully going to one of these meetings will flush out the things I am still not dealing with. Whatever those things are. I am not telling anyone where I live though, just in case there is a therapy dog repo-man in the room (would that be a "therepo-man"?). Maybe I can find out if other people have these feelings and dreams, or if it's just something I ate. I don't think I can handle ten years worth of crazy dreams and fluid spills.
Back to the cancer, a couple things have bothered me. The first is I don't know how long I have to fight this. Not how long do I "have", as in "Be honest doc, how long do I have?" But how many years does the fight generally take? I know I am going to beat this, but am I done now after my surgery? Will I be done after chemo? Am I done after the ten years of monitoring? When are you "done"? It seems I am in limbo on everything from applying for jobs, to planning a trip to Florida, to even getting a haircut. After all, I would feel stupid if I got a haircut if it was just going to fall out in the next week or two anyway.
The other thing is just the word cancer. It invokes so much fear. So often you hear on TV or in the movies, the word cancer preceded by the words "is dying of". And the media also portrays people with all types cancer, all the same. They are always lying in a hospital bed, bald and grey, tubes coming in and out of them, basically creating a "cancer patient" look. These are the things that go through your mind when you get your diagnosis. And you only seem to hear the horrible fights with cancer, the long drawn out battles that are constantly touch and go. Not ones like mine, with a slice, a lot of waiting, and a lot of sitting on the couch watching the Top Gear marathon. OK, I will admit, it probably doesn't make for good television to film someone sitting on the couch watching television, but that is the reality of my cancer. Well, that and the occasional restlessness that leads to me doing something dumb, which leads to me hurting the slice, and leads to even more time on the couch even after the Top Gear marathon ends tomorrow at midnight. Maybe instead of doctors just telling you that you are stage I, II, III, IV, they can show a picture.
"You are here at Stage I." he would say, holding up a photo.
"But doc, that's just a guy sitting on the couch."
"Exactly. The Top Gear marathon starts next weekend, I think if we do the operation now, that will give you a great excuse to watch the whole seventy-two hours."
The picture could have a little sticky icepack that he could move around on the photo, depending on where you get sliced and diced. I don't know if that would help or not, but it certainly wouldn't hurt.
It's these things that hide constantly in your subconscious that lead to the dream I had this morning. In real life we recently rescued an abused and neglected basenji. Yes, after already owning one basenji, we decided it was in our best interest to make the same mistake again. The ironic thing is because of her history, we are working hard to get her to open up and act like a regular dog, however, in my dream she was THE most affectionate dog in the world! The dream had me lying in bed recovering from my last chemo treatment in a scene that looked a lot like the ones you see in the movies. I am laying there, gray and bald and all "tubey", when a lady walks in and grabs Daisy the basenji and starts to walk out of the house (not our house, apparently in my dream they just stick you in a random house to recover from chemo). I ask what she is doing with our dog and she says, "Oh, she's just a therapy dog, and you are going to be better soon, so we're taking her back." I start crying, a lot. I keep protesting that we rescued her and the lady says that they just told me that she was a rescue, she was really just a "therapy loaner". In real life, Daisy has been a big help to me while I have been recovering from surgery. One of the few places she feels safe is on the bed, so her and I had a lot of quality time together the first week. I wake up with a jolt, Daisy laying at my feet on the bed. And I realize I was crying, not just in my dream but for real. My eyes are wet, my cheek is wet, and the pillow is wet. A lot of crying, especially to be something I did in my sleep. I haven't let that many fluids out since I was eight and had that dream I was peeing after drinking a big glass of milk and going to bed (or my teenage years when I had the dreams about Christie Turlington or the girl I saw at the store yesterday). But waking up like that this morning just hits you. It says, I may be convincing some people I am taking this well, but I haven't quite completely convinced myself yet.
Although we haven't gone to the new oncologist yet, he has sent us information about the Wellness Community. We have put off going to a group meeting for those dealing with cancer. No real reason, just other things come up, like arguing with our former, crazier oncologist. They have special meetings too at this place. This weekend was a "drum circle". A really cool idea, except in the back of my mind, most of the people I know that did drum circles in college would gladly get cancer just for the medical marijuana. We decided to pass. I think we will go to one of the general meetings this week. It seems talking/writing about things has been a big help, hopefully going to one of these meetings will flush out the things I am still not dealing with. Whatever those things are. I am not telling anyone where I live though, just in case there is a therapy dog repo-man in the room (would that be a "therepo-man"?). Maybe I can find out if other people have these feelings and dreams, or if it's just something I ate. I don't think I can handle ten years worth of crazy dreams and fluid spills.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Recovering From Recovering
There is nothing like healing from surgery to completely emasculate you (I mean this figuratively, not literally, after all I did get to keep one of the boys). I am limited to somewhere between ten and thirty pounds. At one point I thought the surgeon said don't do anything over ten pounds for at least two weeks, but at my week follow up, I thought he said I could start doing thirty. So, my life the past couple weeks has been relegated to sitting on the couch doing nothing. After all, most of my hobbies involve things over ten to thirty pounds. And most of the things I need to do around the house, involve things over ten to thirty pounds. Have you ever thought about how little weight that is? If I want to barbecue, I have to place the charcoal one briquette at a time. If I want to do laundry (which I don't want to do, but I had to do it), I have to move things into the washer, into the dryer, and out of the dryer a few pieces at a time. In short, I feel worthless.
This is my second adventure with having holes poked through my abdominal wall. This first time was my gastro-esophageal reflux disease surgery, which was five small laparoscopic holes, the longest being about an inch long. This time it is a six inch long (yes, I did just measure it so I wouldn't be accused of exaggerating) slice along my waist line for the testicular cancer removal (technically called a right radial orchiectomy). The bad thing about my first surgery was it was five holes across my stomach. So everything hurt. This cancer surgery is just from my belly button right. In some ways this is better. When getting up or doing certain activities that start to hurt, I can use my left side to get the job done. There are two problems with that. The first one is since the left side seems to be OK, I sometimes forget that the right side is hurt.
And that is what has happened this week. The first incident came Wednesday. One of our basenjis loves walking with us to take the trash our. We have a fairly long country driveway, so it is a bit of a walk. There were three trash bags, but one was really light. My wife took the two heavy ones, and I took the light one and the dog. Being mindful of my recent surgery, and still filling a little sting when I picked up the bag, I held the leash and the trash in my left hand to put less stress on my right side. By the way, for those unfamiliar with basenjis, they weigh around twentyfive/thirty pounds. So, whether I am supposed to be doing ten pounds or thirty pounds, I imagine those pounds aren't supposed to be moving at a high velocity toward something he wants to smell or chase or pee on or whatever his motivation is. All I know is I saw the retractable lead spooling out. I knew the hit was about to come. There was nothing I could do, but wince in pain. My wife, who had made much better time to the garbage rendezvous had come back to get the light bag I had, as I am getting pulled like an epileptic catfish on a fishing line by our dog-on-a-mission. She keeps trying to grab what she thought was the source of my pain, the trash bag. I keep trying to hand her the leash, which jerks violently every time I hold my hand out to give it to her. Finally, my wife caught on and she grabbed the dog out of my hand. I didn't think it hurt me too bad...until the next day. It felt like when you have stomach surgery and you try to tackle your sister's roommate, who wasn't aware that you would try to tackle her in that state so she wasn't prepared and drops you, you know just like that. Oh, I'm the only one that has ever happened to? OK, it's a long story for another time. First of all you have to know my sister's old roommate which is an even longer story. Anyway, I could tell I was hurt a little from Wednesday's incident, but nothing serious. I would just have to take it easy.
The second problem with mainly being hurt on just one side, is you start using the other side to the point that you are wearing out your "good" side.
I knew I had to take it easy after Wednesday night's incident, but I am getting some serious cabin fever. By today, my boredom had overcome common sense and I went up to my workshop, just to organize some tools. First problem, my workshop used to be a tractor-trailer workshop, with giant sliding doors the width of a semi. But see, I'm smart. I know I can't slide those open normally. I take my snake whacking stick (another long story) that is doubling for a cane right now to wedge the door open, which is another genius move to take a stick with a big blade at the bottom and use it to steady yourself as you accidentally kick it (at least I was wearing my steel-toed boots). With the door opened a little, I can lean on the door to slide it open the rest of the way to get some air in the shop.
I am doing pretty good at first. Organizing screws, washers, bolts (no I am not going to make a "nuts" joke here) and other light spare parts. Then I start rearranging some light tools. A little dumber move, but still fairly safe. Then, I take my RIGHT hand and slide open a big heavy drawer that I have opened thousands of times, but this is the first time I have opened it two weeks after surgery and felt a shooting pain down my side. Not ready to go back to the house yet, I decide to make that mistake several more times throughout the day. Each time I do, it makes me lean on my whacking stick/cane more with my good side causing me to do more painful stuff with the right side.
Figuring I haven't done enough stupid stuff today, I decide I will just get a few more tools out of an old box truck I use for storage. I carefully balance on my whacking cane and manage a slow and painful entry into the truck. Dumb move, but I am already inside so I might as well do what I came inside to do. All I have to do is slide the heavy box of tools toward the back of the truck, then I can get down and take them out one by one. I just first need to move this car battery charger out of the way. Ow. Then this little band saw. Oww. Then slide this deep cycle battery to the side. OOOWWW. OK. At least now I have a clear path to slide the tools back. Steady myself with my left hand and my whacking cane. Take my right hand and slide. OOOOOWWW! Slide. SON OF A...OOOOOWWWW!!! Slide. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?! OOOOOOWWWWW!!!! Finally done. Now I just have to get down. Ow. Ow. Ouch. Ow. Ow. Ouch. Sniffle. Whimper. Now I am hurting way too much to actually do anything. I decide to lock everything up and go back to the house. The spring loaded door on the truck that flew up earlier, is a lot harder to get down. Normally that is the easy part of shutting down. All you have to do is hang on it and it comes right down. Lifting an arm up hurts. Putting my weight on that arm, that surprisingly uses a lot more abdominal muscles that I ever realized, and hurts a lot. I finally close it. Now just to shut the doors...um, there is no way to lean on the door to slide it closed. I try to pull it. I definitely pulled something, but the door hasn't budged. I think I can feel every single place they operated. Luckily, my mother-in-law happened to be nearby walking the dog so she was able to pull it shut. I close up, realizing that sitting and watching the rest of the Top Gear marathon would have been a much more worthwhile activity today.
Now I just have to walk down the hill, up the stairs to the house, down the stairs in the house to get clean clothes, and back up again to take a shower. Declines are much harder to walk on for some reason. The steel-toed boots I put on earlier now seem to weigh a ton a piece. Plus, all the twisting, pushing, and leaning I was doing exclusively with my "good" leg has left my knee and hip in shambles. I swear I was able to watch the complete sunset in the time it took me to walk the one hundred feet back to the house.
Now, I am back to where I started the day, except in more pain. I am back to laying on the couch, waiting for the Top Gear marathon to start back up, and praying I don't have to go the bathroom anytime soon. The bathroom is upstairs and I don't think I do that right now. I wonder when I will be able to lift ten pounds again?
