I am finishing up my latest round of scans. In the past three weeks, it seems I have been tested every other day. I haven't actually been tested every other day, but medical providers have still found a way to bill me every other day. So far I have finished a chest X-ray, a CATscan, CBC, tumor marker blood test, and in a matter of hours a upper endoscopy (with jumbo biopsies, YIPPEE!), oh yeah and peeing into the random cup every once in a while too. I just hope I was supposed to pee in that one cup, because the nurse gave me a funny look, and I don't remember specimen cups saying "Moe's Southwest Grill" on the side...
The X-rays were as expected. I raise my hands above my head while the nurse shoves me against the wall like she's on COPS and I am an unruly suspect (one time I accidentally yelled out "Don't tase me bro" during the test). The blood and urine tests were pretty routine as well. I get asked for a body fluid, and I deposit it into whatever receptacle they hold in front of me. The only problem was a slight miscalculation on driving time/fluid intake, which required me to make the receptionist wait for my insurance co-pay until after I gave them a sample.
The one thing I wasn't expecting was a CATscan. When I decided to do chemo over testing (mainly dozens of CATscans) I knew I would still have to get the occasional CATscan, I just wasn't expecting it to be so soon after my last oncologist appointment. As soon as he ordered it, I had flashbacks of the taste of the contrast dye and the associated CATstipation. Not wanting to roll around on the floor in impacted and backed up pain again, I had taken two liter bottles of water with me to do some mega-hydrating on the drive back from the hospital. Luckily, I didn't start drinking them yet, because when I arrived I was told I would not be drinking the slightly flavored chalky substance. They had a new water based contrast, but I had to drink a liter of it in an hour. Still skeptical, I apprehensively took a taste. It tasted like Terre Haute water, which for those of you that haven't been to/smelled Terre Haute, IN, it kinda taste like...well...have you ever put a cooler away and forgotten to drain it? Well, it kinda tastes like that smells. Not good, but not bad either, and definitely better than the nasty, chalky, constipatitiony, bottomless cup of sludge that I had to drink before.
Within a few days, I got all of my results back, X-ray's and scans were clean. Urine and blood tests were normal, and tumor marker's still dropping. So now I am preparing for my endoscopy tomorrow. My preparation involves mainly not eating after midnight and not sleeping. I have literally had more scopes than I can count, all I know is that I am in double digits, and I have developed a routine. I stay up late the night before, I go into the hospital barely awake, I get some Demerol shoved in my vein, and I wake up with my wife giving me dirty looks because I apparently won't wake up and I ask the same questions over and over again.
See, in my long history of scopes, there are two things I don't like about them. One time I woke up when they snapped the plastic guide between my teeth, and the feeling/sound was not a pleasant experience. Now they say you don't remember anything from the scope, but obviously if I just told you about that, I did remember it, because they don't put that thing in your mouth before you go in there and it is out before you wake up, so the only way I would know about it is to wake up during the procedure, and remember it (and I also remember hearing the doctor say, "He's waking up, give him so more."). The other thing, is for some reason the oxygen tube that they stick in your nose, makes me feel like I am drowning. OK, OK, I will wait for you to quit laughing at me. Are you done? So, I don't know why I have that feeling, but I do. If I am totally out, it's no big deal. If I am kinda out, I wake up, thrashing saying I can't breathe (which just by saying "I can't breathe" it proves I can breathe, but anyway), and before I know it I am sedated again and I wake up with straps on my arms. For the comfort and safety of myself and the nurses attending to me, I have found that we are all much happier, if I am completely out of it during the scope.
As far as tests go, an endoscopy really isn't that bad. The bad thing is, they keep you from eating for so long before, and for my condition they take out large biopsies in my throat to send to a pathologist, which leaves me waking up starving, but yet it hurts to swallow. It's like some cruel joke the doctor's and nurses play on me, maybe in some sort of retaliation for thrashing around during the procedure acting like I'm drowning. At any rate, I am ready to get this test over with and anxious to hear my results. With this test behind me I am through with doctors (for me) until November. Hopefully, the nurses will loosen my straps tomorrow and I can come home and tell you how everything went.
