Journey

Posted: April 20, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, menopause | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 6 Comments

If you’re like me, once you read the title of this post, you’d end up with “Don’t Stop Believing” running through your head.

“Hold on to that feeeeeeeeling….”

Yes, we are simple creatures at times, and prone to even simpler suggestion.

As I wrap up the Napa series of blog posts, I reflect back on a fantastic trip, an outstanding weekend, and the kind of memories that would keep me warm on a cold winter’s night if I didn’t live along the Gulf Coast of the great state of Texas. Not that the memories aren’t that good, but that there’s little need for warming around here. Especially with my hot flashes. Thanks, early-induced menopause, because pre-summer in Houston isn’t steamy enough.

Thinking about the trip and preparing to say good-bye to our visitors from Boston today makes me a teensy bit sad. I don’t like transitions. I’m in for the long haul and can work long and hard at a steady pace, but I don’t care for the ups & downs, the twists & turns, the stops & starts. This sentiment applies, for me, whether we’re talking about vacation or illness. Going from my “normal” life to vacation mode takes me a little bit of time. Getting into the vacation frame of mind is a conscious shift for me, even when it’s a vacation I’m looking forward to. Having our friends from Boston here is most definitely something I look forward to, but it still requires me to make that shift in my head.

Now that our vacation with them is ending, I find myself again shifting, from the luxuryof sleeping in on a school day and spending the day by the pool, drinking early and often and into the evening; to hauling my carcass out of bed to pack the kids’ lunches, sign their folders, forge notes about their absences, and getting back to my normal life. I like my normal life, so this isn’t inherently a bad thing; it just required me to shift gears and change my  mind frame.

I’ve never been good at handling change, and that may be why I’m not a great traveler. I don’t like the idea of having to decide in advance what I’ll be wearing, and then pack it, taking care to not forget anything. It seems that once I get used to the new location, it’s about time to go home, and then there’s another adjustment to handle. I do it, and without the need for intervention, but it’s an effort.

That’s why this phrase spoke to me:

It was on the wall of the Cost Plus World Market in San Francisco near our hotel, where we popped into for supplies (and by supplies, yes, I do indeed mean champagne) our first night in California. We were at the checkout, clanking bottles and deciding whether to add chocolates to the purchase, when I saw this saying on the store wall. The other shoppers might have thought me a bit mad to be snapping a photo in the middle of a store, but I stopped caring about things like that a long time ago.

The saying spoke to me because I know that Lao Tzu is right.  He was a mythical figure in ancient China and is said to be the father of Taoism, so you know he’s smart. His ancient quote about the good traveler retains relevance today because people like me continue to buck the journey in favor of the destination. I know that it’s not about the destination, yet I can’t wait to get there. I will jump through all the requisite hoops along the journey in order to get to the destination, but for me, the destination is the goal. Wrong, I know, but still I persist.

Some say that dealing with cancer gives you greater clarity on “the things that really matter.” Or that having survived cancer, you become more aware of and grateful for the things around you. Then there are the idiot-balls who say that cancer is a gift. To them, I say choke off. This is no gift. Yes, it does afford the opportunity to re-evaluate priorities and habits, but it’s no gift.

I spend a lot of time in my personal “cancer journey” marking off time and accumulating milestones. Maybe that’s a coping mechanism, I don’t know. I do know that I can tell you to the day how long I’ve been on oral antibiotics (251 days), and how long it’s been since The Big Dig (49 days). More likely, it’s because I’m focused on the destination and not the journey. I can’t wait to “be done” with this cancer business: the disease itself, the surgeries, the recoveries, the uncertainty, and the drug therapies. I don’t aspire to ever be free of the worry that the cancer business drops on my doorstep like an unexpected and oversized parcel. It will always be there, in the back of my mind. I liken it to the childhood sensation of rolling your tongue through the newly-created hole of a lost tooth. Your brain knows the tooth is gone, but your tongue can’t resist checking for sure, by sliding through that narrow, slippery, and slightly nauseating space. My brain knows my cancer is gone, yet it can’t resist double-checking.

I refuse to live in fear, however. I don’t want to have any regrets: about life in general, and certainly not in this “cancer journey.” Each decision I’ve made along this “journey” has been nitpicked and examined half to death, with risk and reward calculated to within an inch of their lives. Some decisions have been difficult, and some have been easy, but none have come without a lot of thought.

I heard from a fellow breast cancer blogger who is dealing with an infection, possibly of her tissue expander, just as I did. She’s on IV Vancomycin, like I have been many times. I commented on her blog to tell her that the Vanc works and it will cure her, hoping to offer some support. She replied that she can’t imagine how I endured that process multiple times because it’s so stressful. Yes, it is. No doubt there. And if someone were to ask me how I endured it, I don’t know that I would have an answer. I don’t know how I got through it, other than I just did it. Just gritted my teeth, tucked my head and did it. Because I didn’t see any other choice. Saying “I can’t” wasn’t going to make it go away.

