Ups and downs

A few years ago, T and I watched a ridiculously cheesy TV show called Forever Eden.  The premise of the show was pairing off single people and seeing how long they could stay at a luxurious resort.  To announce a twist or competition, the hostess would place a huge fake apple on the contestants' bed and remind the audience that the apple could bring good...or EEEEEEEVIL.  I feel like we have had an enormous apple placed on our bed this week, and with it, we have had both the good and the bad.

Monday's surgery went well overall.  It started later than expected, so it was a long day of waiting for everyone.  When the surgeon came out to talk to me, she delivered two kinds of news: the tumor had all been removed but she thought the cancer had spread to the bladder.  Thankfully, we found out the next day that the cancer had not spread any further than they originally thought.  The bladder was perforated, but the explanation was that the radiation had caused the tumor to stick to the bladder and the perforation happened when the tumor was removed.  Score one for good news!!

I stayed in the city on Monday night so I could get to the hospital bright and early Tuesday morning.  It was great to see T, but it was also really weird.  He had a morphine pump, and by God, he was not afraid to use it.  The meds made him flat and expressionless, and if you know T, you know that's not his normal state.  He was in quite a bit of pain, but it was controlled by the meds.  I stayed that afternoon, but I went home later that day to be with the kids.  No matter where I was, my heart was always split in half between Northwestern and home.  

The next day was fantastic.  As soon as I got the kids off to school, I headed into the hospital.  T was up and alert.  His morphine pump was gone, but he had more energy to walk around and be out of bed.  He joked around and talked, and I was thrilled to have my T back.  He shaved, and I helped him wash his hair.  He was even allowed some soft food, although after about four bites, his appetite was gone. When I left that afternoon, I was confident that his recovery was going well and he was on track to come home Friday.

Thursday wasn't so great.  My brother and I drove in to visit, but we ended up only staying fifteen minutes.  T had been nauseous and vomiting all night, so he hadn't gotten any sleep.  He was sitting up in a chair when we got there, but he was obviously fading fast.  He was too exhausted to have anyone around, even me.  He texted me later in the day to let me know that he had still been vomiting, and the docs had decided he needed an NG tube.   The tube was supposed to remove whatever was in T's stomach; apparently his bowels weren't "awake" after surgery and that was causing his nausea.  His nurse assured me that this was all completely normal after anesthesia, but what is normal to her sure seemed completely wrong to me.  The only good news of that day was that T's catheter was finally removed. 

My dad and I arrived at the hospital this morning, Friday, to find a wan and weary T.  The vomiting had continued during the night and into the morning.  At one point, the NG tube started to choke T, and the nurse had to remove it.   Unfortunately, it had to go back in.  Two different people tried to re-insert the tube with no luck.  When the third person came in to try again, T told me to vamoose because he didn't want me in the room while it was going down.  He was so run-down that having people in the room wasn't going to do him any good, so my visit was cut short once again.  There was one bright moment, though, when I saw my guy's true self.  I told him I wished I could stay longer, he told me that I tend to get annoying after ten minutes, fifteen minutes tops.  That's the Trevor I know and love. 

I know that things will get better, and I know that all of this is only temporary.  Even knowing those truths doesn't stop me from feeling completely helpless.  I want to DO something to help him, to fix him, to bring him home.  I also know that the most important thing is that the cancer is out; I'm just selfish enough to want the cancer gone AND for T to be comfortable.  I want him to feel good, and I want him to come home.  The week of good and eeeeeevil continues, and I just hope it comes to an end with more good than anything else. 

Questions or concerns

We met with Trevor's surgeon yesterday at Northwestern and set a date for the surgery.  October 13 is the big day, so this is really happening.

I like the surgeon a lot: she's funny and an absolute straight-shooter.  She tells it like it is, and she doesn't sugarcoat anything.  She described the pre-op routine, the surgery itself, and what would happen post-op.  T and I spent that discussion time asking a few questions and nodding our heads like bobble dolls.  At the end of the spiel, the doctor asked us if we had any other questions or concerns.

Did I have any concerns?

I mean, duh.