Showing posts with label constipation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label constipation. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Monday, October 25, 2010
A Bunch of Crap About Chemo...
Tomorrow is supposed to be my "bottoming out" day. Supposedly my red blood cells, white blood cells, and platelets will be at their lowest. Best case scenario is my numbers are within range and they kick me out of there allowing me to resume my normal activities...which quite frankly, since the surgery and unemployment I haven't had any "normal activities" to speak of. Worst case scenario, my numbers are dangerously low and they check me into the hospital until they come back up. It's not that big of a deal, except the hospital TVs aren't high definition and they don't have any of the good channels I have become accustomed to in my weeks of lying on the couch moaning. They check other numbers in your blood too, including liver function, which leads me to a peculiar observation.
One side effect that wasn't mentioned in our chemo class is a strange discoloration in the toilet. For a day or two, no matter what business I had in the bathroom, it was coming out yellow. Now for half of the bathroom business that is perfectly normal. For the other half, you are perplexed and wondering just how many bananas you ate. First time, I thought it was a fluke. Second time, I was a little more concerned. Third time, I opened the big folder we received at chemo class and poured over it, trying to figure out exactly where this particular side effect would be listed. Having my oncologist's twenty-four hour number and e-mail, I decided the best thing to do would be...look it up on the internet. I just sat there on Google's web search for a while trying to figure out the best way to search this, without coming up with a bunch of disgusting (well even more disgusting) results. Finally a found a combo of words that looked this up as a medical curiosity and not a fetish. Surprisingly there was a lot of information on the subject. My research seemed to narrow it down to one of two things. Either it was no big deal and it would go away with time, or it meant I was in liver failure and I would probably die before I finished reading the article. This is not the type of information you want to read right before bedtime.
I go to bed, eyes wide open, trying to see if I can feel my liver dying. I can't. I get back up and get back on the internet for more information. Most of the sites that say you are going to die immediately mention that you will also notice your eyes turning yellow as it gets more serious. I don't know if that means you are getting full of crap up to your eyeballs or what. But, that hasn't happened yet, so I guess I still have time to finish today's blog entry before I die. And in my tired state I wonder, if the whites of my eyes turn yellow, can I go get a kid's pair of sunglasses with the blue lenses and make my eyes look green, because that would be cool. Or red lenses and they'd be orange. Well, it didn't matter. After checking my eyes repeatedly every time I walk past a mirror, so far no yellow. But this is something I am going to ask the nurse about. Not if I am OK, I'm asking why she didn't warn us about that in the class. Getting up from doing work like that and seeing yellow is a little startling. It must be some chemo nurse practical joke that they do. "Hey Susan, you see that guy over there, I didn't tell him his poop turns yellow." I do think I heard two nurses laughing hysterically as I was leaving chemo.
However, this is one of the few times my gastro-intestinal problems have helped me in life. One of the big problems with many chemotherapy drugs is...well back-ups. So much so that many patients come out of chemo with major hemorrhoids. My main GI problem is that I go too often in that respect. When we met with my GI doctor, he said the easy thing for me, instead of having to take the drugs to counteract the chemo effects, I could just quit taking most of my regular drugs for my GI issues. And it worked! My GI issues and my chemo side effects have combined to make me feel like I normal crapper...well except for the yellowness. I will take discoloration over hemorrhoids any day!
As I prepare for tomorrow, I am trying to think of anything I need to take in case I do get checked in to the hospital, although I am not feeling too bad, just really tired. And I am trying to think of the best way to ask my chemo nurse about miscolored manure. Hopefully, I will be back on here tomorrow to let you know what happened!