I do like to make myself focus on good things, or to “walk on the sunny side of the street” (thanks, Mom!). Yesterday I wasn’t feeling well, for the 3rd day in a row, and was a little put-out that my “cancer journey” was once again interfering in my fun. I wanted to visit and eat & drink with my friends who were in town, but instead I had to lay down and take a nap. Take a nap. In the middle of the day, and in the middle of my friends’ visit. That made me grumpy, and I was just starting to think about getting out the pity-party supplies.

Then I told myself to shut the hell up, get in the shower and get on with the day. There was dinner to prepare for our last night together and 3 bottles of bubbly in the fridge, so there was no time for a pity party.

While in the shower, I was wondering why the hell my belly incision is still so tight and sore after 48 days, and when in the sam hell it’s ever going to heal all the way so I can take a shower like a normal person, without wincing as I lather, rinse & repeat, and just be done with it.

Then I realized: I AM taking a shower like a normal person. There were no JP drains to deal with. There were no holes in the side of my body to keep dry. There was no dressing over the accessed port-a-cath that had to be kept dry. 

When my port is accessed, i.e., has a butterfly needle piercing my skin and the port to deliver medicine, it has to be covered to keep it sterile. The port itself is smaller than a quarter, and the butterfly needle (while really thick) doesn’t extend the area. Yet the whole thing has to be covered with this giant dressing. That’s it above, stuck to my clavicle, shoulder, and neck area. My skin hates these dressing with a passion. The sticky tape irritates my skin as much as Sarah Palin irritates me. After I peel the dressing off, there remains a red, raised outline in the exact size & shape of the dressing.

And yet, I’m sans dressing. That’s a bright side, a good thing to be tallied and counted. I’m also sans sling bag. Not having the JP drains means I don’t have to wear the sling bag, cute as it may be, 24/7. That’s another bright side, and a very good thing.

Yep, it’s cute, and it served a wonderful purpose, and I love my runnin’ buddy for getting it for me. Being able to camouflage the drains by stuffing them in the sling bag, then hide the protruding rubber tubing by the cross-body bag, gave me freedom and kept me from being house-bound.

There’s nothing in there — look, Ma, no drains!! — and that is a reason to celebrate. I’m no longer tethered to plastic bomb-shaped udders collecting all manner of gross stuff, fluid and solid, that my battered body is shedding after yet another major trauma. I don’t have to plan my very limited wardrobe around the bright orange pattern anymore, but now I can do that just because I want to.

I will always be grateful to the sling bag for carrying my drains, and my drugs, in such style. The clear plastic compartment in the inside front is not likely designed for slipping in the essential few pills, but it sure worked well for me. I’ve heard that some people keep their driver’s license there instead. How weird is that?! Instead of my TX ID, featured here are my constant companions Bactrim & Minocycline, the antibiotics for the post-mastectomy infection; a muscle relaxer for the super-tight 17-inch belly incision; and a Xanax for any and all calamities, just in case.

So while this “cancer journey” is far from a gift and certainly does suck, I can still “walk on the sunny side of the street,” look on the bright side, and find moments of goodness contained within as I move forward, always searching for the finish line.

This signpost, sent to me by Jill in the Oakland airport en route from Napa back home, is a good mile marker in my journey. I love that my friends see bubbly-related things and think of me, and I love that no matter where this journey takes me, I’ll have great friends, a sassy sling bag, and plenty of bubbly for the ride.

Yesterday

Posted: March 31, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Yesterday was busy, and I was so occupied with celebrating the removal of the last surgical drains (HOORAY!), I didn’t fully process all that happened in the 3 doctors’ visits. Also, in the interest of full disclosure, I learned that two of the three docs read or monitor this blog, and that fact inhibits me. It takes a lot to achieve that, as I’m not easily inhibited or shut-up-able. Yikes.

So if the docs are reading today, hellooooooooo! Hope you’re having a great day filled with smiling patients, easy procedures, and ever-flowing compliments. Y’all deserve it. As I gaze down at my newly created cleavage, I’m indebted to you once again. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Back to the long day yesterday — it began bright & early at Dr Grimes’s office, and the adventure was kick-started as soon as we walked in the door–Amy and I wondered if someone had spilled a bottle of Febreeze, as there was a serious overdose of artificial freshness in the small waiting area. An older woman who was waiting to see Dr Grimes said she couldn’t smell a thing, darned allergies, and she really hoped it wasn’t her perfume. Amy & I giggled behind our hands at the idea of someone with no sense of smell piling on the perfume, hee hee. Guess what? It was her perfume! As she left the waiting area for an exam room, the smell went with her. Egads.

Dr Grimes was full of wisdom–even more so than usual. I told him that Amy & I took the “Do I Have a Problem with Alcohol?” quiz on one of his HIV pamphlets in the exam room. According to the pamphlet, “people with HIV are prone to abuse alcohol.” They don’t have an exclusive on that propensity, believe me.

So the quiz goes like this: Amy read the questions, and I answered.