You know how in the movies there is a montage of life events that pass through someone's mind as that person faces danger?  That happened to me, except instead of past events, all I could see was the future.    I saw the next fifty years of our lives race before my eyes in the period of about five seconds.  So many happy times were there, flying by at light speed.  T was in every thought I had, so it wasn't like I was picturing life without him.  On the contrary, I was picturing our future together, both as a family and as a couple.

What I wanted to tell the doctor was that there are always concerns.  Always.  When someone is having a serious surgery, it's always a concern.  Any time there is anaesthesia or blood, there is a concern.  Any time my husband is going to be lying on a table for four to six hours, there are going to be concerns.

What I wanted to tell her was that she was going to be taking care of the man who makes me laugh every single day, of the father of my children, of the smartest guy I know, of my best friend, of the love of my life.  I wanted to tell her that she was in charge of getting every bit of that tumor out.  I wanted to tell her to get a good night's sleep and have a healthy breakfast that morning.  I wanted her to know that although I have the utmost confidence in her training and abilities, I will still be pacing in the waiting room, drinking cup after cup of coffee, and trying not to bite my nails until she comes out to tell me that my husband is okay.  I wanted to tell her that although she isn't a cardiologist, my heart will be in her hands.

But I didn't.  Instead, Trevor and I looked at each other, shook our heads that we had no other questions and concerns, and went to lunch.  For that moment, that was enough.

Sweet relief

The surgery on Thursday went well.  I spent another lovely night at Central Baptist Hospital.  Don't get me wrong: the people are really nice there, but I quickly grew weary of being woken up every three hours, sleeping with an oxygen mask on, and being fed orange Jello and beef broth.  I got to go home pretty early on Friday morning, and as if the whole ordeal hadn't been bizarre enough, leaving the hospital was even more bizarre.  The nurse refused to unhook me from the IV until I ate solid food, but she wouldn't give me any solid food.  She also insisted that I sleep in the oxygen mask even though my oxygen sats were fine.  After the shift change, I got a new nurse who was on duty when I was discharged.  She and the student nurse who was shadowing her unhooked me from everything, and then the nurse proceeded to tell me that when my ride arrived, I could go ahead and just leave.  All I had to do was wave to the nurses at the nurses' station and tell them I was leaving.  By myself.  On my own two legs.  Without a wheelchair.  I mean, I was perfectly capable of walking to the elevator and to the front door alone, but I found it odd that the nurse would let me go alone due to liability.  As I was walking down the hall to leave, a staff member stopped me and said, "What are you doing?  Does your nurse know you're walking down the hallway?"  When I told her that my nurse not only knew but TOLD me to do it, the woman just shook her head and said, "Okay, good luck."

I was so glad to have Nicole, my parents, and Trevor's parents in town to help me with the kids.  I was able to take a nap (if you count four hours as a nap) on Friday and another nap on Saturday.  Lovely!  Trevor stayed home with me on Friday just to make sure everything was okay.  Either that or he wanted to nap, too, so he could stay up for the UK basketball game Friday night.  Other than fatigue, I have been feeling pretty good and slathering my sweet scar with vitamin E oil as often as I can.

On Monday, I had my first appointment with my endocrinologist, Dr. Wendell Miers.  (He is really cool, by the way.)  He was able to get into the CBH computer and see my biopsy results from Thursday.  Drum roll, please...

There was NO cancer in the second lobe that was removed.  Not only was there that amazing news, but I also don't have to do the radioactive iodine treatment.  Dr. Miers started me on Synthroid to regulate the level of thyroid hormone in my body, and I will continue to do checkups with him every three months, then every six, and eventually once a year.

I knew in my heart that everything was going to be okay, but hearing the news for sure was a huge relief.  All I wanted to do was go home and sleep for twelve hours because I felt completely weightless for the first time in a long time.  I didn't get to do that, of course, but last night's sleep was one of the best I have had in a long, long, long time.

I truly appreciate all of the thoughts, prayers, and kind words that you have all sent my way.  I know that every bit of love has helped me and my family get through this rough, insane, and emotional time.  Thank you all!