One side effect that wasn't mentioned in our chemo class is a strange discoloration in the toilet. For a day or two, no matter what business I had in the bathroom, it was coming out yellow. Now for half of the bathroom business that is perfectly normal. For the other half, you are perplexed and wondering just how many bananas you ate. First time, I thought it was a fluke. Second time, I was a little more concerned. Third time, I opened the big folder we received at chemo class and poured over it, trying to figure out exactly where this particular side effect would be listed. Having my oncologist's twenty-four hour number and e-mail, I decided the best thing to do would be...look it up on the internet. I just sat there on Google's web search for a while trying to figure out the best way to search this, without coming up with a bunch of disgusting (well even more disgusting) results. Finally a found a combo of words that looked this up as a medical curiosity and not a fetish. Surprisingly there was a lot of information on the subject. My research seemed to narrow it down to one of two things. Either it was no big deal and it would go away with time, or it meant I was in liver failure and I would probably die before I finished reading the article. This is not the type of information you want to read right before bedtime.
I go to bed, eyes wide open, trying to see if I can feel my liver dying. I can't. I get back up and get back on the internet for more information. Most of the sites that say you are going to die immediately mention that you will also notice your eyes turning yellow as it gets more serious. I don't know if that means you are getting full of crap up to your eyeballs or what. But, that hasn't happened yet, so I guess I still have time to finish today's blog entry before I die. And in my tired state I wonder, if the whites of my eyes turn yellow, can I go get a kid's pair of sunglasses with the blue lenses and make my eyes look green, because that would be cool. Or red lenses and they'd be orange. Well, it didn't matter. After checking my eyes repeatedly every time I walk past a mirror, so far no yellow. But this is something I am going to ask the nurse about. Not if I am OK, I'm asking why she didn't warn us about that in the class. Getting up from doing work like that and seeing yellow is a little startling. It must be some chemo nurse practical joke that they do. "Hey Susan, you see that guy over there, I didn't tell him his poop turns yellow." I do think I heard two nurses laughing hysterically as I was leaving chemo.
However, this is one of the few times my gastro-intestinal problems have helped me in life. One of the big problems with many chemotherapy drugs is...well back-ups. So much so that many patients come out of chemo with major hemorrhoids. My main GI problem is that I go too often in that respect. When we met with my GI doctor, he said the easy thing for me, instead of having to take the drugs to counteract the chemo effects, I could just quit taking most of my regular drugs for my GI issues. And it worked! My GI issues and my chemo side effects have combined to make me feel like I normal crapper...well except for the yellowness. I will take discoloration over hemorrhoids any day!
As I prepare for tomorrow, I am trying to think of anything I need to take in case I do get checked in to the hospital, although I am not feeling too bad, just really tired. And I am trying to think of the best way to ask my chemo nurse about miscolored manure. Hopefully, I will be back on here tomorrow to let you know what happened!
Friday, October 8, 2010
The Man With The Chemo Plan
Today was one giant doctor's visit, but it went well! The day started out with a last minute appointment at 10am to a doctor that will be talked about in a later blog. Luckily since the appointment wasn't about my testicular cancer surgery, I was able to resist the reflex to drop my pants and let every white coat in the room "see how things are healing up". The funny thing is, even though this appointment had nothing to do with my testicular cancer surgery, before the end of the appointment, I had my pants tugged down so she could see the scar. And no, I am not just randomly flashing everyone in a white coat, it was by request...kinda. It is funny how this is a fairly routine surgery, but how few people in the medical profession outside of oncologists and urologists realize it does not involve slicing the gentlemen's bits. I think half of these doctors and nurses are just asking out of curiosity, "Oh THAT'S where they cut you." Luckily, the only pain I experienced at the first doctor's visit was from having to go to the bathroom from the moment we got in the office. Well, not the exact moment, just as soon as I heard one of the nurses say "the bathroom is downstairs". Still leery of walking too far with my hair trigger incision pain, I had to make the mental calculations on which I was more afraid of, the random pain or peeing my pants. I decided I would rather take a chance on peeing my pants. Luckily neither happened.