  1. Do you lose time from school/work due to drinking? No, but seeing the “due to” construction misused makes me need a drink. It’s “because of” drinking! Sheesh.
  2. Is drinking making your life unhappy? No, just the opposite. It makes my life very, very happy.
  3. Is drinking causing a change or harming your reputation? Nope, it enhances my reputation. It’s all good. But would it kill ya to say “causing a change in or harming your reputation?” Seriously, who writes these things??
  4. Do you feel guilty or have remorse after drinking? No way, I don’t even remember having had the drinks. And another beautiful thing about drinking is that it kills those kinds of feelings (which is why we do it, duh).
  5. Has your performance at school or work declined because of your drinking? On the contrary, my drinking universally enhances my performances.
  6. Do you often drink alone? Define “often.”
  7. Do you ever black out or forget what you have done while you were drinking? What was the question?
  8. Does drinking make you feel strong or overly confident? Why, yes, it does. I couldn’t write this blog without being under the influence, every single time I write. People don’t do this sober, do they?
  9. Has your drinking negatively impacted your relationship with family, friends, and/or loved ones? No, and if they really loved me, they’d get me a refill.
  10. Do you drink and are under the age of 21? Yes, and no. But I like looking at people who are under the age of 21, especially cute guys. No harm in that. And again, can we get a proofreader here? “Do you drink and are you under the age of 21″ flows so much nicer and sounds so much better. It’s not that difficult.

With the quiz completed, Dr Grimes swept into the room and gave us a passing grade on it. We told him that the only problem we have with alcohol is that we weren’t drinking bloody marys as we took the quiz and waited for the doctor. He shared a quote with us from one of his college professors, a man whose first name is Chivas: “My definition of an alcoholic is someone who drinks more than me, and who I don’t like.” Well said, Professor Scotch.

Another funny thing: Dr Grimes was in the middle of the Chivas story when I started stripping down for the physical exam. I don’t think twice about doing this because I’m so used to it at this point, but he clearly doesn’t have a lot of patients do this. I bet he doesn’t have any who were slated for 3 physical exams in the same day. He was working hard to avert his eyes while he finished his story!

The other good quote we got from Dr Grimes came in the course of our discussion of how long it takes to treat and cure infection, and how much more patient I’m being than I have been in the past (he really said that, and I didn’t prompt him — it’s true!). I used to ask him as often as possible when I’d get off the oral antibiotics. I’d even have my friend Laura, who works with him, ask him for me. But now that I’ve had a flare-up and am back on IV antibiotics, in addition to the oral abx, I’ve stopped asking. I will stay on the oral abx as long as I need to. 231 days and counting, but not impatiently.

Ok, the quote: it comes from Dr Grimes’s grandpa, who said “Anything looks fast running past trees.” That’s pretty deep. I’m going to leave the interpretation up to each individual, like a Rorschach test in which everyone comes up with a different answer. 

Let me know what your answer is.

Speaking of open interpretation, Dr Grimes gave me a copy of my pathology consultation report from the Big Dig. Fascinating stuff. I think it warrants a separate post. Don’t want anyone to get behind in their real jobs because this post stretches on too long. Plus, I need to look up a few more words and educate myself a little more. Either that, or have a drink so I can better ignore the multiple references of adipose tissue in the path report.

Thank goodness Amy was with me for the long day yesterday, both because I have proved to need adult supervision, and because I tend to miss half of what the good docs tell me. Not sure when I became such a birdbrain, but once I get in those exam rooms, I can’t seem to retain everything.

That, and I need a witness to some things like the fact that all three docs yesterday approved of my trip to Napa next week. Well, Dr Grimes’s approval was less than wholehearted; he basically said, I’m not going to tell you what to do because I know you will just go ahead and do what you want to do. I’ve learned that about you.” I think he coughed and muttered “tennis” a few times, as if we needed to dredge up the past in which there were rumors of me playing tennis before I was officially cleared to do so.

He said yes to Napa but wants to keep me on the IV abx right up until we leave, just to be sure. He thinks that whatever potential infection was stopped in its tracks before it had a chance to get ugly, hence the lack of progression. He was treating my symptoms but not seeing evidence of anything getting worse, so at this point the extra week of IV drugs is insurance. Anything that ensures me getting on that plane and heading to Wine Country is all right with me. He did tell me to try not to drink too much. Huh, yeah, right. I’ll give that a try. While in Napa. Uh huh. Gonna try real hard. Sure.

He let me go and said to come back in a month, but I had to make a return visit to the infusion room after I saw Dr Spiegel to get my next week’s supply of IV abx, and to have Nurse Shakey change the needle in my port and insert a new one. See why I need to drink, people???

On to Dr Spiegel’s office. Amy and I spent some time in the waiting area reading the pathology report,  giggling, and admiring this week’s delivery of fresh flowers. Once back in the exam room, I stripped down again, the second of three times in one day. I guess that would be weird for some people, but it’s all in a day’s work for me.

