Thus far in my cancer journey, I’ve been reading Eastern philosophy. I think the spiritual concepts based in Buddhism always resound with me. There is a fair amount of overlap between Eastern and Western ideas of spirituality. I think it’s safe to say, regardless of belief system and culture, we are all generally working on internal issues.
Perhaps it’s easier to utilize spirituality when there isn’t much else there as a distraction. For example, in my hospital stays, in between the visits with family and friends, I found myself with a lot of thinking time. This kind of time used to petrify me. I think as a society we are always afraid of looking into the faces of our demons. Stranded in a hospital or in my bed, aching and exhausted, my vulnerability would remain at the whims of these demons.
During these times, my demons are more nebulous than consistent. Usually they crop up now and then and taunt me: “Feeling pain, aren’t you? You want to feel sorry for yourself, right? How come you got cancer so young? You are weak and useless,” and on and on.
Some days I would be convinced my demons were right, but this has been during my worst days. More than likely I would acknowledge the taunts and respond: “Yeah, I feel pain, so what? It will be over soon. No, I don’t feel sorry for myself. I don’t know why I got cancer at all, but it doesn’t matter right now. I’m not weak; I’m actually quite strong. I might be somewhat unproductive now, but just you wait,” and so forth.
This has taken considerable practice. Backed into the corner with these demons, I realize on some level, I have no choice but fight back if I want to survive these taunts. At first, it felt like I had little tools to complete the task. It seems that it could sway in the extremes. I could scream and yell and go ape shit on my demons or I could just stare it down and wait until it backs away.
The Buddhist philosophies I’ve read would probably go with the latter approach. Partially, and this is my interpretation, because using a lot of energy to fight something that is so strong will just make one more exhausted. If there is one important condition to consider while fighting cancer it is this: energy must be conserved. If I’m fighting these demons, I have to fight smart. Why hand over so much energy to something that is not helpful?
I’ve been contemplating the idea that perhaps some might construe cancer as greater than other problems. In my situation, the diagnosis was shocking and the treatments unbearable at times. However, the disclaimer is that, if this weren’t cancer, I could very well be fighting something else. We are all battling personal demons. Cancer, in a way, represents something we all deal with on a day-to-day basis: our current state. Whether it is our jobs, relationships, fears, or desires, we are all dealing with something.
It would be easy to say that cancer is the demon itself, but I’m not convinced. Cancer generates a considerable amount of fear and doubt. Therefore, the fear and doubt are the demons. Believe me, I have wasted energy on the fear and uncertainty surrounding my situation. I have by no means perfected a nonreactive state to my demons, but I am working more on my approach to them.
Now, I’ll just smile politely at my demons as acknowledgment, let them exhaust themselves in trying to scare me, and scoot them out the door.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Monday, August 15, 2011
The beginning of the end is the beginning.
It’s been a few days since I finally received the results of my biopsy.
Negative. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero.
The surgeon said he took a good sample and my oncologist joked that there might not be much left in there. According to the results, all that is left is dead tissue.
To say I struggled with the idea of a stem cell transplant would be a large disservice to my feelings prior to the biopsy. There was a moment in the days leading to the surgery that I settled myself into a peaceful state and simply said “no”. This was not going to be my fate. For once, I felt like I had a choice in the matter. Of course, this is a shocking revelation, having felt more like a machine than a human lately. The feeling of getting dragged around was becoming very old, very quickly.
There were times in the past few months when I felt like I was in the middle of an action movie. The kind where there is no plot, but ample budget. The kind where I’m convinced the director is thinking: what else is there to do but blow shit up?
My own sense of body and self was becoming fragments in the collateral damage of treatments and procedures.
After a few days of hydrocodone-induced sleep after the biopsy, I stopped taking the painkillers. This inevitably made me cranky for the few days following this decision. However, my body has been healing quickly. I’m still removing bandage residue around the wounds that were once covered with butterfly bandages. Tugging that sticky crap off my body is in some ways more painful than the healing biopsy holes.