This is my second adventure with having holes poked through my abdominal wall. This first time was my gastro-esophageal reflux disease surgery, which was five small laparoscopic holes, the longest being about an inch long. This time it is a six inch long (yes, I did just measure it so I wouldn't be accused of exaggerating) slice along my waist line for the testicular cancer removal (technically called a right radial orchiectomy). The bad thing about my first surgery was it was five holes across my stomach. So everything hurt. This cancer surgery is just from my belly button right. In some ways this is better. When getting up or doing certain activities that start to hurt, I can use my left side to get the job done. There are two problems with that. The first one is since the left side seems to be OK, I sometimes forget that the right side is hurt.
And that is what has happened this week. The first incident came Wednesday. One of our basenjis loves walking with us to take the trash our. We have a fairly long country driveway, so it is a bit of a walk. There were three trash bags, but one was really light. My wife took the two heavy ones, and I took the light one and the dog. Being mindful of my recent surgery, and still filling a little sting when I picked up the bag, I held the leash and the trash in my left hand to put less stress on my right side. By the way, for those unfamiliar with basenjis, they weigh around twentyfive/thirty pounds. So, whether I am supposed to be doing ten pounds or thirty pounds, I imagine those pounds aren't supposed to be moving at a high velocity toward something he wants to smell or chase or pee on or whatever his motivation is. All I know is I saw the retractable lead spooling out. I knew the hit was about to come. There was nothing I could do, but wince in pain. My wife, who had made much better time to the garbage rendezvous had come back to get the light bag I had, as I am getting pulled like an epileptic catfish on a fishing line by our dog-on-a-mission. She keeps trying to grab what she thought was the source of my pain, the trash bag. I keep trying to hand her the leash, which jerks violently every time I hold my hand out to give it to her. Finally, my wife caught on and she grabbed the dog out of my hand. I didn't think it hurt me too bad...until the next day. It felt like when you have stomach surgery and you try to tackle your sister's roommate, who wasn't aware that you would try to tackle her in that state so she wasn't prepared and drops you, you know just like that. Oh, I'm the only one that has ever happened to? OK, it's a long story for another time. First of all you have to know my sister's old roommate which is an even longer story. Anyway, I could tell I was hurt a little from Wednesday's incident, but nothing serious. I would just have to take it easy.
The second problem with mainly being hurt on just one side, is you start using the other side to the point that you are wearing out your "good" side.
I knew I had to take it easy after Wednesday night's incident, but I am getting some serious cabin fever. By today, my boredom had overcome common sense and I went up to my workshop, just to organize some tools. First problem, my workshop used to be a tractor-trailer workshop, with giant sliding doors the width of a semi. But see, I'm smart. I know I can't slide those open normally. I take my snake whacking stick (another long story) that is doubling for a cane right now to wedge the door open, which is another genius move to take a stick with a big blade at the bottom and use it to steady yourself as you accidentally kick it (at least I was wearing my steel-toed boots). With the door opened a little, I can lean on the door to slide it open the rest of the way to get some air in the shop.
I am doing pretty good at first. Organizing screws, washers, bolts (no I am not going to make a "nuts" joke here) and other light spare parts. Then I start rearranging some light tools. A little dumber move, but still fairly safe. Then, I take my RIGHT hand and slide open a big heavy drawer that I have opened thousands of times, but this is the first time I have opened it two weeks after surgery and felt a shooting pain down my side. Not ready to go back to the house yet, I decide to make that mistake several more times throughout the day. Each time I do, it makes me lean on my whacking stick/cane more with my good side causing me to do more painful stuff with the right side.
Figuring I haven't done enough stupid stuff today, I decide I will just get a few more tools out of an old box truck I use for storage. I carefully balance on my whacking cane and manage a slow and painful entry into the truck. Dumb move, but I am already inside so I might as well do what I came inside to do. All I have to do is slide the heavy box of tools toward the back of the truck, then I can get down and take them out one by one. I just first need to move this car battery charger out of the way. Ow. Then this little band saw. Oww. Then slide this deep cycle battery to the side. OOOWWW. OK. At least now I have a clear path to slide the tools back. Steady myself with my left hand and my whacking cane. Take my right hand and slide. OOOOOWWW! Slide. SON OF A...OOOOOWWWW!!! Slide. WHAT WAS I THINKING?!?! OOOOOOWWWWW!!!! Finally done. Now I just have to get down. Ow. Ow. Ouch. Ow. Ow. Ouch. Sniffle. Whimper. Now I am hurting way too much to actually do anything. I decide to lock everything up and go back to the house. The spring loaded door on the truck that flew up earlier, is a lot harder to get down. Normally that is the easy part of shutting down. All you have to do is hang on it and it comes right down. Lifting an arm up hurts. Putting my weight on that arm, that surprisingly uses a lot more abdominal muscles that I ever realized, and hurts a lot. I finally close it. Now just to shut the doors...um, there is no way to lean on the door to slide it closed. I try to pull it. I definitely pulled something, but the door hasn't budged. I think I can feel every single place they operated. Luckily, my mother-in-law happened to be nearby walking the dog so she was able to pull it shut. I close up, realizing that sitting and watching the rest of the Top Gear marathon would have been a much more worthwhile activity today.
Now I just have to walk down the hill, up the stairs to the house, down the stairs in the house to get clean clothes, and back up again to take a shower. Declines are much harder to walk on for some reason. The steel-toed boots I put on earlier now seem to weigh a ton a piece. Plus, all the twisting, pushing, and leaning I was doing exclusively with my "good" leg has left my knee and hip in shambles. I swear I was able to watch the complete sunset in the time it took me to walk the one hundred feet back to the house.
Now, I am back to where I started the day, except in more pain. I am back to laying on the couch, waiting for the Top Gear marathon to start back up, and praying I don't have to go the bathroom anytime soon. The bathroom is upstairs and I don't think I do that right now. I wonder when I will be able to lift ten pounds again?
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Oncologist II: The Search for Doc
Our appointment with the oncologist Tuesday was a complete opposite of what it had been the week before. The doctor, let's call him by something other than his real name, let's just call him Dr. Jekyll was first distracted by the patient in the other room. Everyone that walked by, Dr. Jekyll was sure to mention he had to spend a lot of time with the next patient. This is while he is walking back and forth looking for my CATscan results. He did know we were coming. It was written down. You would think he would make an effort to get those ahead of time, especially since he needed to spend a lot of time with the patient after me. For what was close to half an hour we would see him walk by, mutter something about still waiting from my results, and loudly shout to whoever hasn't heard yet that he needs to spend a lot of time with the next patient. He then wanders back by and tells us he doesn't want to keep us any longer, then tells us he has to spend a lot of time with his next patient and he doesn't want to make us wait.
It's at this point I am glad I am not the next patient, who we are pretty sure was already in the next room and can hear the shouting. With cancer your mind is constantly bouncing back and forth between the best possible outcome and the worst case scenario. "A lot of time with the next patient" doesn't sound like a confidence vote for "you cured, see ya later!" And the fact that he has been announcing it very loudly for at least a half an hour, makes one wonder if this is the first time he talked to anyone about anything that serious.
He tells us, we will just wait for the results he didn't bother to get, so we can leave and come in some other time. We ask if real quickly we could talk about the three possible options he gave us, since we know he had to get to that patient he has to spend a lot of time with. My wife mentions that she went to the website he gave us, and was only able to pull up a few pages without paying. He looked annoyed and asked if she was able to pull up any at all. She said she was only able to pull up the basics. He looked even more annoyed and said he was surprised by that. A very curious reaction to us going to a website Dr. Jekyll told us to go to. We then tell him about the "episode" the day after the CATscan (well, we give him a very abbreviated version). That is when he decided to argue with us about that. He had never heard of any such reaction to a CATscan.
It's funny that a guy that works with CATscans as part of his job, has a CATscan machine in his building, had never heard of such a thing. The people that gave me the CATscan know about it. Our friends in the medical profession know about it. The pharmacist knew about it. My family doctor knew exactly what I was talking about when I told him. Even my sister, who does CATscans on sheep, mice, and dead giraffes knew about it! Although I don't know if dead giraffes feel ALL of the side effects. How could Dr. Jekyll argue this point?!?! AND WHY DOESN'T HE KNOW ABOUT IT?!?!
Trying to change the subject to something we think he won't be so confrontational on, we switch to treatment. We then say we have decided that chemo is the best option. Now he looks surprised, even though that seemed to be what we all agreed would be the best option last meeting, including Dr. Jekyll! He says, "Fine we'll start...ah...a week from Friday." and starts to walk out of the room. We stop him and ask if there is anything we should do to prepare because we had a few questions about what I can and can't do on chemotherapy. He looks more annoyed that we are actually asking about the thing he told us to do last time that apparently he didn't actually plan on us doing. This appointment is getting stranger and stranger. He says to book the chemo and he'll see us later. We ask about the medicine he said he would give us to take the day before the chemo, and he said to book a second appointment a half an hour before chemo and pushes us on our way. "I'm going to be spending a lot of time with this next patient!!!" we hear as we head down the hallway. Apparently there were a few new people in the waiting room that hadn't heard yet.
We book our appointments in a total daze about what just happened. I was supposed to be on the path to recovery, and now I don't even know which road I am going down. My wife, God bless her, knows just by looking at me that I am very distraught. She's says "Call them back now". I can't, I am way too mad, lost, upset, and confused. We stop for a bite to eat and I end up letting my food get cold while I type away on my phone a letter to the clinic. I feel better. But I still feel like I am not in a good place. "I don't think I want him to be our oncologist." I say. "Whatever you want." she says back, and I can tell she means it. I think she was feeling it too, but wanted me to make the choice.
I get an e-mail back from the clinic by the time we get home. It's from the "Operations Manager". Wow! Didn't plan on it getting that high that quick. She was very apologetic and said she would work with us to get things back on track.
At seven thirty that next morning the phone rings. It's Dr. Jekyll. He apologizes and it all starts out very nice. Like the old Dr. Jekyll. I didn't really appreciate the early phone call, but it's OK. I try to be understanding, after all cancer patients definitely know what it is like to have a "good day" or a "bad day" be it physically, mentally, emotionally, we have them all. As I am starting to give him the benefit of the doubt, I tell him we aren't really comfortable having our meeting to get the medication that I need to take the day before I start chemo, a half an hour before I start chemo (in other words, about twenty-four hours late). He then starts trying to argue with me saying that's not what he said at all and raises his voice. I just stop him right there and say, "I think we are going with a different oncologist."
I would be feeling a lot worse, but I had e-mailed my family doctor about our oncologist not taking into account my GI issues and some of the other problems, and he suggested a friend of his that he knew would take good care of me. I wait for the Operations Manager to call me back, and when I don't hear from her, I call the guy my doctor suggested. October 15th is the first chance I have to get in. I am back to despair. I don't want to wait that long. She suggests another oncologist that will see me the next day. I reluctantly agree. I tell my wife what transpired and she has a list of other suggestions that would have been good to know before I made the call. The rest of the day is filled with internet research on doctors and me feeling like I am just playing Russian Roulette with oncologists now.