Dr Spiegel was as stunning as always, and I wish I’d asked her who cuts her hair because it’s a great cut. She continues to be pleased with the healing going on in the multitude of scars on me, and gave me the ok to ditch the flimsy post-surgical bra and buy a real bra. A real bra! Wow. Haven’t had one of those in almost a year. That’s strangely exciting. What’s not so exciting was learning that my belly may stay a bit swollen for 6 months. There was a lot of excavation done there, so it makes sense, but I’m ready for everything to be back to normal now! I need some compression on my belly to help reduce the swelling. How ironic is it that when I had a bit of a belly, I never wore a “compression garment” but now that my belly has been relocated north, I need a girdle. Fine, whatever, I’d wear a suit of armor at this point if it meant getting rid of the drains. Hooray and hallelujah that the drains are gone. What’s really amazing is that the holes that held the drain tubing are already closed. Not healed completely, and still really bruised, but not open and not seeping any fluid. Yes, it’s another gross photo but this one actually represents something to be celebrated. As in, I’m celebrating the absence of any rubber tubing. And instead of cringing, you should be celebrating that you don’t have any either. And while you’re at it, cross your fingers for continued healing and no drama. And be glad you’re not wearing a “compression garment.” Not that I’m complaining. Just saying be glad it’s not you.

My visit with Dr Spiegel concluded with her blessing to go to Napa, have a great time, just don’t go swimming since the incisions and drain holes aren’t completely healed. Trust me, the last thing I’m going to do is anything to jeopardize the fragile peace that I’ve made with this complicated wreck of a body.

From there, we zipped back to Dr Grimes’s office to take care of the port maintenance and pick up the latest box of goodies, then headed out of the med center and down University, past the beautiful Rice University campus, to Second Silhouette, the nearest medical supply company to get my new bra. Yea, how exciting — getting a bra at a supply store. No boutique or Victoria’s Secret for me. No sir, I got to shop at a store that also sells prosthetics and diabetic socks. Yea.

That’s all right, I was shopping without any drains, so it was all good. We were in and out of there quickly, since we were starving, needed to raise a glass to the drain-free status, and still get to Dr S for the third and final appointment of the day.

After some libation and a quick but yummy lunch, it was onward for the highlight of our week: seeing Dr S. His new office is configured so that he has a little desk visible from the check-in window, which has no glass (love that). He was sitting at the little desk, waiting impatiently for his favorite patient and her trusty escort, who he likes the most! I think he glanced at the clock to remind us that we were late, and I’m sure he didn’t want to hear that the reason we were late involved adult beverages. We said howdy, checked in, then fled to the hallway. He wanted to know where we were going, so I told him: to go smoke a butt. No, really, just needed a pit stop.

After that, we got right into an exam room and I once again eschewed the paper gown.

Greenisites.com

Save that for a “normal” patient who isn’t used to stripping down multiple times a day. I’ve saved a lot of trees from my frequent doctor visits. Always looking on the bright side. And I’d much rather hug a tree than a person. Can’t help it, I’m just not very touchy-feely. I just hope that this new habit of mine isn’t permanent; don’t think I need to strip down for the allergist or the podiatrist.

Dr S joined the chorus of “yeses” saying go to Napa, girl, you’ve earned it. ‘Bout time you got out of town. I remembered to get a letter from him to present to TSA saying I have metal in my body (the port) so I may set off the metal detectors. If they are suspicious, I can always strip down and prove it. Amy showed our shared gratitude by washing his glasses, which we could tell were smudged when he gestured and pointed with them. That’s full service. Always happy to help make Dr S’s life better, easier, more joyful. When he mentioned my little blog, he suggested I say some nice things about him instead of always busting his chops. I may have to start a whole ‘nother blog just for him, and to contain all the words of praise and appreciation I have for him. I forgot to tell him that guest blogger Kayte VanScoy described him as “fit and attractive” and likened him to a combination of Justin Timberlake, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and Karl Lagerfeld. What a mash-up!

We had some serious talk about Little League baseball and his 6-year-old’s stellar season so far. He knows I’m a big baseball fan, and we bonded over baseball about this time last year. He helps out with his son’s team and Amy and I both think that’s awesome. He has a seriously busy schedule and a very important job (well, the work he does for cancer patients, anyway; the more cosmetic stuff not as much), yet he’s proven time and again that his family is his priority. I’m sure the coach appreciates the frequent input that Dr S gives him, and he’s been known to make suggestions on the line-up.

After we solved the problems of the Little League team, our business was done. At least for that visit.

Stop the ride: I want off!

Posted: March 25, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, infection | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 17 Comments

Was it really just yesterday that I blogged about how I rarely have trouble coming up with a topic about which to blog because my medical life is such an extreme cluster? Yes, I believe it was. Is it weird to quote yourself? Hope not, ’cause here goes:  “…the topic du jour is dictated by the most recent medical flare-up, break-down, or blow-out. Sometimes there’s an embarrassment of riches in the complication department.”

Really??? Ya think? I especially like the “flare-up, break-down, or blow-out” part. I really appreciate a good turn of phrase, even when it’s describing my own hot mess.

Although I would love to parlay this instance into a new career as Madame Z, the all-knowing and all-seeing teller of fortunes, I know I’m not prescient. Oh how I wish I were, and I could see how this complicated tale would end.

I got some news yesterday that well, for lack of a better word, sucks. Just sucks. This week has not been good. I could blab on about all the reasons it’s not been good, first and foremost my own deranged impression that by this point, 3 weeks post-reconstruction, that I’d be on the mend and getting back to my normal life. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha. So funny. So deranged. So sad.