Prior to the biopsy, all things considered, I was feeling pretty good. My lungs aren’t quite at the capacity they had been since before the surgery. However in the past few days, my chest no longer feels like it’s going to explode just going up the stairs. The feeling of being shot has been replaced with a dull ache that tends to occur most when I roll over on my side while sleeping or, oddly, when I sneeze. Then again, these are small potatoes to having a tube in your side, in my humble opinion.
The past week, while recovering from surgery, I had been giddy about random things. I was cooking, knitting, reading, writing, and meditating. All like a hurricane: finding the eye, finding my sense of calm. Savoring those moments in gratitude.
Even my own attitude had changed within the week. Things that didn’t quite make sense before are now making sense to me. Recognizing the moments when I need to push myself and the moments when I need to let myself rest both physically and mentally.
While I had a minor amount of duress realizing I’d have to go through yet another chemo on Friday, with another one scheduled in early September, I hold onto the feelings of recovery post-biopsy. Feeling myself emerge from the cancer fog and the struggle to find normalcy beginning to cease. The blood test right before my chemo confirmed this as well. Within a few weeks of the delayed chemo, even after surgery, my white and red blood cells were all on the better side of normal. It startled me to know my body was rebounding so quickly.
There is a part of me that desperately wants to ask: how soon is now? However, I have to keep in mind, in the push and pull, there is balance. In chaos, there is order. In cancer, there is peace.
Negative. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Zero.
The surgeon said he took a good sample and my oncologist joked that there might not be much left in there. According to the results, all that is left is dead tissue.
To say I struggled with the idea of a stem cell transplant would be a large disservice to my feelings prior to the biopsy. There was a moment in the days leading to the surgery that I settled myself into a peaceful state and simply said “no”. This was not going to be my fate. For once, I felt like I had a choice in the matter. Of course, this is a shocking revelation, having felt more like a machine than a human lately. The feeling of getting dragged around was becoming very old, very quickly.
There were times in the past few months when I felt like I was in the middle of an action movie. The kind where there is no plot, but ample budget. The kind where I’m convinced the director is thinking: what else is there to do but blow shit up?
My own sense of body and self was becoming fragments in the collateral damage of treatments and procedures.
After a few days of hydrocodone-induced sleep after the biopsy, I stopped taking the painkillers. This inevitably made me cranky for the few days following this decision. However, my body has been healing quickly. I’m still removing bandage residue around the wounds that were once covered with butterfly bandages. Tugging that sticky crap off my body is in some ways more painful than the healing biopsy holes.
Prior to the biopsy, all things considered, I was feeling pretty good. My lungs aren’t quite at the capacity they had been since before the surgery. However in the past few days, my chest no longer feels like it’s going to explode just going up the stairs. The feeling of being shot has been replaced with a dull ache that tends to occur most when I roll over on my side while sleeping or, oddly, when I sneeze. Then again, these are small potatoes to having a tube in your side, in my humble opinion.
The past week, while recovering from surgery, I had been giddy about random things. I was cooking, knitting, reading, writing, and meditating. All like a hurricane: finding the eye, finding my sense of calm. Savoring those moments in gratitude.
Even my own attitude had changed within the week. Things that didn’t quite make sense before are now making sense to me. Recognizing the moments when I need to push myself and the moments when I need to let myself rest both physically and mentally.
While I had a minor amount of duress realizing I’d have to go through yet another chemo on Friday, with another one scheduled in early September, I hold onto the feelings of recovery post-biopsy. Feeling myself emerge from the cancer fog and the struggle to find normalcy beginning to cease. The blood test right before my chemo confirmed this as well. Within a few weeks of the delayed chemo, even after surgery, my white and red blood cells were all on the better side of normal. It startled me to know my body was rebounding so quickly.
There is a part of me that desperately wants to ask: how soon is now? However, I have to keep in mind, in the push and pull, there is balance. In chaos, there is order. In cancer, there is peace.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Mimo
Note: This is about my cat and not scary medical stuff. Let's call it a small reprieve.