You hear stories of people that just walk away from their cancer treatment. They put their fate in the Hands of God rather than in the science that God helped give us. Right now I know exactly how these people feel. I feel like I am drowning in mud with all of the things that are bombarding my brain at this point. Walking away and taking my chances seem like the best option. I mean, I was cancer free yesterday, I should stay that way for a little while without chemo or any other treatment, right? I half made up my mind that's what I would do. My wife calls. I have no idea what she was talking about, I couldn't focus on listening. All I know is at some point she said, "Do you want me to call?" In what felt like a hour long pause, I respond that I am tired of dealing with things, I can't deal with things anymore.
My wife calls on her way home with a lot different tone in her voice. She is excited! She called the Operations Manager, who asked about the "apology". My wife, who could hear the apology on the other side of the room when he started shouting, told the nice lady how the "apology" went. Apparently Dr. Jekyll left out some details of the phone call when he told his boss he called me back. And turns out he left out some details when he told her about the previous day's appointments. Turns out he was leaving out details everywhere. Maybe the guy he had to spend a lot of time with got all these missing details, that must be why he had to spend so much time with him. The operations manager made some phone calls. Had my wife make some phone calls. Some phone calls were made back to my wife. And within an hour, we had a long appointment scheduled with the doctor I want! I am very excited!
See, our family doctor is amazing. He honestly has obsessive compulsive disorder, which means your appointment is always when you booked it an not a second later, and he makes a habit of knowing how each and every patient likes to be talked to. He knows which patients he needs to sugarcoat things with. He knows which patients he needs to talk about all the possibilities with. And he knows which patients (like me) just want it exactly the way it is. He will set me down and say I am 80% sure it is "blah", but there is a 15% chance it could be "blah-blah", and a very slight possibility it could be another thing, but don't even worry about that. If our family doc is recommending this oncologist, he knows he is the right one for me or he would have just said "Sorry, I don't know who I could send you to."
I feel like I am back on the path to recovery. No, I feel like I may be on the highway now! The only thing is I have to wait a week for the appointment. Another, hurry up and wait. Whatever, I have been at this cancer stuff for three weeks now, so I am a veteran now. But I am still not used to the hurry up and wait yet...
It's at this point I am glad I am not the next patient, who we are pretty sure was already in the next room and can hear the shouting. With cancer your mind is constantly bouncing back and forth between the best possible outcome and the worst case scenario. "A lot of time with the next patient" doesn't sound like a confidence vote for "you cured, see ya later!" And the fact that he has been announcing it very loudly for at least a half an hour, makes one wonder if this is the first time he talked to anyone about anything that serious.
He tells us, we will just wait for the results he didn't bother to get, so we can leave and come in some other time. We ask if real quickly we could talk about the three possible options he gave us, since we know he had to get to that patient he has to spend a lot of time with. My wife mentions that she went to the website he gave us, and was only able to pull up a few pages without paying. He looked annoyed and asked if she was able to pull up any at all. She said she was only able to pull up the basics. He looked even more annoyed and said he was surprised by that. A very curious reaction to us going to a website Dr. Jekyll told us to go to. We then tell him about the "episode" the day after the CATscan (well, we give him a very abbreviated version). That is when he decided to argue with us about that. He had never heard of any such reaction to a CATscan.
It's funny that a guy that works with CATscans as part of his job, has a CATscan machine in his building, had never heard of such a thing. The people that gave me the CATscan know about it. Our friends in the medical profession know about it. The pharmacist knew about it. My family doctor knew exactly what I was talking about when I told him. Even my sister, who does CATscans on sheep, mice, and dead giraffes knew about it! Although I don't know if dead giraffes feel ALL of the side effects. How could Dr. Jekyll argue this point?!?! AND WHY DOESN'T HE KNOW ABOUT IT?!?!
Trying to change the subject to something we think he won't be so confrontational on, we switch to treatment. We then say we have decided that chemo is the best option. Now he looks surprised, even though that seemed to be what we all agreed would be the best option last meeting, including Dr. Jekyll! He says, "Fine we'll start...ah...a week from Friday." and starts to walk out of the room. We stop him and ask if there is anything we should do to prepare because we had a few questions about what I can and can't do on chemotherapy. He looks more annoyed that we are actually asking about the thing he told us to do last time that apparently he didn't actually plan on us doing. This appointment is getting stranger and stranger. He says to book the chemo and he'll see us later. We ask about the medicine he said he would give us to take the day before the chemo, and he said to book a second appointment a half an hour before chemo and pushes us on our way. "I'm going to be spending a lot of time with this next patient!!!" we hear as we head down the hallway. Apparently there were a few new people in the waiting room that hadn't heard yet.
We book our appointments in a total daze about what just happened. I was supposed to be on the path to recovery, and now I don't even know which road I am going down. My wife, God bless her, knows just by looking at me that I am very distraught. She's says "Call them back now". I can't, I am way too mad, lost, upset, and confused. We stop for a bite to eat and I end up letting my food get cold while I type away on my phone a letter to the clinic. I feel better. But I still feel like I am not in a good place. "I don't think I want him to be our oncologist." I say. "Whatever you want." she says back, and I can tell she means it. I think she was feeling it too, but wanted me to make the choice.
I get an e-mail back from the clinic by the time we get home. It's from the "Operations Manager". Wow! Didn't plan on it getting that high that quick. She was very apologetic and said she would work with us to get things back on track.
At seven thirty that next morning the phone rings. It's Dr. Jekyll. He apologizes and it all starts out very nice. Like the old Dr. Jekyll. I didn't really appreciate the early phone call, but it's OK. I try to be understanding, after all cancer patients definitely know what it is like to have a "good day" or a "bad day" be it physically, mentally, emotionally, we have them all. As I am starting to give him the benefit of the doubt, I tell him we aren't really comfortable having our meeting to get the medication that I need to take the day before I start chemo, a half an hour before I start chemo (in other words, about twenty-four hours late). He then starts trying to argue with me saying that's not what he said at all and raises his voice. I just stop him right there and say, "I think we are going with a different oncologist."
I would be feeling a lot worse, but I had e-mailed my family doctor about our oncologist not taking into account my GI issues and some of the other problems, and he suggested a friend of his that he knew would take good care of me. I wait for the Operations Manager to call me back, and when I don't hear from her, I call the guy my doctor suggested. October 15th is the first chance I have to get in. I am back to despair. I don't want to wait that long. She suggests another oncologist that will see me the next day. I reluctantly agree. I tell my wife what transpired and she has a list of other suggestions that would have been good to know before I made the call. The rest of the day is filled with internet research on doctors and me feeling like I am just playing Russian Roulette with oncologists now.
You hear stories of people that just walk away from their cancer treatment. They put their fate in the Hands of God rather than in the science that God helped give us. Right now I know exactly how these people feel. I feel like I am drowning in mud with all of the things that are bombarding my brain at this point. Walking away and taking my chances seem like the best option. I mean, I was cancer free yesterday, I should stay that way for a little while without chemo or any other treatment, right? I half made up my mind that's what I would do. My wife calls. I have no idea what she was talking about, I couldn't focus on listening. All I know is at some point she said, "Do you want me to call?" In what felt like a hour long pause, I respond that I am tired of dealing with things, I can't deal with things anymore.
My wife calls on her way home with a lot different tone in her voice. She is excited! She called the Operations Manager, who asked about the "apology". My wife, who could hear the apology on the other side of the room when he started shouting, told the nice lady how the "apology" went. Apparently Dr. Jekyll left out some details of the phone call when he told his boss he called me back. And turns out he left out some details when he told her about the previous day's appointments. Turns out he was leaving out details everywhere. Maybe the guy he had to spend a lot of time with got all these missing details, that must be why he had to spend so much time with him. The operations manager made some phone calls. Had my wife make some phone calls. Some phone calls were made back to my wife. And within an hour, we had a long appointment scheduled with the doctor I want! I am very excited!
See, our family doctor is amazing. He honestly has obsessive compulsive disorder, which means your appointment is always when you booked it an not a second later, and he makes a habit of knowing how each and every patient likes to be talked to. He knows which patients he needs to sugarcoat things with. He knows which patients he needs to talk about all the possibilities with. And he knows which patients (like me) just want it exactly the way it is. He will set me down and say I am 80% sure it is "blah", but there is a 15% chance it could be "blah-blah", and a very slight possibility it could be another thing, but don't even worry about that. If our family doc is recommending this oncologist, he knows he is the right one for me or he would have just said "Sorry, I don't know who I could send you to."
I feel like I am back on the path to recovery. No, I feel like I may be on the highway now! The only thing is I have to wait a week for the appointment. Another, hurry up and wait. Whatever, I have been at this cancer stuff for three weeks now, so I am a veteran now. But I am still not used to the hurry up and wait yet...
The ugly truth about CATscans
The rest of my Friday involved greeting my parents and drinking every non-alcoholic, non-caffeinated beverage that wasn't nailed down. After all, the nice nurse did tell me I could get dehydrated from the CATscan dye. With my parents in town to check on my recovery, I decide to "go crazy" and have a twelve ounce Pepsi with dinner, the only caffeine all day. After all that's just a little caffeine and the CATscan was 10 hours earlier. We make plans for Tom's Big Day Out the next day, since I have basically just been a crotch icing hermit for the past week.
I get up in the morning excited to start the day. I take my medication and get ready for the fun filled day ahead of us. We have so many plans! Shopping for tools. Fixing the boat. And other great feats that would have me more than 100 feet from the house (and that number is relevant later). Then I have a feeling...downstairs...in the back. It kinda feels like I have to go. But I kinda don't have to go. Then the feeling kinda feels stronger. I go into the bathroom, sit down and...well, how to explain it. Remember the old movies where the army grabs the battering ram and hits the two huge doors to the castle and they don't budge? Something like that.
You know, it is at this point I remember reading somewhere on that checklist before the CATscan "Have you ever had any adverse reaction to the dye?" We checked "No" because somehow, I have never had this particular medical procedure before. Because of my gastro-intestinal issues, most of my medical tests involves me being violated in some way. I have things done to my body that would be considered obscene outside of the operating room, I even think that some are illegal in Alabama, (and a bar show in Tijuana). But I have never had a CATscan. I remember hearing the guy just down from us filling out his form while I was trying to choke down the orange flavored cement "What the heck is the dye? Squid ink?" I didn't pay any attention, because if I have been poked, stuck, sampled, scanned, scraped, sliced and diced, I can walk through this test and it's wimpy dye!