I won’t keep you in suspense, although the childish side of me thinks if I wait a little longer to spill this bad news, it won’t be entirely real. There is a moment of suspending the two worlds, the wished-upon-a-star-for-best-case-scenario and the hard-core, cold reality of bad news crashing through some already pitifully low reserves of cheer and optimism. That moment before speaking or publishing the reality of the latest bad news is precious, as it allows me to believe for just a moment that in this 50-50 shot, the odds may finally turn out to be in my favor. I’ve had some statistically unlikely things happen (cancer diagnosis at age 40, no family history, post-mastectomy infection), and I’d like to think that the great karma wheel is spinning my way.

But alas, it is not.

The news of my latest pathology report tells me that the giant karma wheel is not only refusing to spin my way, it’s come unhinged and is crashing toward me.

Smoosh me now, great wheel. Just get it over with.

The week began with a needle aspiration and the culturing of fluid to confirm or deny my suspicion that the infection was presenting itself. Dr Spiegel held out hope that these symptoms were just part of the normal healing process after a long, complicated reconstruction surgery. She wasn’t around this past summer for the infection saga.

The pathology confirms that I have a MRSA staph infection. In addition to the mycobacterium that is my ongoing nemesis. If you feel so inclined to learn a bit more about these bugs that make me want to cuss nonstop and invent new ways in which to curse and rant, just click on one of the handy links. If the text is a color other than black in this workspace, you can click it and get all the info you can hold on whatever fascinating topic is at hand. Today the topic is bacteria, followed closely by cussing and sticking one’s head in the oven.

A staph infection is sucky enough, but an MRSA is worse. It’s drug-resistant and hard to treat. The mycobacterium is very drug-positive (like me) and not hard to treat, but hard to kill. It moves slowly and reproduces slowly, so it doesn’t often avail itself to the stream of antibiotics entering its domain every 12 hours. The drugs keep coming, but don’t break through very often. Hence the need for the long-term antibiotic regime. 225 days long and counting. It’s also hard to tell if it’s cured. The best way to tell seems to be stopping the antibiotics and waiting to see if the symptoms appear.

I’m still waiting to hear what my infectious disease team plans to do about this latest development, but suspect it will involve adding either vancomycin or zyvox to my minocycline & bactrim habit.

No, we don’t know where this staph infection came from, if it was contracted during surgery or was already there. I think it was already there. Way back in July, when the post-mastectomy infection hit the fan, before the mycobacterium was diagnosed, many cultures were run. Myco is very hard to diagnose because it’s so slow-growing; it can take 6 weeks to present in a culture. By the time it’s diagnosed, you can be all better or really sick. I was really sick.  I did have a staph infection at some point this summer, so it’s possible that this is the same one and it’s been lurking around waiting for a good opportunity to become more of a nuisance. Statistically speaking, it would be crazy rare for one person to have contracted not one but two infections during surgeries, but stranger things have happened. I don’t know enough about infections to know what the relationship is between the staph and the mycobacterium: do they travel together or is one opportunistic, presenting itself when its predecessor has already set up shop?

What I do know is that the new infection is a coagulase-negative piece of junk that not only makes me feel bad physically but also worries me. A lot. I try hard not to borrow trouble and to keep the “what ifs” at bay, but adding a new infection to an already crowded field makes me worry. And the fact that the new infection is creating physical symptoms in my newly created breast is very worrisome. Dr Spiegel spoke on Monday of worst-case scenario being the need for a simple outpatient procedure to excise infected tissue, clean and debride, and stitch it up neatly. She said the biggest downfall there is that it creates another scar.

Uh huh. Yeah. As if I’m worried about another scar. Rand McNally would love a chance to copy the lines and tracks and planes that the scars have created on my chest. Any my belly. And even my poor little belly button. Sweet little belly button was just minding its own business when it was callously sliced off and stitched back on in a new location. Poor baby.

So suffice to say, another scar is the least of my worries. And having been down this road before, I know that there’s nothing simple about excising and debriding infected tissue. Especially when that tissue has already been sliced & diced, carved and stretched and pulled practically into nonexistence.

I really hope I don’t have to do that again.

Last summer, in the heart of the infection mess, I’d had it. I was done. I didn’t think I could take any more. A cancer diagnosis and a bilateral mastectomy 3 weeks later followed by a nosocomial infection was too much. 23 days in the hospital, 3 additional excision surgeries, and more missed opportunities of summer fun and precious memories that I care to recount here.

This latest surgery, the reconstruction, was supposed to be the end of all that. It was supposed to be a symbol, a port in the storm, a beacon of hope. I’m not a big believer in panaceas, but this was supposed to be it for me. One last excision and debridement of the infected tissue, exactly 6.2 liters of antibacterial wash, healthy tissue transplanted from my belly, AND a brand new blood supply, a la microsurgically transplanted blood vessels was supposed to fix all my troubles and get me from victim to survivor.

What a load of hooey.

I’m gonna have to invent some new cuss words.