My cat has decided that as an alternative to his flesh biting tendencies to get me out of bed that he has now moved his focus to my nightstand. If face batting and nose biting only makes me turn over and pull a sheet over my head to avoid him, he will start swiping things off my nightstand. I’ll turn over to see him with his backside facing me, peering over his shoulder as he paws a pen, and when he thinks I’m ignoring him again: swipe.
By the end of the morning, pens, medication, journal, eyeglasses, and cell phone will inevitably make it to the floor. Each time, of course, I react: “Mimo!” and he proceeds happily, grateful there are so many things on the nightstand to throw around. I try to get out of bed and open the door to let him out before he knocks over a glass of water or the lamp, but on some occasions he succeeds.
I have a few books that were resting on the floor with slightly waterlogged covers. My parents’ bedroom is right below mine and I’m sure they think I’ve fallen out of bed when the lamp hits the floor. Now, they know better, with my mischievous cat.
I am convinced he has learned these newfound skills from the other family cats. When he was living in my apartment and holding down the fort when I went to work or did errands, nary an item would be out of place upon my return. I was convinced I could leave something like a whole roast chicken out on top of my microwave and he wouldn’t notice. Once, I left a bag of dry cat food on my kitchen table, and later, I found the pellets all over my floor and the bag with telltale teeth marks. However, this was the extent of his mischievous nature and I knew to keep his dry food away from view.
I recall him wanting to sleep close to me in my apartment, but these days he keeps his distance by sleeping on my desk or at the end of the bed. He is all too happy if I don’t bug him. Come morning, however, all bets are off as he climbs over my torso and settles down on my stomach and chest, facing me. It’s as if he is saying: “See, mama? I will know when you are getting up. Oh yes, please rub my head while you are staring at me quizzically” and offers his head to me. Sometimes he steps on my port on the right side of my chest, which is always tender, or the left part of my chest, where the mass (Death Star?) lives. After uttering an “ouch” or two, ultimately, it is me holding him down so that he settles or pushing him off my chest.
I have always had a cat around that was preoccupied with getting fed. If a cat didn’t bug me for food, I would be concerned that something was wrong with him or her. However, Mimo’s concern with my schedule is a bit off-kilter. It’s plausible, in my mind, that he is a herding cat. Promptly around 9 at night, he hangs around me a bit more than in the earlier hours in the day. He waits for me to head upstairs so he can follow me and begin his sleeping ritual of bouncing between my desk and bed.
This cycle has only changed slightly post surgery. I told him prior to the surgery that he couldn’t step on me, especially with surgical bandages, bruising, and healing stitches. His blue eyes looked at me intently as if nodding. When I came home from the hospital, he was elated to see me, since I had been gone 2 days. He was bounding down the stairs and came to a screeching halt when our other cat Noki, a black female stray that I had adopted while in college, was waiting by the door.
My two “children” do not get along at all. In fact, Noki had presided over me while I was recovering from my gallbladder surgery a few years ago. As an example, when our elderly family cat Tiny Tim accidentally stepped on my stomach to hang out with me and I cried out in pain, Noki rushed into the room, scooted the old cat out and then went about her business. After eating or grooming, she would protectively sleep by my side to ensure this would not happen again. Even now, she takes her familial duties seriously.
Though now, Mimo has claimed me and it’s obviously just pissing her off. She does not hesitate to scream at him whenever he passes by and he gives this pitiful look like: what did I do? If you say “Mimo” to Noki while she is resting, she will lift her head up quickly and her eyes will narrow as she is looking around her. It seems that 5 months of living together has not helped their friendship. I suspect in the winter she’ll come around in order to warm herself in his alpaca-like fur.
Mimo is a fairly mellow cat despite his idiosyncrasies. One of the best reasons to have him around is that is fully supportive of my hobbies and activities. Working on the computer at my desk? He will sleep next to my laptop or sometimes even type for me (type is a relative term). Knitting? He will be there to catch a stray piece of yarn as needed (well, it's stray to him). This past weekend I dug out my jeweler’s saw frame and metal files to saw out and modify a piece of acrylic. I was sawing out a piece to replace the broken face of a vintage Michelin Bakelite tire pressure gauge for my dad and Mimo was there to be quality control (the photo evidence is above).