Then it hits me again. I feel like I am going to pass out. Now I have the same army, with a slightly bigger battering ram, except this time they are trying to break through the mail slot, and still aren't getting anywhere. The pain is immense. Because I have had so many tests, I am familiar with a little painkiller back up, but nothing like this. It feels like I have the back up of constipation with the urgency of diarrhea. In between contractions, I grab a liter bottle of water. I must have gotten too dehydrated yesterday. I down the water and fill it up again. And again. Embarrassed beyond belief, I beg my wife to run to the pharmacy and get me some relief, ANY RELIEF! Still sore from the surgery, I can't stand up completely straight, and now with this going on, it hurts to sit in a chair...or lie on a bed...or breath...or blink. I park myself in the bathroom waiting for something, anything to happen. I start sweating, but feel chilled at the same time. I take off my clothes and think about jumping in the shower between squeezing and slamming. Maybe the hot water will help, I don't know. It can't hurt. My wife arrives and walks in to something a spouse should never have to walk in on. I am on the toilet, weak from all of this, and naked from almost, not quite, thinking about getting in the shower. The ordeal to this point has produce just a few brown dots in the toilet (another thing a spouse should never have to see). She says "You were successful? You don't need this?" I snatch whatever it is in her hand and start to rip it open. She told me that the pharmacist said this happens sometimes in reaction to CATscans and gave me some other instructions. He also told her that if this didn't work, I would have to use an enema. At this point, I am upset that she didn't grab an enema too.
Satisfied that relief is just around the bend, I grab the pills and take a swig of water. The funny thing about drinking three quarts of water in a short amount of time, you run out of space. None of it makes it past my mouth. I set the pills down, and then things get worse.!
People with severe gastro-esophageal reflux disease (and in my case paired with an esophageal ulcer and a hiatal hernia) can have a surgery called a laparoscopic Nissen fundiplication (and those three words just made my spellcheck start smoking). It is a great surgery and only really has one side effect. You can longer regurgitate. Your mind and stomach don't know this, but your throat is one way only now. So, the signals keep getting sent, and the muscles react, but everything stays where it started. This is really not that big of a problem...unless you just drank three quarts of water and then tried to take one more drink with two pills.
The heaves start. For some reason, even though I had this stomach surgery twelve years ago, I still lean over the toilet out of habit. Something else a spouse should never witness, although there is a small part of me that is glad she finally witnessed this anomaly. When people ask about the surgery, and you tell them about the side-effect, you usually get a skeptical glance back. Now I have a witness! This goes on for what seems like hours, but was probably about twenty seconds. I finally stop, get to my feet, when my wife asks, "What's that?" Newton's third law of motion states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. In the midst of everything else going on, the pushing and lack of motion in the front, led to a pushing and lack of motion in the back...except for a few brown spots on the carpet. I am positive now my wife can walk in front of any judge in the world, relay what she has witnessed in the past five minutes, and be granted an immediate annulment.
I manage to choke down the pills. I jump in the shower as I wait for them to work. I get out and read the package. "Expect results in 6-12 hours." I wish she would have gotten the enema too. I manage to awkwardly get onto the bed. It has only been fifteen minutes, I might as well get comfortable...uh-oh, better take a walk, a really quick walk. I sit down, and minimal success. The army is still there. I try to lay down again, no I don't. Army isn't budging. I decided it is best to remain upright so I can move quicker and walk outside to talk to my parents...I mean back inside...standing army...back outside....inside. I bet that my parents are really glad they came to see this! Within an hour, the medicine worked. I feel like the Octomom after baby six or seven, but I can sit comfortably now.
I am ready to go on with my plans with my parents. We need to go to the store, then fix the boat... Then I remember what the pill bottle said, "Expect results in 6-12 hours." Did it work so fast because I hadn't eaten anything in twelve hours? Did it works so fast because I drank half of Lake Erie this morning? Or am I 5-11 hours from expecting results. Over the next twenty minutes or so, I do get some more results, and then nothing. But I am scared. I am very scared. If this stuff worked that good within an hour, what are results going to be like in the optimal time. We decide to call off shopping or anything that involves me in a vehicle with upholstery until the twelve hours is up. We will work on the boat later. Later comes. The boat is in the backyard in my workshop. Without a bathroom. We can fix the boat later.
Six hours came and went, as well as twelve without incident. As I recover from the day's event, I read up on the literature the oncologist gave me. The active surveillance option for my treatment calls for about twenty- five CATscans over the next ten years, including every four months for the first few years. I think we can throw the active surveillance option RIGHT out the window. I continue to recover from my surgery and "labor" until the oncologist visit Tuesday. I tell the oncologist about the horrific reaction to the dye, and how I would like to limit the times I have to go through that test. The formerly nice oncologist tells me I didn't have that reaction. My wife chimes in to say that I most certainly did have that reaction (she probably has it permanently etched in her memory). The distantly nice oncologist again states that I didn't have that reaction. It must be the painkillers...that I have been off of for a week...and have already experienced and gone through that with a lot less trouble...which I would have told him had he given me the chance.
Tomorrow, I will talk about my search for a new oncologist!
I get up in the morning excited to start the day. I take my medication and get ready for the fun filled day ahead of us. We have so many plans! Shopping for tools. Fixing the boat. And other great feats that would have me more than 100 feet from the house (and that number is relevant later). Then I have a feeling...downstairs...in the back. It kinda feels like I have to go. But I kinda don't have to go. Then the feeling kinda feels stronger. I go into the bathroom, sit down and...well, how to explain it. Remember the old movies where the army grabs the battering ram and hits the two huge doors to the castle and they don't budge? Something like that.
You know, it is at this point I remember reading somewhere on that checklist before the CATscan "Have you ever had any adverse reaction to the dye?" We checked "No" because somehow, I have never had this particular medical procedure before. Because of my gastro-intestinal issues, most of my medical tests involves me being violated in some way. I have things done to my body that would be considered obscene outside of the operating room, I even think that some are illegal in Alabama, (and a bar show in Tijuana). But I have never had a CATscan. I remember hearing the guy just down from us filling out his form while I was trying to choke down the orange flavored cement "What the heck is the dye? Squid ink?" I didn't pay any attention, because if I have been poked, stuck, sampled, scanned, scraped, sliced and diced, I can walk through this test and it's wimpy dye!
Then it hits me again. I feel like I am going to pass out. Now I have the same army, with a slightly bigger battering ram, except this time they are trying to break through the mail slot, and still aren't getting anywhere. The pain is immense. Because I have had so many tests, I am familiar with a little painkiller back up, but nothing like this. It feels like I have the back up of constipation with the urgency of diarrhea. In between contractions, I grab a liter bottle of water. I must have gotten too dehydrated yesterday. I down the water and fill it up again. And again. Embarrassed beyond belief, I beg my wife to run to the pharmacy and get me some relief, ANY RELIEF! Still sore from the surgery, I can't stand up completely straight, and now with this going on, it hurts to sit in a chair...or lie on a bed...or breath...or blink. I park myself in the bathroom waiting for something, anything to happen. I start sweating, but feel chilled at the same time. I take off my clothes and think about jumping in the shower between squeezing and slamming. Maybe the hot water will help, I don't know. It can't hurt. My wife arrives and walks in to something a spouse should never have to walk in on. I am on the toilet, weak from all of this, and naked from almost, not quite, thinking about getting in the shower. The ordeal to this point has produce just a few brown dots in the toilet (another thing a spouse should never have to see). She says "You were successful? You don't need this?" I snatch whatever it is in her hand and start to rip it open. She told me that the pharmacist said this happens sometimes in reaction to CATscans and gave me some other instructions. He also told her that if this didn't work, I would have to use an enema. At this point, I am upset that she didn't grab an enema too.
Satisfied that relief is just around the bend, I grab the pills and take a swig of water. The funny thing about drinking three quarts of water in a short amount of time, you run out of space. None of it makes it past my mouth. I set the pills down, and then things get worse.!
People with severe gastro-esophageal reflux disease (and in my case paired with an esophageal ulcer and a hiatal hernia) can have a surgery called a laparoscopic Nissen fundiplication (and those three words just made my spellcheck start smoking). It is a great surgery and only really has one side effect. You can longer regurgitate. Your mind and stomach don't know this, but your throat is one way only now. So, the signals keep getting sent, and the muscles react, but everything stays where it started. This is really not that big of a problem...unless you just drank three quarts of water and then tried to take one more drink with two pills.
The heaves start. For some reason, even though I had this stomach surgery twelve years ago, I still lean over the toilet out of habit. Something else a spouse should never witness, although there is a small part of me that is glad she finally witnessed this anomaly. When people ask about the surgery, and you tell them about the side-effect, you usually get a skeptical glance back. Now I have a witness! This goes on for what seems like hours, but was probably about twenty seconds. I finally stop, get to my feet, when my wife asks, "What's that?" Newton's third law of motion states that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. In the midst of everything else going on, the pushing and lack of motion in the front, led to a pushing and lack of motion in the back...except for a few brown spots on the carpet. I am positive now my wife can walk in front of any judge in the world, relay what she has witnessed in the past five minutes, and be granted an immediate annulment.
I manage to choke down the pills. I jump in the shower as I wait for them to work. I get out and read the package. "Expect results in 6-12 hours." I wish she would have gotten the enema too. I manage to awkwardly get onto the bed. It has only been fifteen minutes, I might as well get comfortable...uh-oh, better take a walk, a really quick walk. I sit down, and minimal success. The army is still there. I try to lay down again, no I don't. Army isn't budging. I decided it is best to remain upright so I can move quicker and walk outside to talk to my parents...I mean back inside...standing army...back outside....inside. I bet that my parents are really glad they came to see this! Within an hour, the medicine worked. I feel like the Octomom after baby six or seven, but I can sit comfortably now.
I am ready to go on with my plans with my parents. We need to go to the store, then fix the boat... Then I remember what the pill bottle said, "Expect results in 6-12 hours." Did it work so fast because I hadn't eaten anything in twelve hours? Did it works so fast because I drank half of Lake Erie this morning? Or am I 5-11 hours from expecting results. Over the next twenty minutes or so, I do get some more results, and then nothing. But I am scared. I am very scared. If this stuff worked that good within an hour, what are results going to be like in the optimal time. We decide to call off shopping or anything that involves me in a vehicle with upholstery until the twelve hours is up. We will work on the boat later. Later comes. The boat is in the backyard in my workshop. Without a bathroom. We can fix the boat later.
Six hours came and went, as well as twelve without incident. As I recover from the day's event, I read up on the literature the oncologist gave me. The active surveillance option for my treatment calls for about twenty- five CATscans over the next ten years, including every four months for the first few years. I think we can throw the active surveillance option RIGHT out the window. I continue to recover from my surgery and "labor" until the oncologist visit Tuesday. I tell the oncologist about the horrific reaction to the dye, and how I would like to limit the times I have to go through that test. The formerly nice oncologist tells me I didn't have that reaction. My wife chimes in to say that I most certainly did have that reaction (she probably has it permanently etched in her memory). The distantly nice oncologist again states that I didn't have that reaction. It must be the painkillers...that I have been off of for a week...and have already experienced and gone through that with a lot less trouble...which I would have told him had he given me the chance.
Tomorrow, I will talk about my search for a new oncologist!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
CATscan and first Oncologist visit...