Ithaka

Posted: March 23, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, literature | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

How appropriate after yesterday’s post that the first thing I read today is an excerpt from the poem “Ithaka” by Constatin Cavafy. Remember that yesterday’s post contained a photo depicting my personal vision of paradise? Guess what Ithaka looks like?

Also appropriate is that Amy Hoover showed up on my doorstep last night with a real-life superhero cape, which I clearly need to continue this “journey.” She doesn’t need a cape, because she really is a superhero, but her youngest son, Carter, has one and was sweet enough to loan it to me. We’re changing the C for Carter to C for Cancer-killer. I love the cape.

I’ve been struggling with the “journey” part of my recovery from major reconstruction surgery. I’m not a journey kind of girl; I’m all about the destination. Don’t care how we get there, it’s the getting there that matters to me.

Well, guess what? On a “cancer journey” you’re never “there” and the idea of being “done” is laughable because there really is no end point. There are transitions and transformations, and at some point one does graduate from cancer patient to cancer survivor, but there aren’t any signposts or mile markers along the way, so hell if I know where I am in this whole journey. I can say that so far, to quote the Grateful Dead, “What a long, strange trip it’s been.”

Enter Constantin Cavafy. Fellow Greek, also a wordsmith (although he was way, way better at the craft than I). He was born and died on the same day, April 29 (1863-1933). I must say, that’s a terrible way to celebrate a birthday; I hope he got a piece of cake before he croaked. I also think it’s terrible, although understandable, that his family chose to Americanize their surname, Kavafis. My dad’s dad came over from “the Old Country,” as the Greeks refer to the homeland, speaking no English with very little money, like millions of other immigrants. Once he settled and raised his family, he wanted them to be Americanized, to shake off the immigrant stink that was considered unsavory, even though the USA is purported to be a melting pot. Thankfully, my Papou did not Americanize our surname, although my dad did change the spelling slightly in 8th grade, from Katopodis to Katapodis, to make it easier for the sports announcers to pronounce it properly; Kat-uh-po-dus instead of Ka-top-uh-dus. True story.

So Kavafis becomes Cavafy, and Constantin writes some poetry. He published more than 150 poems, the most well-known, “Ithaka,” after he turned 40. Some might say he’s a late bloomer, but those of us in the over-40 crowd say, Giddyup.

“Ithaka” was written in 1894, revised in 1910, published in 1911 then published in English in 1924. Talk about a journey: 16 years to complete, then another 13 years to reach a wide audience. I hope Constantin was more patient than I am. I’m sure glad he had a few good years between the poem’s success and his death, and I hope he savored it.

Some believe that the subject of “Ithaka” is Odysseus, from Homer’s epic poem The Odyssey. I think, however, it applies to anyone who is on a journey, and although Ithaka was the finish line or end point for Odysseus, the location is superceded by the ideal.

“Ithaka” begins with some advice for the traveler, which I think applies to lots of journeys (although on my particular journey I don’t have to “hope the voyage is a long one” because it is, boy howdy it is).

As you set out for Ithaka
hope the voyage is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.

Well, I certainly have encountered my share of Laistrygonians, Cyclops and angry Poseidons in this “cancer journey.” While Cavafy referenced these giants (cannibals, one-eyed monsters, and the God of the Sea, respectively), I believe such bad-boys take numerous forms and can also be representative of disease, infection, and hardship.

Ok, so far my voyage has indeed been long, with what some would consider adventure and discovery, and full of bad guys, and I honestly haven’t been afraid of them. Frustrated by and utterly sick of them, yes, but not afraid. So far so good.

I’ve tried to keep my thoughts raised high, and thanks to my mom’s “walk on the sunny side of the street” schooling, I think I’ve done that. Sure there have been some bad days, but I’m not going to sit around asking, Why me? when it really doesn’t matter, and it certainly doesn’t change anything.

I can’t say that I have a “rare excitement” stirring my spirit and body, although maybe I did while on morphine. More likely it was while on Versed. That’s one of my favorites; such a happy place.

“Ithaka” goes on to extol the pleasure of steaming into unseen harbors on a summer morning to “buy fine things” and “gather knowledge from their scholars.” Hmmm, exploring, shopping, and learning: now that sounds like my kind of trip. Cavafy implores us to keep Ithaka always in our mind and to remember that “arriving there is what you are destined for.”

Now here’s the part that really speaks to me today, as I continue to struggle with the down-time of recovery, as I want to be “back to normal” and wait impatiently for the passage of time and the reaching of milestones that will prove that it is so.

But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the way.

I have a problem with the idea of the journey lasting for years, even though I know that it’s reality. I can accept it, but I don’t have to like it. I do hope that I am indeed old by the time I reach the island, and I already feel wealthy with all I have gained on the way.


Round and round

Posted: March 12, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, tennis | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Sometimes I leave the doctor’s office in need of a drink, and sometimes I leave there in need of a nap. Sometimes, I leave there needing both.

Yesterday was one of those “both” kind of days. It was my first visit to his office since the big surgery, and when I walked in the door, his nurse gasped, I can’t believe how well you’re walking! I told her the same thing I told my tennis teammates when I went to watch their match Wednesday: it’s been more than a week since the surgery; I’m done.