We might not always have the best understanding of each other, but he has been a good companion thus far.
My cat has decided that as an alternative to his flesh biting tendencies to get me out of bed that he has now moved his focus to my nightstand. If face batting and nose biting only makes me turn over and pull a sheet over my head to avoid him, he will start swiping things off my nightstand. I’ll turn over to see him with his backside facing me, peering over his shoulder as he paws a pen, and when he thinks I’m ignoring him again: swipe.
By the end of the morning, pens, medication, journal, eyeglasses, and cell phone will inevitably make it to the floor. Each time, of course, I react: “Mimo!” and he proceeds happily, grateful there are so many things on the nightstand to throw around. I try to get out of bed and open the door to let him out before he knocks over a glass of water or the lamp, but on some occasions he succeeds.
I have a few books that were resting on the floor with slightly waterlogged covers. My parents’ bedroom is right below mine and I’m sure they think I’ve fallen out of bed when the lamp hits the floor. Now, they know better, with my mischievous cat.
I am convinced he has learned these newfound skills from the other family cats. When he was living in my apartment and holding down the fort when I went to work or did errands, nary an item would be out of place upon my return. I was convinced I could leave something like a whole roast chicken out on top of my microwave and he wouldn’t notice. Once, I left a bag of dry cat food on my kitchen table, and later, I found the pellets all over my floor and the bag with telltale teeth marks. However, this was the extent of his mischievous nature and I knew to keep his dry food away from view.
I recall him wanting to sleep close to me in my apartment, but these days he keeps his distance by sleeping on my desk or at the end of the bed. He is all too happy if I don’t bug him. Come morning, however, all bets are off as he climbs over my torso and settles down on my stomach and chest, facing me. It’s as if he is saying: “See, mama? I will know when you are getting up. Oh yes, please rub my head while you are staring at me quizzically” and offers his head to me. Sometimes he steps on my port on the right side of my chest, which is always tender, or the left part of my chest, where the mass (Death Star?) lives. After uttering an “ouch” or two, ultimately, it is me holding him down so that he settles or pushing him off my chest.
I have always had a cat around that was preoccupied with getting fed. If a cat didn’t bug me for food, I would be concerned that something was wrong with him or her. However, Mimo’s concern with my schedule is a bit off-kilter. It’s plausible, in my mind, that he is a herding cat. Promptly around 9 at night, he hangs around me a bit more than in the earlier hours in the day. He waits for me to head upstairs so he can follow me and begin his sleeping ritual of bouncing between my desk and bed.
This cycle has only changed slightly post surgery. I told him prior to the surgery that he couldn’t step on me, especially with surgical bandages, bruising, and healing stitches. His blue eyes looked at me intently as if nodding. When I came home from the hospital, he was elated to see me, since I had been gone 2 days. He was bounding down the stairs and came to a screeching halt when our other cat Noki, a black female stray that I had adopted while in college, was waiting by the door.
My two “children” do not get along at all. In fact, Noki had presided over me while I was recovering from my gallbladder surgery a few years ago. As an example, when our elderly family cat Tiny Tim accidentally stepped on my stomach to hang out with me and I cried out in pain, Noki rushed into the room, scooted the old cat out and then went about her business. After eating or grooming, she would protectively sleep by my side to ensure this would not happen again. Even now, she takes her familial duties seriously.
Though now, Mimo has claimed me and it’s obviously just pissing her off. She does not hesitate to scream at him whenever he passes by and he gives this pitiful look like: what did I do? If you say “Mimo” to Noki while she is resting, she will lift her head up quickly and her eyes will narrow as she is looking around her. It seems that 5 months of living together has not helped their friendship. I suspect in the winter she’ll come around in order to warm herself in his alpaca-like fur.