After leaving the first appointment, we barely had enough time to grab some lunch before the oncologist at 1pm. Today, chemo class! We only had little argument with the nurse when she talked about "vomitus". We assured her there wouldn't be any, and she kept wanting to go into details about what to do if it did happen. Finally, she glanced at my chart, saw my stomach surgery notes and it dawned on her that I can't vomit anymore. So, we were able to skip over that part, although I am a little curious what was so important that she was dying to talk about. Maybe chemo vomit is her specialty and I stole her thunder. We moved onto all of the other random bodily excretions that must be cleaned up with a positive ventilation Level A haz-mat suit and a leaf blower. The whole time I am thinking that if this stuff is so nasty coming out of me, shouldn't I be concerned that it's going IN me first? Overall, the class was great. She answered all of our dumb questions (and I had a lot of them) and I made pages and pages of notes. It's a good thing I did, because all I can remember after this long day is I am supposed to gargle with salt water every four hours and flush twice with the lid down. Or am I supposed to flush every four hours and gargle twice with the lid down? I can't remember, at least I still have a week to study. The nurse was very nice and very reassuring as she scared the crap out of us with all of the stuff that requires an emergency call to the office. She scared me so much, I think I am already getting some of those side effects and I don't take chemo for another week! Eventually, she decided we were thoroughly terrified and she sent us on our way with a nice new canvas book bag. Or maybe it's a bag to hold mutant vomitus and other toxic bodily fluids. I think I will just use it for books for now.
After leaving there, we had about an hour to kill before the next appointment. Luckily, my random incision pain, while still not predictable, is getting to the point that I can feel when it's about to "snap" and shoot through me. So, I move a little like the Tinman from the Wizard of Oz, walking and slowly freezing up, feeling the pain about to start, but stopping mid-movement and slowly backing out of whatever way I was swinging my arm or moving my leg. So as the Tinman, I move slightly slower than a turtle using a walker. My wife decides shopping would be a great way to kill some time. This mostly involves her walking into large stores like Kroger or K-mart, running from front to back and all points in-between, all in about the same time it takes me to get from the entrance to the register. At least we make it to the check-out at about the same time. My snail's pace Tinman walk has resulted in no shooting pains today, I just walk like C3PO with one broken leg and the other leg's asleep.
We arrive at doctor's appointment number three. It is for my gastro-intestinal doctor, and he shares the building with my family doctor. While waiting, we get to talk to my family doc, and more importantly, I get to thank him for all the support he has been to both of us the past five weeks or so. Between finding me good referral docs and reassuring me on e-mail (for free!) he really has been the one constant in all of this helping guide us when we don't know which direction to head next.
We make it back to the GI doctors office. My wife, the doctor, and I form a little circle, then we break it down. Nausea, diarrhea, constipation, we form our game plan. Now I know what you are thinking, I just said nausea but I said earlier that I couldn't produce vomitus, and I can't, but that doesn't stop my body from going through the motions. So, anything we can do to stop the tummy turnovers is greatly appreciated. The meeting takes forever! But surprisingly it is not tedious or boring at all. We make a game plan. A very complicated and convoluted game plan, but one that sounds like it will work. Chemo hits everyone different and acts different ways at different times. You may be constipated these days and the exact opposite those days. And since I am usually on that exact opposite side, I have a drug cocktail to regulate that pretty well. What he decides is so brilliant and simple, it amazes me. We are stripping my going too much medication to the minimum, and that is pretty much all we are going to do on a regular basis. That should keep the not going enough side effects from intensifying. However, the big gun in the bowel plugger arsenal is my secret weapon. If I am getting too much toilet time, I just hit it occasionally with my Mother Of All Blockers pill and keep things flowing at the speeds they should be. We come up with a few more plans for various "what if" situations and I walk out of there completely ready for chemo.
Today may have been a long day of plastic waiting room chairs and drop ceiling offices, but my spirits are higher than they have been since this fight began. I am the Man with the Chemo Plan. I am ready to start, I have my road map, I am ready to end, and I am ready to go back to my normal life. All of my medical ducks are lined up in a row, and I am ready to put all of this behind me. I just have to hurry up and wait for a week.