If only.

I’m wardrobe-challenged again, like I was post-mastectomy. While it seems like an eternity ago that I was scrounging through my closet after the mastectomy to find something, anything, to wear, it’s all coming back to me now. How complacent, how cocky I have been in recent months, thinking I can just pull any old thing on and get out the door. Now it’s once again a carefully orchestrated project that involves lots of shuffling, digging, flipping, re-hanging, and cursing. This time, though, the challenge is because the remaining drains are at the super-long incision on my belly. One drain on each hip, like an unruly set of twins. I’m starting to despise those twins. I got a mild scolding from Jenn (Dr Spiegel’s PA) when I saw her Tuesday because I was wearing jeans, and they don’t want anything to rub on that gigantic tummy incision. I may just start wearing my pajamas everywhere until that bad boy heals. Or maybe I’ll wear whatever I want and send the same message that Shia LaBeouf sent. Seemed to work well for him.

The first thing the good doctor noticed when he graced my exam room was that I have several bruises on my leg. I got him good, though, by telling him they were from playing tennis. The look on his face was priceless. Oh how I wish I had a freeze frame of that look. That moment between what he thought (she’s been playing!) and reality (no way she could have played already, it’s only 10 days post-op) shines in my memory as one of my favorite moments.

Every visit to my doc’s office results in innumerable nuggets of wackiness. First runner-up for nugget of the day was when his nurse  said she thought my new chest looked really good. I said, yeah, if you’re into that sort of thing. What I meant was, if you’re into a mostly cleaned-up mess, a partially cleared train wreck, and that the docs did a great job with the concaved, ET-looking chest I ended up with after the infection. Compared to that fresh hell, the new, improved version is pretty amazing. And as a testament to the skill and artistry of the surgeons, yes, it’s great.

The highlight of yesterday’s visit came when the good doctor examined my tummy incision and took a look at my lower half. Remember how he thought I needed to gain a bunch of weight to provide the building material for the new girls? And how even after I gained several pounds, he was still convinced it wasn’t enough? Well now that the dye has been cast and the pounds that weren’t reallocated have stuck, he’s not happy with the extra bit that settled on my hips, and says, and I quote, “We need to suck that right out. We need to get rid of that. I’m going to suck that right out so it is gone.” I swear, There is no pleasing that man.

E Roosevelt said it best

Posted: March 10, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , | 5 Comments

“You gain strength, courage, and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face. You are able to say to yourself, ‘I lived through this horror. I can take the next thing that comes along.’ You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” — Eleanor Roosevelt

Well, I did indeed live through the horror (or horrors, if we’re counting the previous surgeries, procedures, and nastiness), so I guess I can indeed take the next thing that comes along.

That next thing better be something good.

It’s been a long road, and while a lot of people have even longer and more pot-hole-filled roads, I’m thinking only about mine right now. I’m still recovering and can be selfish like that. I won’t ride that wave too long, or play that card too often, but for today, I’m thinking about my road and no one else’s.

I really like the quote above from Eleanor Roosevelt, and thank Susan Christopherson for passing it along to me in the early days of my “cancer journey.” In those early days, I had no idea that the diagnosis and mastectomy were going to be the easy parts, that a nasty infection would make those previous experiences seem like a walk in through a rainbow-infused meadow with my pet unicorn. Ha!

Another quote of Ms Roosevelt’s that’s always been a favorite of mine is “A woman is like a tea bag. You never know how strong she is until she gets into hot water.” True dat.

I’ve had a lot of comments about my fearless attitude, and some people have kindly suggested that my sunny outlook has helped propel me through this “cancer journey” without much trouble. If you want to know how I do it, the answer is: I don’t know, it’s just what you do.

I grew up with the “it’s just what you do” principle, and maybe it’s like freckles or pigeon toes–you either got it or ya don’t. My parents did instill that principle, and they did a good job, so it took. I certainly don’t wake up every morning with cartoon birds singing out my window and little woodland creatures bringing me my robe & slippers (although that would be pretty cool). If they could bring me a skinny latte, that would be even better.

I suppose there are two ways to face a horrifying situation: head-on, like Ms. Roosevelt suggests, or with your head buried in the sand. I’m a head-on kind of girl, and the head-in-the-sand approach has never worked for me. I kinda admire the people who can do that, though, because it seems a lot easier. But here’s the thing: no matter how you face a scary situation, it’s still scary.

Cancer didn’t make me brave. I don’t think it’s a gift (as I’ve written about before, and will continue to rant about at any given time, so get used to it!). Good things can come from a bad situation, but the bad situation does not magically become a good thing.

The truth of the matter is that cancer sucks. Whether it’s an early diagnosis and best-case outcome or late-stage and aggressive, it just sucks. There are untold ways in which it sucks. And there are innumerable ways in which it affects your life and body. For me the scariest and suckiest thing about cancer is that once you have it, you can do everything right and face everything head-on with no guarantee that it will all work out ok. That’s just not right. Our society is based on the idea that if you work hard, you will propser. The American Dream, right? Well, cancer doesn’t subscribe to that idea. It’s random, and vicious, and unfair.