Mimo is a fairly mellow cat despite his idiosyncrasies. One of the best reasons to have him around is that is fully supportive of my hobbies and activities. Working on the computer at my desk? He will sleep next to my laptop or sometimes even type for me (type is a relative term). Knitting? He will be there to catch a stray piece of yarn as needed (well, it's stray to him). This past weekend I dug out my jeweler’s saw frame and metal files to saw out and modify a piece of acrylic. I was sawing out a piece to replace the broken face of a vintage Michelin Bakelite tire pressure gauge for my dad and Mimo was there to be quality control (the photo evidence is above).
We might not always have the best understanding of each other, but he has been a good companion thus far.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Biopsy
Warning: for those with squeamish stomachs, you might not want to read this blog posting.
You know it’s a great start to surgery when the surgical RN jokes that there is an Asian connection: he’s Filipino, the anesthesiologist is Chinese, and the surgeon is Vietnamese. I point out that I’m a ¼ Japanese and he smiles and says: the circle is completed.
At this point, I’m wearing a purple paper gown that has me curious. It has kangaroo pockets and a hole to clearly connect something. My mom, sister, and I are shivering in the pre-op room, waiting for me to be wheeled away. Another nurse comes in and asks: are you cold? I’m sure my teeth are chattering when I nod yes. She connects a tube from the wall into the hole of my gown (a-ha!) and warm air begins to fill the area between the plastic touching the gown and me. She hands me a controller and I can adjust the temperature. I look like the Michelin man, but at least I’m warm.
Never did I think that there was such a cool tool for pre-op. In a weird way, feeling cozy in the surgical cave is comforting as well. My mother and sister are still freezing at this point, though bravely grinning through the cold.
I am wheeled into the surgical room and they are playing the radio. In the past, I recall getting prepped for falling asleep. Someone would tell me to begin counting backwards or an oxygen mask would be placed over my face. Nothing like that happened.
All I remember is waking up surrounded by 2 nurses. One was removing what sounded like a “heart line” out of my right wrist and I noticed that they had removed my hospital bracelets and put them on my left wrist. She was removing tape and telling me that this was the worst part of this. I had no idea what she was talking about and just let her finish. She begins putting on stockings on my legs and I’m a bit disoriented at what is happening. Another nurse at my left is asking me if I feel pain and I nod yes fervently. It feels like I have been shot in my chest. He says he is giving me some morphine and I lay in a daze as they are monitoring all my vitals. A little bit later, the nurse asks: "would you like some more morphine?" I say: “please, it still hurts” and grimace. Even later still, yet another shot of morphine and the pain is only beginning to fade.
The same nurse who administered the morphine is telling me that I’m doing great and I hear a moan coming from the other side of the ward. My skin prickles and I begin to think the only reason why I’m doing so great is because I’m not screaming my head off.
I am wheeled to my hospital room where a couple of nurses help move me to the bed and I’m very aware of the flames of pain on the left side of my body. They wrap my stocking legs separately with a contraption that begins to vibrate up and down my legs. I beginning to emerge from my morphine-induced haze and assume that the machine prevents blood clots. A nurse tells me to press a button when I have to use the restroom so I can be unstrapped.
I’m writhing in discomfort and I begin to compare this to my gallbladder surgery. It’s about the same pain-wise, but this one is more uncomfortable because of the location. Also, I was a relatively healthy person when I had my gallbladder removed. This time, I’m a cancer patient trying to find out the next mode of treatment. It seems so much more pathetic.
Trying to make myself comfortable on the bed so I can fall asleep is a bit like trying to fit on a jelly bean: ridiculous and not going to happen. I squeeze myself to the right side because I have slightly more leverage. My mom and sister arrange my things so I can reach them and I hear them whisper “I love you” and “we’ll be back later” as I nod into sleep.
I’m woken up a few times for food and a nurse taking my vitals. I ask for some more pain medication and pick at my food. My throat is so dry and it hurts to swallow. I drink the iced tea and spoon some mashed potatoes into my mouth, trying to get some food in my stomach.
A nurse asks to look at my drainage tube and I turn slightly to the right as she decides that it needs to be emptied. She takes a cup and squeezes the contents into it. She’s measuring the stuff while I am recoiling from the sloshing noises it had made.