Now that I am cancer-free, I can get to the business of packing up the house.  But that's a whole other blog...

The Blight

Last Friday afternoon, I got a phone call from Amy, my surgeon's assistant, with the results of the biopsy.  The conversation only lasted a few minutes, and I really only heard one word: cancer.

I spent the rest of that afternoon in a sort of fugue state.  My mind sort of went all blank and fuzzy; it wasn't entirely unpleasant, to tell you the truth.  Amy had assured me that the doctor got all of the cancer when he removed the left lobe of the thyroid and that I shouldn't worry.  Uh huh.  Thanks, Amy.  I had so many questions, but I knew I had to wait until my follow-up appointment on Thursday to get answers from my doctor.  I didn't think about it too much the rest of the weekend because we were busy and I didn't see the point in worrying.  After all, the cancer was gone, and considering I didn't find out about it until after the fact, there was no point in getting all worked up about it.

That worked pretty well until today.  My surgeon called this afternoon, and as soon as I heard him identify himself, I knew something was up.  My appointment with him was in less than 48 hours: why call me now?  He said that the pathology report showed signs of capsular invasion, and he said the other lobe of my thyroid needs to come out.  Soon.  The good news is that there is no sign of the cancer in my lymph nodes, so hopefully the removal of the rest of the thyroid will make certain that never happens.

The woozy feeling returned; again, it wasn't a bad feeling.  There may have been a teeny bit of denial thrown in for good measure.  As I made the kids dinner, I thought, "Huh.  I have cancer."  Although I know it's real, it doesn't seem real quite yet.  In fact, it seems downright surreal that in a couple of weeks, I'll go back to the same hospital to have the same incision opened and wake up in the same recovery room.  As much as I don't want to go through it all again, I know that I don't have a choice.  I need to get this out of my body and start healing.

The doctor wanted to do the surgery next week, but he agreed to wait two weeks so I could go on a planned trip out of town.  I made sure that waiting won't jeopardize my health in any way, and I'll reconfirm that on Thursday.  I need this trip, though.  I'm going to visit my BFF in Colorado for a few days of fun, visiting with friends, Chinese food, trashy TV, shopping, more Chinese food, a stay at the famed Stanley Hotel, and a lot of laughing.

The Stanley Hotel where Stephen King got the inspiration to write _The Shining_.  Squeeeee!!!

I'm really not too freaked out, all in all.  I have faith that everything is going to turn out just fine.  And I can't let this consume me, my family, and my life.  Plus, my badass scar will be even more badass the second time around.  I didn't think I could get much cooler than I already am, but apparently, I can.  And I will.

Inconclusive

So, a week ago, I had a hemithyroidectomy.  Before you rush to google, a hemithyroidectomy is when half of one's thyroid is removed.  And I have a pretty badass scar to flaunt.   

You should see the other guy...

 

During the surgery, the left lobe of my thyroid was removed and sent to pathology.  The initial results looked good; there was no invasion of bad cells.  The sample was then sent off for a more thorough test and was to be returned within 48 hours.  I spent Friday night in the hospital - ugh - and was able to go home Saturday late-morning.  I felt pretty good, albeit hungry after a diet of beef broth and gelatin.  I took a 3 hour nap (!) on Saturday afternoon, and by Sunday, I felt almost back to normal.

Monday and Tuesday came and went without any word from the doctor about the second pathology report.  I started calling on Wednesday, and I finally got someone to call me back Thursday afternoon.  Apparently the results were inconclusive and the sample was sent somewhere else for a second opinion.  Okay.  When I asked the nurse who called me what that meant, she said, "Well, inconclusive means the doctor couldn't make a determination one way or another from the sample."  Gee, thanks for the vocabulary lesson.  So now I wait until the second opinion comes back.

I think everyone else around me is far more freaked out about the inconclusive result than I am.  I'm surprisingly Zen about the whole thing.  I mean, there isn't anything I can do about it but wait.  No matter what the new results are, everything is going to be fine.  I figure that the universe wouldn't mess with me after it waited so long to send me my beautiful family and my beautiful life.  