Thursday, we head back to the surgeon. One piece of paper said to come back in a week, another said two weeks, but then he kinda said a week and a half. But the scheduler put me in for today, so I am half expecting to be turned away. I see my surgeon and he says I am healing up nicely. He tells me to lay back and he will take my bandage off. The "advice" I got earlier told me this is worse than the surgery. My whole body tenses up and he grabs the bandage and slowly pulls. It has all the pain of...peeling off a wet bathing suit. Boy, do I feel stupid. Not that I am complaining that I didn't have the excruciating hair pulling pain I was told about. Maybe it's because sometime under anesthesia I was shaved from my nipples to my kneecaps with just a little landing strip going down my entire left side for some unknown reason. He tells me to schedule a CATscan, assigns me an oncologist, and sends me on my way (I also got a grape lollipop).
Anxious for answers, anxious to get on with my life, we ask for the earliest CATscan, regardless of where we have to go to get it. Tomorrow morning? Perfect! We immediately call the oncologist. Tomorrow afternoon? Perfecter!! Everything has been moving so fast, which we are both thankful for.
I wake up Friday like it is Christmas morning. I am so excited to finally be on the road to recovery/treatment. I am also very hungry on this road since I haven't been allowed to eat or drink anything today. Luckily, they have a nice big jug of slightly orange flavored chalk for me to drink for my test. For those unfamiliar with this, the consistency of this wonderful concoction is just slightly more liquid than setting concrete. I get about a third of it down when they call me back. That's all I can do. The nice nurse says that will be enough and tells me to lay down on the sliding table...that doesn't have hand rails...and I can't really bend at the waist. She looks at me standing there. I look pitiful. Then it dawns on her that I need help getting down there. She comes over and helps me lower myself into position. She throws a sheet over me and tells me to slide down my shorts so the zipper doesn't show up. I have a zipper? Because of the location of my incision and the location of the offending part's removal, I have been wearing over-sized boxer shorts (which look just like shorts) underneath over-sized shorts (which look just like boxer shorts). Since I want to put as little pressure on the aforementioned areas as possible, I don't wear any that would be tight enough to require the use of a zipper. Still unable to bend at the waist, I try to shimmy my way out of my shorts.
The nurse comes over and sticks my vein. She looks for the one vein that doesn't have a big bruise on it already from the previous two weeks of jabbing and jabs me there. As she starts the dye, she says I may feel a warm or cold sensation in my arm followed by the taste of garlic in my mouth. Right on cue, it happens. First a pleasant little hint of garlic. Then the sensation of burping after eating a slice of garlic bread. Then the overwhelming feeling of having just sucked the life force out of eight cloves of garlic followed with a garlicy gargle. WOW! I was hungry about 3 seconds ago, but now, not so much. Then, I am really glad she gives me the next warning. She says, "Some people will later have the sensation that they have went to the bathroom in their pants. But don't worry, it's just the dye moving through your system."
She walks out of the room and the scanner begins its whirring. I think to myself how funny it is that some people feel a little wee down there. "Take a deep breath." "Hold." "Release." I hear that several times as the slide pushes me in and out of the tube like I am riding on an old mechanical type writer, and then it happens. "Take a deep breath." "Hold." And I just crapped my pants! "Release." I think I did already. Did I crap my pants? It certainly feels like I am sitting in a pile of crap...well, I don't know exactly what that feels like, but I imagine it feels a lot like I what I am feeling right now. Dear God, please let this be that side effect she was talking about. I thought she was talking about a little wee, not a giant mushy poo, which is what I think may have happened. I keep being pushed in and out of the tube. I can't check. I guess when this is over the nurse and I will find out at the same time whether I crapped my pants or if this is just a drill. At least if I crapped my pants, my shorts will be clean since I had to shimmy.
The test finally ends. The garlic subsides and the pooing sensation was the dye, either that or me and the poo are now at the same temperature, because I don't feel like I am sitting in anything warm anymore. The nurse tells me to slide on my shorts and get up. The problem is, I have shimmied beyond my non-waist-bending reach and cannot pull up my pants until I get up. Now, how do I ask a nurse to help me up and then I will pull up my shorts without sounding like a bad punchline to a schoolyard joke. I decide the best thing to do is to lay there and look pitiful. It works. I explain, while very slowly in a non-creepy, non-Chris-Hansen-attention-grabbing way, show her that my "underwear" is basically shorts and I need help upright so I can then be able to pull up my shorts shorts. Luckily, she smiles and says "Oh, I keep forgetting your surgery was just a week ago." The nice nurse sends me on my way, while telling me about one more side-effect. I need to drink plenty of fluids to keep from being dehydrated, while staying away from caffeine. We have a long, heated discussion about what exactly is "staying away" from caffeine (i.e. Pepsi) as she pushes me out in the lobby. She gives us a CD-ROM of my scans for the oncologist and I KNOW today is going to be a day full of answers!
A couple hours later, I am at the oncologist's office. It is a large building with several oncologists. You see people in the waiting room at all stages of care. We go back to the room and the very nice gentleman sits me down and says "Don't worry, you are going to survive this and be free of cancer." I start bawling like a little baby, and I don't know why. I never thought for a second I wouldn't beat this. I don't know why I am crying. I feel so stupid. He asks if I had my CATscan yet and we proudly whip out the CD, to which he replies, "Oh, I can't read those. We'll wait for the results." He talks about my options. Twenty to thirty scans over the next ten years, while waiting for results on each one (and possibly really crapping on the table because you think the sensation is just the dye). We already don't like that one. Option two is chemo. Less scans and less chance of anything popping back up. OK. Option three is radiation, that may cause more and worse cancer than it kills. Hmmm. Option two is sounding better and better.
We didn't get our answers, but we are on our way. We met a very nice oncologist and in a few days, everything will be in place. I wait for my parents to show up for the weekend. I am looking forward to getting out of the house. I hydrate all day long, limiting myself to one small Pepsi. Life is starting to look up. That is until. The Wrath of CATscan.....which I will talk about in way too much detail tomorrow.
Monday, September 20, 2010
"...the best kind of cancer!"
By now in my treatment, I am still walking around hunched over, living icepack to icepack. My mother-in-law brings me the mail, mainly because my one trip alone to the mailbox resulted in groaning in bed for the next four hours. Being recently laid off, I open a letter from my previous employer. The letter states that they never received my severance agreement (that may or may not exist, by decree of the alleged severance agreement I am not allowed to divulge if there was one or not) and my insurance has been canceled. This is exactly the kind of news you want to received when trying to recover from cancer surgery and enter into treatment. Basically, this means all but one day of this whole ordeal is not covered. Luckily (and purely by chance) I happened to be at one of my former employer's largest benefactors when I decided to send in the severance agreement (if in fact it exists, which I can't say) and since it required a witness, one of their employees signed it before I sent it off. I think that was my only saving grace, that to deny that I sent it in would be to call your largest funding source a liar. That would not make very good business sense. Luckily I had all the supporting paperwork to prove that I sent something that I am supposed to deny exists if asked, and they worked hard to push it through and get the insurance reinstated. I will admit, I did slip in that I was trying to recover from my cancer surgery when I received the letter. I am not above using cancer pity when it is required.
The other pit in my stomach that day was waiting for the biopsy from the fugitive testicle. The doctor had told me he would try to get the results to me Friday, the day after my surgery, but at the latest Monday. It's four o'clock on Monday and I still hadn't heard. As I seem to be saying all the time, the hardest part about cancer is the constant hurry up and wait. And I still have my neighbors "advice" that it may not be cancer after all. With the pain I am in and the asymmetrical scrotum I now possess, it had better be cancer. I don't want to have gone through all this for something that could have "hung around" for the rest of my life with no harm to me. I call the doctor's office and leave a message. Five o'clock, six o'clock all pass with no news.
Another thing I find myself doing since I was diagnosed is looking for signs or signals to what is going on. I saw the nurse practitioners face go white when he realized he misdiagnosed me the first time. I was trying to read my nurses face during the ultrasound when she finally said, "Don't go by my expressions because I am tired and I had a bad day." Not exactly what you want to hear from a nurse, but at least I know she wasn't necessarily frowning at my ultrasound. I was trying to figure out what it meant in the recovery room when they said I wasn't keeping my oxygen levels up high enough. And now, I am trying to read what it means that the doctor hasn't called on the day he said he would. Is the news so bad he wants to tell me in person? I will see a limousine pull up in the driveway, he will get out with two bodyguards to tell me it's super-ultra-mega-cancer, and it was pointless to take it out, because no matter what you do you die? I don't know what to think, but my mind is running through every possible outcome, most of them negative.
Half past six the phone rings. It is my surgeon's nurse stating she got my message and that the doctor will call me tomorrow. Not much consolation, but at least I know that I have been heard. Five minutes later, the doctor calls. He said the biopsy has come back as seminoma. "It's the best kind of cancer!", he says. What, the biggest payday for you? Should I be celebrating and jumping up and down and saying "I'm number one! I'm number one! In your face all you sucky sub-par cancer people, I have the BEST cancer in the world!!!" OK, I knew what he meant, but it still sounded odd being put that way. He meant that it was very survivable with minimally invasive treatment. He said, I can just watch things for the next ten years or I could do radiation and not have to watch as close, as well as have some peace of mind that whatever rogue cancer may be floating around is gone. However, that is IF my CATscan comes back clean.
Here we are again. Another hurry up and wait. It seems like all good cancer news comes with a caveat. The big "IF" that is constantly in every sentence that comes out of the doctor's mouth. My wife and I discuss things, and we will both sleep better if I do the radiation and know we kicked any hidden cancer's butt. I set my mind on that. Psyche myself up for radiation. Read all I can. This is going to be a piece of cake! All I have to do is get a clean CATscan. That's no big deal though. I just lay in a tube for a few minutes and it's over. I couldn't be more wrong! That, I will discuss tomorrow.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Surgery Recovery or How to Walk Like a Geriatric Pimp
We get home and I feel like I can't bend at the waist. Surprisingly, the place I hurt the most isn't the neighborhood that the "boy" was removed from, it's my waist. For those that don't know, to cut down on the chances of the cancer spreading, a four inch (all though if feels more like a foot) incision is made around the waist line so that they can take the boy and all of his plumbing without the chance of introducing any air into the "neighborhood". Unfortunately people with such...um...strong stomachs like me, you know that kinda pooch out from the massive belly muscles I have developed through years of inactivity, it sorta makes elastic waistbands slide right down to the incision. The irritation on the incision is bad enough, but there is also the rubbing on all the stubble from the shaving that they did. I am not sure what they were doing, but I thank God that they didn't slice everywhere that they shaved or I wouldn't recover until 2012. I think gender reassignment requires less shaving than I received.
The whole car ride home, I am holding ice on the bandage, while feeling every bump and every quick stop. We make it home and now the hard part, getting out of the car and up the stairs to the bed. Moving as fast as a snail with a broken foot, I finally get to the top of the stairs. At the side of the bed I see another problem. When you can't really bend at the waist, it is very difficult to transition from standing to laying. With my wife holding on to me I do a controlled, slow-motion fall back into the bed. Fresh ice, and a cold Pepsi, and I am happy and drift off into sleep. An hour later I wake up, my back and butt hurt from spending so much time on them, my waist hurts from the slice and dice, and yet the area of attention, still doesn't really hurt. I roll over, take a hydrocodone throw fresh ice on my bandage and the remaining boy, and repeat this process over the next several hours.