It’s not until I use the restroom, when I have to ask a nurse to remove the straps and I stand bare-assed, trying to modestly hold the ties in the back of my hospital gown with my right hand and the little drainage pouch with my left hand.
I examine myself in the mirror in the bathroom and I’m surprised at all the bandages around my left breast. I see the drainage tube sticking out of me and connecting to the pouch I had rested on the sink. I recall making a face and just shuffling back to the bed, pressing the button that calls the nurse so he can strap me back in.
The blinds are closed and I can only tell what time it is based on the bit of light filtering in the sides. My family comes to visit in the evening. After they leave: more pain, more vitals, more food, different nurses, and the time just passes. I sometimes put my headphones on to muffle the consistent sound of the machine at my legs, which is much like a giant cat purring.
By morning, I’m wheeled down to have another chest x-ray. By the time I’m back, the surgeon’s assistant comes in and she looks at my bandages. She removes the drainage tube, which literally had been the pain in my side apparently. After warning me that “this will feel odd” and sliding it out, I feel some relief. She says I will be released soon.
My mom comes and waits with me as we get the final papers and gather my things.
I have a hydrocodone-laced dream upon returning from the hospital that I am working for the FBI and get shot. Then I wake up and realize it is my chest that is hurting from where they took the biopsy.
It’s the end of the rollercoaster where I think: well, that wasn’t so bad.
However, a stronger thought comes to mind: let’s not do it again.
You know it’s a great start to surgery when the surgical RN jokes that there is an Asian connection: he’s Filipino, the anesthesiologist is Chinese, and the surgeon is Vietnamese. I point out that I’m a ¼ Japanese and he smiles and says: the circle is completed.
At this point, I’m wearing a purple paper gown that has me curious. It has kangaroo pockets and a hole to clearly connect something. My mom, sister, and I are shivering in the pre-op room, waiting for me to be wheeled away. Another nurse comes in and asks: are you cold? I’m sure my teeth are chattering when I nod yes. She connects a tube from the wall into the hole of my gown (a-ha!) and warm air begins to fill the area between the plastic touching the gown and me. She hands me a controller and I can adjust the temperature. I look like the Michelin man, but at least I’m warm.
Never did I think that there was such a cool tool for pre-op. In a weird way, feeling cozy in the surgical cave is comforting as well. My mother and sister are still freezing at this point, though bravely grinning through the cold.
I am wheeled into the surgical room and they are playing the radio. In the past, I recall getting prepped for falling asleep. Someone would tell me to begin counting backwards or an oxygen mask would be placed over my face. Nothing like that happened.
All I remember is waking up surrounded by 2 nurses. One was removing what sounded like a “heart line” out of my right wrist and I noticed that they had removed my hospital bracelets and put them on my left wrist. She was removing tape and telling me that this was the worst part of this. I had no idea what she was talking about and just let her finish. She begins putting on stockings on my legs and I’m a bit disoriented at what is happening. Another nurse at my left is asking me if I feel pain and I nod yes fervently. It feels like I have been shot in my chest. He says he is giving me some morphine and I lay in a daze as they are monitoring all my vitals. A little bit later, the nurse asks: "would you like some more morphine?" I say: “please, it still hurts” and grimace. Even later still, yet another shot of morphine and the pain is only beginning to fade.
The same nurse who administered the morphine is telling me that I’m doing great and I hear a moan coming from the other side of the ward. My skin prickles and I begin to think the only reason why I’m doing so great is because I’m not screaming my head off.
I am wheeled to my hospital room where a couple of nurses help move me to the bed and I’m very aware of the flames of pain on the left side of my body. They wrap my stocking legs separately with a contraption that begins to vibrate up and down my legs. I beginning to emerge from my morphine-induced haze and assume that the machine prevents blood clots. A nurse tells me to press a button when I have to use the restroom so I can be unstrapped.