After leaving the first appointment, we barely had enough time to grab some lunch before the oncologist at 1pm. Today, chemo class! We only had little argument with the nurse when she talked about "vomitus". We assured her there wouldn't be any, and she kept wanting to go into details about what to do if it did happen. Finally, she glanced at my chart, saw my stomach surgery notes and it dawned on her that I can't vomit anymore. So, we were able to skip over that part, although I am a little curious what was so important that she was dying to talk about. Maybe chemo vomit is her specialty and I stole her thunder. We moved onto all of the other random bodily excretions that must be cleaned up with a positive ventilation Level A haz-mat suit and a leaf blower. The whole time I am thinking that if this stuff is so nasty coming out of me, shouldn't I be concerned that it's going IN me first? Overall, the class was great. She answered all of our dumb questions (and I had a lot of them) and I made pages and pages of notes. It's a good thing I did, because all I can remember after this long day is I am supposed to gargle with salt water every four hours and flush twice with the lid down. Or am I supposed to flush every four hours and gargle twice with the lid down? I can't remember, at least I still have a week to study. The nurse was very nice and very reassuring as she scared the crap out of us with all of the stuff that requires an emergency call to the office. She scared me so much, I think I am already getting some of those side effects and I don't take chemo for another week! Eventually, she decided we were thoroughly terrified and she sent us on our way with a nice new canvas book bag. Or maybe it's a bag to hold mutant vomitus and other toxic bodily fluids. I think I will just use it for books for now.
After leaving there, we had about an hour to kill before the next appointment. Luckily, my random incision pain, while still not predictable, is getting to the point that I can feel when it's about to "snap" and shoot through me. So, I move a little like the Tinman from the Wizard of Oz, walking and slowly freezing up, feeling the pain about to start, but stopping mid-movement and slowly backing out of whatever way I was swinging my arm or moving my leg. So as the Tinman, I move slightly slower than a turtle using a walker. My wife decides shopping would be a great way to kill some time. This mostly involves her walking into large stores like Kroger or K-mart, running from front to back and all points in-between, all in about the same time it takes me to get from the entrance to the register. At least we make it to the check-out at about the same time. My snail's pace Tinman walk has resulted in no shooting pains today, I just walk like C3PO with one broken leg and the other leg's asleep.
We arrive at doctor's appointment number three. It is for my gastro-intestinal doctor, and he shares the building with my family doctor. While waiting, we get to talk to my family doc, and more importantly, I get to thank him for all the support he has been to both of us the past five weeks or so. Between finding me good referral docs and reassuring me on e-mail (for free!) he really has been the one constant in all of this helping guide us when we don't know which direction to head next.
We make it back to the GI doctors office. My wife, the doctor, and I form a little circle, then we break it down. Nausea, diarrhea, constipation, we form our game plan. Now I know what you are thinking, I just said nausea but I said earlier that I couldn't produce vomitus, and I can't, but that doesn't stop my body from going through the motions. So, anything we can do to stop the tummy turnovers is greatly appreciated. The meeting takes forever! But surprisingly it is not tedious or boring at all. We make a game plan. A very complicated and convoluted game plan, but one that sounds like it will work. Chemo hits everyone different and acts different ways at different times. You may be constipated these days and the exact opposite those days. And since I am usually on that exact opposite side, I have a drug cocktail to regulate that pretty well. What he decides is so brilliant and simple, it amazes me. We are stripping my going too much medication to the minimum, and that is pretty much all we are going to do on a regular basis. That should keep the not going enough side effects from intensifying. However, the big gun in the bowel plugger arsenal is my secret weapon. If I am getting too much toilet time, I just hit it occasionally with my Mother Of All Blockers pill and keep things flowing at the speeds they should be. We come up with a few more plans for various "what if" situations and I walk out of there completely ready for chemo.
Today may have been a long day of plastic waiting room chairs and drop ceiling offices, but my spirits are higher than they have been since this fight began. I am the Man with the Chemo Plan. I am ready to start, I have my road map, I am ready to end, and I am ready to go back to my normal life. All of my medical ducks are lined up in a row, and I am ready to put all of this behind me. I just have to hurry up and wait for a week.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
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!
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.
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