The only problem now, other than the waiting, is the fatigue.  Holy cow, am I tired.  And it's not just the kind of tired after missing a few nights of sleep.  This is the kind of tired that makes me completely unable to function.  I have headaches with the fatigue, and all I want to do is lie on the couch.  That's not the kind of wife and mother I want to be. 

I have an appointment with an endocrinologist, but I can't get in to see him for two weeks.  I called my GP and basically begged to be seen, and I have an appointment with her today at noon.  I can deal with a heck of a lot, but I can't deal with being so rundown that I can't interact with my family and friends.  Keep your fingers crossed for me that we can find a solution to get me back to my former energy level.

I wouldn't have been able to do all of this without the support and help of my family and friends, especially Trevor, my parents, and Nicole.  Knowing that I have people behind me and cheering me on is the best thing in the world.  And thanks to all of you who have asked how I am and sent encouraging messages.  You guys rock!!!!  

The Empress of All Maladies

As a kid, I was pretty healthy.  I never broke a bone, I never had to go to the ER: nothing serious.  I had the usual illnesses like colds, the flu, and chicken pox, but overall, things were pretty normal.

Fast forward to my adult years.  Things were pretty status quo until I got married.  (Does that mean I get to blame Trevor for my issues?)  Since being with Trevor, my surgery quotient has definitely been on the rise.  In January of 2007, I had my first C-section.  (Trevor's fault.) That was followed by another C-section in September of 2008.  (Again, Trevor's fault.) A mere five months later, I had my gallbladder removed after months and months of lots of pain.  (The doctor said that having close pregnancies can cause gallbladder issues, so I can indirectly blame Trevor for that.) Somehow, I made it through 2010 with no real concerns other than two nutty kids.  2011 brought shoulder surgery for a torn labrum.  The first time I hurt myself, it was at the Porter County Fair on as ride.  Yep, I hurt myself on a fair ride.  I was trying to twist the steering wheel of a teacup ride while my right arm while holding Dallas steady with my left arm.  (I can blame Trevor for that because he was in Lexington working while I was in Valpo with the kids.  Sketchy, I know, but I'm going to roll with it.)  Then in late 2011, my hairdresser noticed a few bumps on my scalp and advised me to get them checked out.  I went to the dermatologist who told me that I had a staph infection.  WHAT?  How does a stay-at-home-mom get a staph infection?  I don't know, either. ( Unfortunately, I can't blame Trevor for that one.  Sigh.)

As if that hasn't been enough, it seems as though I have gotten seriously clumsy in 2012.  In the first 13 days of this year, I have burned my arm on a baking rack in the oven, fallen on the ice while taking out the garbage cans and smashing my head against one, and I burned my lips on some sort of corrosion when I was trying to change the batteries in an old flashlight.  It's like my brain has turned to some sort of fuzzy mush this year.  Maybe the Apocalypse really is coming.

Let's add one more, shall we?  While we were visiting my family in Valpo over the holidays, I had a few days of terrible headaches and nausea.  I soon started to realize that I wasn't sick to my stomach, but there was a really weird lump in my throat that was causing me to feel nauseous.  And I have never been one to have headaches, so that was a little disconcerting.  I made an appointment to see my doctor in Lexington, and she advised me to get an ultrasound of my neck.  The ultrasound results showed a multinodal enlargement of my thyroid.  In other words, I have a goiter.  Oh. Em. Gee.  A goiter???  That's totally not what I was expecting.  So next Thursday, I have to go have a Fine-Needle Aspiration of the nodules at Central Baptist Hospital.  I'm not really worried; my doctor said that 99% of multinodular goiters are benign.  I have to go by myself, though, because Trevor has to stay home with the kids.  (Speaking of Trevor, I can't blame The Goiter on him.  I'm looking for a way, though, so I'll let you know.)  For now, though, I'm using The Goiter to my advantage: "I get to choose what we watch on TV tonight; I have a goiter, you know."

None of these are terribly serious matters, but they do make me realize that I'm getting older and I need to take good care of myself.  I want to be around as long as possible so I can laugh hysterically when my kids call me for advice about their own nutty kids.  Isn't that what being a grandparent is all about?