I’m writhing in discomfort and I begin to compare this to my gallbladder surgery. It’s about the same pain-wise, but this one is more uncomfortable because of the location. Also, I was a relatively healthy person when I had my gallbladder removed. This time, I’m a cancer patient trying to find out the next mode of treatment. It seems so much more pathetic.
Trying to make myself comfortable on the bed so I can fall asleep is a bit like trying to fit on a jelly bean: ridiculous and not going to happen. I squeeze myself to the right side because I have slightly more leverage. My mom and sister arrange my things so I can reach them and I hear them whisper “I love you” and “we’ll be back later” as I nod into sleep.
I’m woken up a few times for food and a nurse taking my vitals. I ask for some more pain medication and pick at my food. My throat is so dry and it hurts to swallow. I drink the iced tea and spoon some mashed potatoes into my mouth, trying to get some food in my stomach.
A nurse asks to look at my drainage tube and I turn slightly to the right as she decides that it needs to be emptied. She takes a cup and squeezes the contents into it. She’s measuring the stuff while I am recoiling from the sloshing noises it had made.
It’s not until I use the restroom, when I have to ask a nurse to remove the straps and I stand bare-assed, trying to modestly hold the ties in the back of my hospital gown with my right hand and the little drainage pouch with my left hand.
I examine myself in the mirror in the bathroom and I’m surprised at all the bandages around my left breast. I see the drainage tube sticking out of me and connecting to the pouch I had rested on the sink. I recall making a face and just shuffling back to the bed, pressing the button that calls the nurse so he can strap me back in.
The blinds are closed and I can only tell what time it is based on the bit of light filtering in the sides. My family comes to visit in the evening. After they leave: more pain, more vitals, more food, different nurses, and the time just passes. I sometimes put my headphones on to muffle the consistent sound of the machine at my legs, which is much like a giant cat purring.
By morning, I’m wheeled down to have another chest x-ray. By the time I’m back, the surgeon’s assistant comes in and she looks at my bandages. She removes the drainage tube, which literally had been the pain in my side apparently. After warning me that “this will feel odd” and sliding it out, I feel some relief. She says I will be released soon.
My mom comes and waits with me as we get the final papers and gather my things.
I have a hydrocodone-laced dream upon returning from the hospital that I am working for the FBI and get shot. Then I wake up and realize it is my chest that is hurting from where they took the biopsy.
It’s the end of the rollercoaster where I think: well, that wasn’t so bad.
However, a stronger thought comes to mind: let’s not do it again.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Phobias
I used to have this fear that my heart would give me troubles later in my life. I suppose this could be taken both literally and figuratively. In some ways, I find it a bit of a coincidence that the mass in my chest is near my heart. It always seems that somehow our true fears always rear their ugly heads when we try to run from them.
It’s like Murphy’s Law on crack.
This is not the case each and every time or for each and every person. In fact, before you panic, I would like to mention that in the face of lymphoma, according to my doctor, it is one big game of chance. Since the origins of lymphoma are mostly unknown, it appears that getting it is much like rolling dice. Some people have mutated cells that like to replicate, others do not and will not. However, in my own nuanced and attuned intuition, I feel like I should know better than to avoid my fears.
I recall in the months preceding my cancer diagnosis, I would rub at the area directly above my heart with uncertainty. There was a tenderness that seemed hard to distinguish between a muscle and an organ. Generally, I would commit to the former and ignore the discomfort before I began to forget why I was rubbing my chest in the first place.
I bring this all up because I have a small amount of worry going into the biopsy tomorrow. The feeling of wanting to be in control makes going under anesthesia a scary situation to me. Having done it more than a few times for surgeries and procedures, I’m well aware of that moment when you just slip under, dreamless and unaware of the people and instruments around you.
It’s always a creepy scene to play out in your head beforehand. The anticipation, while dressed in a hospital gown, already feeling vulnerable, and cold (since I have never known a hospital or surgical ward not to feel anything than refrigerator-worthy) is enough to make me uneasy. I struggle with preoccupying my mind with positive thoughts before these things, knowing that there will be a moment when I have to let go and succumb. Before that moment, I remember those I love and know I will see them again when I wake up.