The funny thing about being on IVs so long, is that it pumps a lot of fluids into your body that eventually have to leave. So, at this point I am thinking about how I am going to transition from the horizontal to vertical position without bending at the waist. Unfortunately, I didn't think through this earlier, because I got in bed on my side, which leaves my right/operation side as the side that has to do all the initial work to get me out of bed, and that side of my body isn't really working right now. With my wife's help and some moves that would have landed us on the Chinese gymnastics team, we manage to get me upright, and immediately decided I will be sleeping on the other side of the bed for a while.
Peeing was a chore in itself. I have to steady my drugged, wobbly body, keeping my waistband far away from all recently operated on parts, while standing upright and hitting the toilet. I didn't fall down in my first attempt, but I did manage to pee right down the front of my boxer shorts. I change shorts and decide to sit in the recliner. It felt great doing the gentle transition to horizontal...until it was time to get up. Again, something I should have thought about earlier, the handle is on my right side (the arm I can't really use) and at the same time, I have to push down the front with my feet (something else I can't really do). In another move that would win my wife a gymnastics medal, she manages to pull up on the handle while simultaneously pushing down on the front of the recliner. I am relieved until I realize, I still need to try to stand up, all without letting the recliner recline again.
The next few days are a constant challenge of trying to remember not to lift ten pounds (you get a very painful reminder if you forget), attempting to do everyday things that are extremely challenging, constantly icing down my incision and my remaining ball, taking narcotics, and walking around like a geriatric pimp. At least I am walking around like I would assume a geriatric pimp would walk around. I am hunched over, limping with one leg, wildly swinging one arm. Looking like I am trying to strut my swagger while having a grand mal seizure.
The constant phone calls wishing me well are a welcome diversion, while having my privates turn purple from the bruising and swelling aren't. And then there is the ever present side effect of narcotics. Constipation. As someone, with irritable bowel, that is rarely a malady I concern myself with. However, I realize I haven't had that urge for a while now. And I know that there is a batter on deck, I just can't figure out how to get him to the plate without being able to push him towards the...um..."on deck circle", because every time I try to give a little nudge, it feels like I am ripping my stitches loose. The next day or two involves weening myself off of the medications that keep me from going to the bathroom every five minutes along with eating and drinking all the good fatty foods that usually induce toilet lifting, propulsive diarrhea. It's funny how having cancer makes you appreciate all the little victories in life. Leaving skid marks in the toilet made me feel like I had just beat all the Kenyans in the Boston Marathon.
However the hardest part of cancer is still the waiting. I am waiting to hear what kind of testicular cancer we dug out of me. I am waiting to hear what my next treatment is. I am waiting to hear how much I can lift now. I am just waiting. Tomorrow, I will talk about some of the answers I did get and some that I am still waiting for.
The whole car ride home, I am holding ice on the bandage, while feeling every bump and every quick stop. We make it home and now the hard part, getting out of the car and up the stairs to the bed. Moving as fast as a snail with a broken foot, I finally get to the top of the stairs. At the side of the bed I see another problem. When you can't really bend at the waist, it is very difficult to transition from standing to laying. With my wife holding on to me I do a controlled, slow-motion fall back into the bed. Fresh ice, and a cold Pepsi, and I am happy and drift off into sleep. An hour later I wake up, my back and butt hurt from spending so much time on them, my waist hurts from the slice and dice, and yet the area of attention, still doesn't really hurt. I roll over, take a hydrocodone throw fresh ice on my bandage and the remaining boy, and repeat this process over the next several hours.
The funny thing about being on IVs so long, is that it pumps a lot of fluids into your body that eventually have to leave. So, at this point I am thinking about how I am going to transition from the horizontal to vertical position without bending at the waist. Unfortunately, I didn't think through this earlier, because I got in bed on my side, which leaves my right/operation side as the side that has to do all the initial work to get me out of bed, and that side of my body isn't really working right now. With my wife's help and some moves that would have landed us on the Chinese gymnastics team, we manage to get me upright, and immediately decided I will be sleeping on the other side of the bed for a while.
Peeing was a chore in itself. I have to steady my drugged, wobbly body, keeping my waistband far away from all recently operated on parts, while standing upright and hitting the toilet. I didn't fall down in my first attempt, but I did manage to pee right down the front of my boxer shorts. I change shorts and decide to sit in the recliner. It felt great doing the gentle transition to horizontal...until it was time to get up. Again, something I should have thought about earlier, the handle is on my right side (the arm I can't really use) and at the same time, I have to push down the front with my feet (something else I can't really do). In another move that would win my wife a gymnastics medal, she manages to pull up on the handle while simultaneously pushing down on the front of the recliner. I am relieved until I realize, I still need to try to stand up, all without letting the recliner recline again.
The next few days are a constant challenge of trying to remember not to lift ten pounds (you get a very painful reminder if you forget), attempting to do everyday things that are extremely challenging, constantly icing down my incision and my remaining ball, taking narcotics, and walking around like a geriatric pimp. At least I am walking around like I would assume a geriatric pimp would walk around. I am hunched over, limping with one leg, wildly swinging one arm. Looking like I am trying to strut my swagger while having a grand mal seizure.
The constant phone calls wishing me well are a welcome diversion, while having my privates turn purple from the bruising and swelling aren't. And then there is the ever present side effect of narcotics. Constipation. As someone, with irritable bowel, that is rarely a malady I concern myself with. However, I realize I haven't had that urge for a while now. And I know that there is a batter on deck, I just can't figure out how to get him to the plate without being able to push him towards the...um..."on deck circle", because every time I try to give a little nudge, it feels like I am ripping my stitches loose. The next day or two involves weening myself off of the medications that keep me from going to the bathroom every five minutes along with eating and drinking all the good fatty foods that usually induce toilet lifting, propulsive diarrhea. It's funny how having cancer makes you appreciate all the little victories in life. Leaving skid marks in the toilet made me feel like I had just beat all the Kenyans in the Boston Marathon.
However the hardest part of cancer is still the waiting. I am waiting to hear what kind of testicular cancer we dug out of me. I am waiting to hear what my next treatment is. I am waiting to hear how much I can lift now. I am just waiting. Tomorrow, I will talk about some of the answers I did get and some that I am still waiting for.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Nutectomy Day
Leading up to my surgery I received a lot of advice. Most of it scared the crap out of me. One family friend who meant well started off his well wishing saying he had been through the same thing a few years ago. He said I shouldn't get too worried, because after they removed his testicle, they found out it wasn't cancer after all. I had already come to grips with the fact that I was going to lose a "boy", but I was certain it was for a good reason so I wasn't too worried. I know he meant to tell me not to worry, I may not even have cancer, but what I kept thinking is "they are going to take out one of my testicles, and they don't even know if they have to?" I would hope they did not just randomly chop off balls on the odd chance one may have cancer inside. Me and the boys have been through a lot. I will be tough saying goodbye to one, especially if he is moving out for no good reason. As if that wasn't enough "advice", I get warned that the bandage removal is worse than any of the surgery. Great, something else to look forward to.
The night before I wasn't tired at all. We had to get up around 4am to start getting ready, and even at 2am I am wide awake. I figure I should probably at least try to get some sleep, something that has been hard to do ever since the diagnosis. I lay in bed, thoughts swirling through my head. I still didn't sleep much. The morning came way too soon. We hop in the car and head to the hospital.
I start my prep, and lay like what seems an eternity in the hospital bed. Obviously, the nature of the surgery has me naked except for a flimsy gown, and in typical hospital fashion, the average temperature in my room is just slightly warmer than a Canadian winter. They talk about how hot a day it will be outside, while I ask every nurse that walks by for another blanket. Soon I look less like a patient and more like a pile of laundry. I don't want to be here, I don't want to do this. The advice I got keeps echoing through my head and I contemplate the consequences of just walking out.
The anesthesiologist comes in and gives me some "calming" meds in my IV. She is nice for a gas passer and soon we head to the operating room. The team starts gathering around me and the nice gas passer gives me the good stuff. I drift off knowing that the poison will soon be gone and I will be on the road to recovery.
I wake up dying of thirst. The funny thing about strong painkillers, your inhibitions go out the window. Where a normal person wouldn't scream over and over again that they are really really thirsty and would kill to get some more ice chips, I in my my opiate fog begged and bartered for some frozen gold. I don't think I was technically ready to get more ice yet, but soon every nurse in the place was walking by handing me a cup of ice just to get me to shut the hell up. The sore throat and thirst was a good diversion for the huge gash in my abdomen, which I suddenly became acutely aware of after eating my fifth cup of ice. The drugs wearing off, I start acting like a civilized person again, just as they wheel in some old lady from the operating room. She starts asking for ice and complaining about the pain, and I think to myself,"what a rude, whiny, little, bi...wait, that's what I sounded like 4 cups of ice ago". Now slightly more comfortable, I am still fighting the meds and the lack of sleep. I close my eyes and start to drift off. It feels so good to sleep. The pain starts to subside, my body is begging for some more rest when "BBBBBBBBBBBBBBWWWWWEEEEEEEPPPPPP" an alarm screaming right behind my right ear followed by nurses gathering around me screaming "BREATHE DEEP, BREATHE DEEP!!!" Startled from waking up from such a sound relaxing sleep to the equivalent of a smoke alarm sitting on my forehead and a nurse bum rush, I of course start breathing deep. Hell I am hyperventilating, followed by happy nurses saying "good, good, you need to keep those oxygen levels up". This gets repeated several more times in this recovery room. I can't see the oxymeter to verify that any of this was actually happening. Personally, I think this is just sweet nurse revenge for all those ice chip runs I demanded earlier.
They finally decided to not be so sadistic and put me back in my own room. I start to shake off the heavy stuff and now I just want to be in my home bed. My butt hurts so bad from being in the same position in this hard bed for so long. I want my achy butt back in my own bed. In another page our of the Marquee de Sade's book, the nurses tell me as soon as I pee, I can go. Hmmmm. Apparently the recovery room nurses have been talking to these nurses. This turns out to be a very hard task. I try standing, sitting, in the toilet, in the milk-jug-on-its-side thingy they give you. Nothing. As I am sitting down thinking of better days when I could pee with no problems, a nurse works to slam shut my already shy bladder by ignoring all the "Knock Before Entering" signs and walks right in on me. After what seems like dozens of trips and trials of perfect water flow in the sink for inspiration and rubbing ice chips on the back of my neck (I don't know how/why that worked but it did) I finally get a few drips. Then a trickle. Then a slight stream. Not exactly relief, but enough for them to look for blood. The nurses send me on my way. As soon as I get dressed I can leave. Now I just sit there helpless as I wait for someone to dress me.