Coming out of anesthesia is always an odd experience. I always recall the sounds first before I strain to open my eyes. Even in that groggy moment, I’m thankful to be aware of my surroundings once more. I feel a relish of joy and now process my thoughts to begin recovery and healing. There is also the feeling of: well, that wasn’t so bad.
I could liken it to riding a rollercoaster that you have never been on. You feel that anticipation as you wait in line, watching others on the ride. You climb aboard the ride and think: ok, I’m on here, no turning back. As you climb the top to go to an eventual drop you now think: why did I decide to go on this ride in the first place? This was a bad idea. Your stomach begins to rise towards your throat as you reach the top of the hill, expecting what is to happen next, but also not knowing exactly what will occur. That sincere moment of uncertainty is turned around the moment you hit the bottom of the hill, because you realize you made it and will continue onward.
The anticipation could easily go hand in hand with pessimistic thoughts that would ultimately lead to panic and fear.
Fear topped off with fear is a sundae I do not want to devour.
Time and time again, I know that I have accepted my circumstances and maintained a strong sense of self. Also, having a conversation with my doctor the other day and the nurses today at the hospital for pre-op tests has made me feel better about the procedure. Therefore, the worry is lessening.
To paraphrase and recontextualize FDR’s well-known inaugural address quote, the only thing for me to fear is fear itself.
It’s like Murphy’s Law on crack.
This is not the case each and every time or for each and every person. In fact, before you panic, I would like to mention that in the face of lymphoma, according to my doctor, it is one big game of chance. Since the origins of lymphoma are mostly unknown, it appears that getting it is much like rolling dice. Some people have mutated cells that like to replicate, others do not and will not. However, in my own nuanced and attuned intuition, I feel like I should know better than to avoid my fears.
I recall in the months preceding my cancer diagnosis, I would rub at the area directly above my heart with uncertainty. There was a tenderness that seemed hard to distinguish between a muscle and an organ. Generally, I would commit to the former and ignore the discomfort before I began to forget why I was rubbing my chest in the first place.
I bring this all up because I have a small amount of worry going into the biopsy tomorrow. The feeling of wanting to be in control makes going under anesthesia a scary situation to me. Having done it more than a few times for surgeries and procedures, I’m well aware of that moment when you just slip under, dreamless and unaware of the people and instruments around you.
It’s always a creepy scene to play out in your head beforehand. The anticipation, while dressed in a hospital gown, already feeling vulnerable, and cold (since I have never known a hospital or surgical ward not to feel anything than refrigerator-worthy) is enough to make me uneasy. I struggle with preoccupying my mind with positive thoughts before these things, knowing that there will be a moment when I have to let go and succumb. Before that moment, I remember those I love and know I will see them again when I wake up.
Coming out of anesthesia is always an odd experience. I always recall the sounds first before I strain to open my eyes. Even in that groggy moment, I’m thankful to be aware of my surroundings once more. I feel a relish of joy and now process my thoughts to begin recovery and healing. There is also the feeling of: well, that wasn’t so bad.
I could liken it to riding a rollercoaster that you have never been on. You feel that anticipation as you wait in line, watching others on the ride. You climb aboard the ride and think: ok, I’m on here, no turning back. As you climb the top to go to an eventual drop you now think: why did I decide to go on this ride in the first place? This was a bad idea. Your stomach begins to rise towards your throat as you reach the top of the hill, expecting what is to happen next, but also not knowing exactly what will occur. That sincere moment of uncertainty is turned around the moment you hit the bottom of the hill, because you realize you made it and will continue onward.
The anticipation could easily go hand in hand with pessimistic thoughts that would ultimately lead to panic and fear.
Fear topped off with fear is a sundae I do not want to devour.
Time and time again, I know that I have accepted my circumstances and maintained a strong sense of self. Also, having a conversation with my doctor the other day and the nurses today at the hospital for pre-op tests has made me feel better about the procedure. Therefore, the worry is lessening.
To paraphrase and recontextualize FDR’s well-known inaugural address quote, the only thing for me to fear is fear itself.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)