I'm dressed, I high, I am sitting in the sun, waiting for the car to pull up so I can be on my way. Now I it's time to do what I have been doing so much since this all began, hurry up and wait for test results. Tomorrow, I talk about the recovery and the waiting (just ask Tom Petty, that's the hardest part).
The night before I wasn't tired at all. We had to get up around 4am to start getting ready, and even at 2am I am wide awake. I figure I should probably at least try to get some sleep, something that has been hard to do ever since the diagnosis. I lay in bed, thoughts swirling through my head. I still didn't sleep much. The morning came way too soon. We hop in the car and head to the hospital.
I start my prep, and lay like what seems an eternity in the hospital bed. Obviously, the nature of the surgery has me naked except for a flimsy gown, and in typical hospital fashion, the average temperature in my room is just slightly warmer than a Canadian winter. They talk about how hot a day it will be outside, while I ask every nurse that walks by for another blanket. Soon I look less like a patient and more like a pile of laundry. I don't want to be here, I don't want to do this. The advice I got keeps echoing through my head and I contemplate the consequences of just walking out.
The anesthesiologist comes in and gives me some "calming" meds in my IV. She is nice for a gas passer and soon we head to the operating room. The team starts gathering around me and the nice gas passer gives me the good stuff. I drift off knowing that the poison will soon be gone and I will be on the road to recovery.
I wake up dying of thirst. The funny thing about strong painkillers, your inhibitions go out the window. Where a normal person wouldn't scream over and over again that they are really really thirsty and would kill to get some more ice chips, I in my my opiate fog begged and bartered for some frozen gold. I don't think I was technically ready to get more ice yet, but soon every nurse in the place was walking by handing me a cup of ice just to get me to shut the hell up. The sore throat and thirst was a good diversion for the huge gash in my abdomen, which I suddenly became acutely aware of after eating my fifth cup of ice. The drugs wearing off, I start acting like a civilized person again, just as they wheel in some old lady from the operating room. She starts asking for ice and complaining about the pain, and I think to myself,"what a rude, whiny, little, bi...wait, that's what I sounded like 4 cups of ice ago". Now slightly more comfortable, I am still fighting the meds and the lack of sleep. I close my eyes and start to drift off. It feels so good to sleep. The pain starts to subside, my body is begging for some more rest when "BBBBBBBBBBBBBBWWWWWEEEEEEEPPPPPP" an alarm screaming right behind my right ear followed by nurses gathering around me screaming "BREATHE DEEP, BREATHE DEEP!!!" Startled from waking up from such a sound relaxing sleep to the equivalent of a smoke alarm sitting on my forehead and a nurse bum rush, I of course start breathing deep. Hell I am hyperventilating, followed by happy nurses saying "good, good, you need to keep those oxygen levels up". This gets repeated several more times in this recovery room. I can't see the oxymeter to verify that any of this was actually happening. Personally, I think this is just sweet nurse revenge for all those ice chip runs I demanded earlier.
They finally decided to not be so sadistic and put me back in my own room. I start to shake off the heavy stuff and now I just want to be in my home bed. My butt hurts so bad from being in the same position in this hard bed for so long. I want my achy butt back in my own bed. In another page our of the Marquee de Sade's book, the nurses tell me as soon as I pee, I can go. Hmmmm. Apparently the recovery room nurses have been talking to these nurses. This turns out to be a very hard task. I try standing, sitting, in the toilet, in the milk-jug-on-its-side thingy they give you. Nothing. As I am sitting down thinking of better days when I could pee with no problems, a nurse works to slam shut my already shy bladder by ignoring all the "Knock Before Entering" signs and walks right in on me. After what seems like dozens of trips and trials of perfect water flow in the sink for inspiration and rubbing ice chips on the back of my neck (I don't know how/why that worked but it did) I finally get a few drips. Then a trickle. Then a slight stream. Not exactly relief, but enough for them to look for blood. The nurses send me on my way. As soon as I get dressed I can leave. Now I just sit there helpless as I wait for someone to dress me.
I'm dressed, I high, I am sitting in the sun, waiting for the car to pull up so I can be on my way. Now I it's time to do what I have been doing so much since this all began, hurry up and wait for test results. Tomorrow, I talk about the recovery and the waiting (just ask Tom Petty, that's the hardest part).
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Does Marvin Gaye have a cancer song?
So, at this point in my blogging (as I try to catch up to date) I have just been told I have cancer and I should probably make a "deposit" at the "bank". We don't have kids yet, and we have been trying. The doctor said I shouldn't have a problem conceiving in the future, after all only one of the "boys" is "moving out" but ol' Lefty will still be hanging around. However, just in case I do go through chemo or radiation, the doctor thought it would be a good idea to make a deposit with both barrels rather than a single shot.
We walk out of the doctor's office still in shock that this is all real, I do have cancer. I have this poison growing inside of me and I just want it gone. You know that feeling when you hear a story about a tapeworm or some other just as nasty parasite deep inside the body, and you get that chill down your back and you go "lllllleeeewwwwwwww". Yeah, that's kinda what you feel like. You can't wait to have it out of you, and for a brief moment I contemplate the pros and cons of going home and laying the family jewels on a band saw, and how difficult it would be to just remove one jewel. Those are the thoughts that are going through my head when the sperm bank tells me to drop by in a couple of hours to...um...open my account.
There's a reason you don't hear the word cancer in too many love songs, or any songs for that matter except that one Nirvana song, at least I think he said something about cancer. Who the hell knows? But anyway, the cloud of cancer floating around in your mind is definitely a mood killer, especially testicular cancer. Not only is your mind racing from being told you just have cancer, but when you are trying to make a deposit, THERE IT IS, your cancer right there in the palm of your hand (or near it). More than a little bit overwhelming. A very nice nurse gives you a cup and tells you to go to your little room and "there are magazines and videos in the cabinet". HOLY CRAP! I thought that was just in bad movies and sitcoms, it really is that way! I am in no mood to do this. My wife is waiting in the other room, plus there is also the thought that everyone knows what you are doing in there, and they are waiting for you to finish because they have other things to do, other customers that need to open accounts.
Still nowhere close to being in any kinda mood and now with a stupid Nirvana song going through my head and thinking "does he really say 'I wanna eat your cancer...'?" I decide to open that cabinet and look at the titles of the "documentaries". That's what a good friend of mine calls them so that they don't feel quite as bad about watching them. I have never really been into that type of documentary anyway, so nothing is really catching my fancy. I just decide to watch whatever is already in there, something about "First Timers" maybe it was because the video seemed to be stopped somewhere in the middle, but I was just lost. For one thing the movie was obviously filmed before the invention of the razor. And, if these are "first timers" they are awfully fast learners!
I decide to move to the magazines, mostly Playboys with a few Penthouse sprinkled in. I start reading the covers and find girls from TV and movies that I have always wondered about. I set those aside and I am too busy flipping through to focus on the task at hand. Especially since some fantasies are better off just as fantasies. Some of my favorite actresses were a lot hotter in my head naked that they were in a magazine. I finally just put them down and try to concentrate.
Now I won't go into anymore detail except to say there is a little problem with the mechanics and physiology here. First they give you a cup the size of a small drink at the movie theater, so you already feel the pressure to fill it up. I mean, hey at least ONE guy had to overflow the next size down to have to move everyone up to this size. The other is...well...you don't want to spill the cup...um...but you aren't typically aiming down. Let's see how can I explain this delicately. It's about as easy as trying to fill up a test tube, from a Rainbird sprinkler, with out spilling any of the water coming out of the sprinkler. That was one of the many rules in there, "Any missing samples should be reported immediately". And I agree, they should, but how many guys, already in an extremely embarrassing situation, are going to walk up to the nice old lady at the front desk and tell her "clean up in aisle 2".
A few days later, I had to go in and give my second and final sample. I am asked for my ID just as I was the first time, but I'm not opening a new account, why would she need my ID again? Do people come in here pretending to be someone else? This cost $125 a pop, if you are looking for your jollies, go downtown and save a lot of money. The curiosity is killing me, I have to ask why. She tells me in the past, people get divorced and people lie saying they never opened an account there, hoping to get out of child support. Hmmm, never thought of that. Never under estimate the males ability to be a slimeball.
Anyway, I am ready to be assigned my room. I hope this time I get a different room with better videos. But then again, I did want to look at the one magazine again. As I wait, I see a guy walk out of a room, obviously after successfully making a deposit. God, please don't let me have that room. I know that's what people do in these rooms, but I don't want to actually see the guy that just left. I get a different room. THANK YOU! I feel like I am an expert at this now. The cancer thoughts have subsided some, and I know what to expect in these rooms. Plus, I was told to not make any other deposits on my own for four days, so I know I am filling up that cup this time. Oops, not even close to full. Oh well, another $125 down.
I walk out, alone this time. And that's where it hits me. I just left a spankatorium because I have testicular cancer. And I am having surgery. Where else is it? Will I need chemo? Will I need radiation? Can I go back and take a magazine with me, I could really use some company right now. The drive home, my thoughts swirl in my head. I haven't been sleeping well since the diagnosis, and being full of "deposit" wasn't helping my sleep pattern either. I don't know what the future holds. I don't know what to hope for. I just don't know. I find myself wandering through stores and restaurants on the verge of tears for the second time this week. I wind up at the state park overlooking the lake that I was supposed to be on by now. I see a few other boats enjoying the end of summer. Now I won't be able to work on the boat for weeks... I really should have taken that magazine. But then again I know where that magazine has been. Full of self pity, I drag my butt back home, as I prepare for my surgery. I never thought there would be a day I would want part of my genitals taken out as soon as possible, but I swear I can feel the cancer growing inside me and Thursday can't come soon enough.
Tomorrow, I will write about surgery day, as we close in on where I am at now, one week away from surgery and not even three weeks from the beginning of all of this.
We walk out of the doctor's office still in shock that this is all real, I do have cancer. I have this poison growing inside of me and I just want it gone. You know that feeling when you hear a story about a tapeworm or some other just as nasty parasite deep inside the body, and you get that chill down your back and you go "lllllleeeewwwwwwww". Yeah, that's kinda what you feel like. You can't wait to have it out of you, and for a brief moment I contemplate the pros and cons of going home and laying the family jewels on a band saw, and how difficult it would be to just remove one jewel. Those are the thoughts that are going through my head when the sperm bank tells me to drop by in a couple of hours to...um...open my account.
There's a reason you don't hear the word cancer in too many love songs, or any songs for that matter except that one Nirvana song, at least I think he said something about cancer. Who the hell knows? But anyway, the cloud of cancer floating around in your mind is definitely a mood killer, especially testicular cancer. Not only is your mind racing from being told you just have cancer, but when you are trying to make a deposit, THERE IT IS, your cancer right there in the palm of your hand (or near it). More than a little bit overwhelming. A very nice nurse gives you a cup and tells you to go to your little room and "there are magazines and videos in the cabinet". HOLY CRAP! I thought that was just in bad movies and sitcoms, it really is that way! I am in no mood to do this. My wife is waiting in the other room, plus there is also the thought that everyone knows what you are doing in there, and they are waiting for you to finish because they have other things to do, other customers that need to open accounts.
Still nowhere close to being in any kinda mood and now with a stupid Nirvana song going through my head and thinking "does he really say 'I wanna eat your cancer...'?" I decide to open that cabinet and look at the titles of the "documentaries". That's what a good friend of mine calls them so that they don't feel quite as bad about watching them. I have never really been into that type of documentary anyway, so nothing is really catching my fancy. I just decide to watch whatever is already in there, something about "First Timers" maybe it was because the video seemed to be stopped somewhere in the middle, but I was just lost. For one thing the movie was obviously filmed before the invention of the razor. And, if these are "first timers" they are awfully fast learners!
I decide to move to the magazines, mostly Playboys with a few Penthouse sprinkled in. I start reading the covers and find girls from TV and movies that I have always wondered about. I set those aside and I am too busy flipping through to focus on the task at hand. Especially since some fantasies are better off just as fantasies. Some of my favorite actresses were a lot hotter in my head naked that they were in a magazine. I finally just put them down and try to concentrate.
Now I won't go into anymore detail except to say there is a little problem with the mechanics and physiology here. First they give you a cup the size of a small drink at the movie theater, so you already feel the pressure to fill it up. I mean, hey at least ONE guy had to overflow the next size down to have to move everyone up to this size. The other is...well...you don't want to spill the cup...um...but you aren't typically aiming down. Let's see how can I explain this delicately. It's about as easy as trying to fill up a test tube, from a Rainbird sprinkler, with out spilling any of the water coming out of the sprinkler. That was one of the many rules in there, "Any missing samples should be reported immediately". And I agree, they should, but how many guys, already in an extremely embarrassing situation, are going to walk up to the nice old lady at the front desk and tell her "clean up in aisle 2".
A few days later, I had to go in and give my second and final sample. I am asked for my ID just as I was the first time, but I'm not opening a new account, why would she need my ID again? Do people come in here pretending to be someone else? This cost $125 a pop, if you are looking for your jollies, go downtown and save a lot of money. The curiosity is killing me, I have to ask why. She tells me in the past, people get divorced and people lie saying they never opened an account there, hoping to get out of child support. Hmmm, never thought of that. Never under estimate the males ability to be a slimeball.
Anyway, I am ready to be assigned my room. I hope this time I get a different room with better videos. But then again, I did want to look at the one magazine again. As I wait, I see a guy walk out of a room, obviously after successfully making a deposit. God, please don't let me have that room. I know that's what people do in these rooms, but I don't want to actually see the guy that just left. I get a different room. THANK YOU! I feel like I am an expert at this now. The cancer thoughts have subsided some, and I know what to expect in these rooms. Plus, I was told to not make any other deposits on my own for four days, so I know I am filling up that cup this time. Oops, not even close to full. Oh well, another $125 down.
I walk out, alone this time. And that's where it hits me. I just left a spankatorium because I have testicular cancer. And I am having surgery. Where else is it? Will I need chemo? Will I need radiation? Can I go back and take a magazine with me, I could really use some company right now. The drive home, my thoughts swirl in my head. I haven't been sleeping well since the diagnosis, and being full of "deposit" wasn't helping my sleep pattern either. I don't know what the future holds. I don't know what to hope for. I just don't know. I find myself wandering through stores and restaurants on the verge of tears for the second time this week. I wind up at the state park overlooking the lake that I was supposed to be on by now. I see a few other boats enjoying the end of summer. Now I won't be able to work on the boat for weeks... I really should have taken that magazine. But then again I know where that magazine has been. Full of self pity, I drag my butt back home, as I prepare for my surgery. I never thought there would be a day I would want part of my genitals taken out as soon as possible, but I swear I can feel the cancer growing inside me and Thursday can't come soon enough.
Tomorrow, I will write about surgery day, as we close in on where I am at now, one week away from surgery and not even three weeks from the beginning of all of this.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
"Yeah, it's cancer..."
From Tuesday to Friday, seemed to take an eternity. I think the hardest part of this whole ordeal is the constant waiting to hear bad news. My wife and I show up at our appointment Friday morning with no idea what to expect. I was even trying to read the nurses face at the ultrasound for some clue of what to expect today.
My regular family doctor has obsessive compulsive disorder, so you had better be on time for his appointments. He is religious about keeping his schedule and guess we got a little spoiled by that. We are in the waiting room for forty five minutes which seems like a very sadistic way to find out if you have cancer or not. If this were a TV show, it would be a cross between Regis Philbin's Who Wants To Be a Millionaire and Maury. You sit there with tunnel vision just waiting for the results and to hear if you are a winner. You sit there surrounded by literature about all of the worst maladies to ever affect the human urinary tract, so for the whole forty five minutes, you can't think of anything but what you may or may not hear.
I have already accepted my fate in one aspect. Something is growing in my testicle and from what I have read, that is not normal, be it cancer or alien baby (and I don't recall being abducted, but then again, that is how they do it, you don't remember). So, I am fully prepared to hear that we will probably remove the testicle. It is just the "why" that is killing me. My wife is surprisingly strong, maybe too strong. I want her to be strong, but I would also like to see her just a tad bit upset. You know a reminder that she cares, that kinda thing.
After peeing into a cup for what seems like the 32nd time, we go back to the examination room. The nurse takes my "vitals" and notes, "Your blood pressure and pulse are considerably higher than the last time you were in here." My wife and I both have some nervous laughter as I say, "That's because I am anxious about what I will hear today." The whole thing seemed so unreal. From Tuesday until Friday, all I can think about is: Do I have cancer? Will I have surgery? I need a haircut, am I just wasting my money if I am getting chemo? Will I be able to have kids? Should I buy special underwear? Of course my blood pressure is going to be up, what a stupid statement!!! My vitals were up before the forty-five minute wait in the urology torture chamber, it's really up now!
The doctor comes in, and immediately tells me to "hop up there let's examine you again". Now, I know I am there about my balls, but you don't want to be the guy that drops his pants every time the doctor walks in, just in case one of those times he is just listening to your heart. Plus, he has windows with just the middle part blocked. Now I can see outside whether I am standing or sitting, so I am pretty sure, people can see my junk at one point. But I guess the thought behind the shades, is people outside will never be able to see your junk and your face at the same time, and that is supposed to make you feel more secure.
So, he confirms that I am supposed to jump on the exam table sans pants. I pull them down, he feels the spot on my testicle once again. Then starts explaining where we are going to cut, what he is taking out, how long I will be in bed, how much ice I will need...a lot of things except the one thing we were there to hear.
As he starts to push us out of the office I ask, "So, is it cancer?" He responds with a nonchalant "Yeah, it's cancer." I am sure glad he broke it to me easy like that.
The other thing I was not at all prepared for was his pause at the door. He remembers that I told him I didn't have kids. He says although I should still be able to have kids, I should probably make a "deposit" at the "bank" just in case.
We leave the office stunned. I find out my surgery is less that a week away. I have realized, I can deal with all of this news, it is just hard for me to talk about. We get to the car, my wife is frantically calling both of our families, her work, and everyone else that needs to know, all while trying to talk so I can't hear. I am thumbing away on my phone sending e-mails to my friends. Part of me hates people worrying about my medical problems, but there is a bigger part that really needs all the support I can get right now.
Among the calls we make, one is to the sperm bank that tells me to stop by in a couple of hours to make the transaction. I think that is where I will leave it for today. Tomorrow's blog will talk about the next few days and answer all those questions you have always wanted to know about sperm banks and also address how you get in the mood when you are told just a couple hours earlier that you have cancer and are loosing a testicle. I know you all can't wait.
My regular family doctor has obsessive compulsive disorder, so you had better be on time for his appointments. He is religious about keeping his schedule and guess we got a little spoiled by that. We are in the waiting room for forty five minutes which seems like a very sadistic way to find out if you have cancer or not. If this were a TV show, it would be a cross between Regis Philbin's Who Wants To Be a Millionaire and Maury. You sit there with tunnel vision just waiting for the results and to hear if you are a winner. You sit there surrounded by literature about all of the worst maladies to ever affect the human urinary tract, so for the whole forty five minutes, you can't think of anything but what you may or may not hear.
I have already accepted my fate in one aspect. Something is growing in my testicle and from what I have read, that is not normal, be it cancer or alien baby (and I don't recall being abducted, but then again, that is how they do it, you don't remember). So, I am fully prepared to hear that we will probably remove the testicle. It is just the "why" that is killing me. My wife is surprisingly strong, maybe too strong. I want her to be strong, but I would also like to see her just a tad bit upset. You know a reminder that she cares, that kinda thing.
After peeing into a cup for what seems like the 32nd time, we go back to the examination room. The nurse takes my "vitals" and notes, "Your blood pressure and pulse are considerably higher than the last time you were in here." My wife and I both have some nervous laughter as I say, "That's because I am anxious about what I will hear today." The whole thing seemed so unreal. From Tuesday until Friday, all I can think about is: Do I have cancer? Will I have surgery? I need a haircut, am I just wasting my money if I am getting chemo? Will I be able to have kids? Should I buy special underwear? Of course my blood pressure is going to be up, what a stupid statement!!! My vitals were up before the forty-five minute wait in the urology torture chamber, it's really up now!
The doctor comes in, and immediately tells me to "hop up there let's examine you again". Now, I know I am there about my balls, but you don't want to be the guy that drops his pants every time the doctor walks in, just in case one of those times he is just listening to your heart. Plus, he has windows with just the middle part blocked. Now I can see outside whether I am standing or sitting, so I am pretty sure, people can see my junk at one point. But I guess the thought behind the shades, is people outside will never be able to see your junk and your face at the same time, and that is supposed to make you feel more secure.
So, he confirms that I am supposed to jump on the exam table sans pants. I pull them down, he feels the spot on my testicle once again. Then starts explaining where we are going to cut, what he is taking out, how long I will be in bed, how much ice I will need...a lot of things except the one thing we were there to hear.
As he starts to push us out of the office I ask, "So, is it cancer?" He responds with a nonchalant "Yeah, it's cancer." I am sure glad he broke it to me easy like that.
The other thing I was not at all prepared for was his pause at the door. He remembers that I told him I didn't have kids. He says although I should still be able to have kids, I should probably make a "deposit" at the "bank" just in case.
We leave the office stunned. I find out my surgery is less that a week away. I have realized, I can deal with all of this news, it is just hard for me to talk about. We get to the car, my wife is frantically calling both of our families, her work, and everyone else that needs to know, all while trying to talk so I can't hear. I am thumbing away on my phone sending e-mails to my friends. Part of me hates people worrying about my medical problems, but there is a bigger part that really needs all the support I can get right now.
Among the calls we make, one is to the sperm bank that tells me to stop by in a couple of hours to make the transaction. I think that is where I will leave it for today. Tomorrow's blog will talk about the next few days and answer all those questions you have always wanted to know about sperm banks and also address how you get in the mood when you are told just a couple hours earlier that you have cancer and are loosing a testicle. I know you all can't wait.
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