But guess what? We don’t have to fear it. Yes, it is one of the worst things that can happen. Being diagnosed (with no family history) at a (relatively) young age was a serious sucker-punch. My world has been topsy-turvy for the last 10 months. But as my sweet friend and survivor sister Jenny reminds me, it’s temporary. In fact, she was kind enough to make me a poster right before my reconstruction last week to reiterate that idea. I wanted to take it to the hospital with me, but the extreme heat of the ICU room would have melted the glue dots and cute sparkly stickers. 

Jenny has reminded me from day one of my “cancer journey” that it is temporary, which means I can endure it. I can get through it. Some days I’ve questioned that, and Jenny has texted me a simple message: it’s temporary. Knowing that removes some of the fear and shifts that balance of power from cancer back to me, where it belongs.

1 week ago today…

Posted: March 9, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, drugs, food, infection, Surgery | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

I was out cold in the OR, having unspeakably nasty things done to my body to restore the damage wreaked by the post-mastectomy infection. Whew!

The first couple of days of week 1 are pretty hazy, thanks to my BFF morphine. Love that stuff. But my BFF knows its proper place, and we have short but infrequent get-togethers. This time around, my BFF gave me a terrible headache, which was quite rude, so I bid adieu to the pain pump as fast as I could.

Let’s start from the beginning. Or as much of it as I can remember. Readers, feel free to chime in when you notice I’ve left something out. We got to the Medical Center on time (6 a.m.) and I got right into my pre-surgery room. My beautiful gown and compression stockings were waiting for me, but I waited until the very last minute to don them. After some precursory steps, like accessing my port for the administration of the really gooood drugs, a gaggle of white coats entered the room.

Dr Spiegel led the way, with her PA Jenn next, followed by their resident, Dr McNight, then my favorite plastic surgeon. He was the only guy in the room. Yahoo, girl power! He had a cool wooden box in his hand and when I asked if it was a present for me he gave me one of his looks. Someday he’ll appreciate my humor. Inside the box was not a present, but his loupes, which sadly he didn’t offer to model. I’d love to see him in a pair of goofy glasses.

Dr Spiegel and Jenn started marking my belly and I’m so mad I didn’t think to take a photo because it was cool. They used a blue sharpie for arteries, a red sharpie for blood vessels, and a black sharpie for incision lines. Lots of arrows and lines later, there was a roadmap of sorts. Very cool. At one point, Dr Spiegel wasn’t happy with an incision mark so she had Dr McNight scrub it off my belly with alcohol and re-do it with the black marker.

After that it was time to head to the OR, and they must have given me a cocktail in the pre-surgery room, because I don’t recall anything after the sharpie party. When I woke up, some 8 hours later, I felt pretty good…but it was because I was wrapped in the loving embrace of some big-time anesthesia. Dr Ashmore, my hand-picked anesthesiologist, did a fantastic job of putting me to sleep, and more importantly, waking me back up. It was good and restful.

I’m not too sure about whether I was in a recovery room or went straight to the ICU, but once I got to ICU I recall that it was HOT. And I’m a Texas girl, so I know about some heat. The docs had warned me that the room would be warm, to help my newly transplanted blood vessels learn to regulate themselves in their new northern home. But wow, was it hot. Between the high temp, the two heaters, and the squeezing of the compression hose, I was roasting. I tried to be nice about it, and I think I only lost it once, when I begged one of the ICU nurses, probably Carol, to please please please just crack the door and let some AC in. Just for a second. She declined my request.

I spent the night in ICU, but thankfully the flaps, aka former belly skin & fat that were magically transformed into breasts, behaved and there was no drama (other than me begging Carol to crack the door, turn down one heater, turn up the thermostat or bring me a gallon-sized frozen margarita). The flaps had to be checked every hour, yes every hour, with a hand-held doppler. There were (until yesterday) some wires stitched on top of my chest that somehow transmitted audible sound of the blood rushing through my newly transplanted blood vessels through the doppler. It sounded a lot like a fetal heart monitor. And we heard it a lot. My flaps were cooperative, and the nurses were able to hear the blood rushing almost instantly after putting the doppler onto my chest. One nurse told me that sometimes it took 20 minutes to find the sound. I started to panic after a few seconds of not hearing it, so can’t imagine the size margarita I would need if it took 20 minutes to register.

The ICU room had a wall of windows with mini blinds, and the nurse was right outside the door at a desk looking into my room if not attending to her one other patient. Some people might think that would make you feel very safe and catered to, but it made it hard to sneak anything by her because she was always watching. If she wasn’t watching, somebody else was walking by. It was a constant parade of doctors, residents, nurses, PCAs and other people peeping into my room.

I got released from ICU after some really delicious jello and a contraband peanut butter & jelly sandwich (liquid diet…pffft) into a regular room on the 8th floor of Dunn Tower. Lovely view out the window of the heart of the Texas Medical Center, and more importantly, no heaters. It wasn’t exactly chilly in the new room, but so much better than the ICU room. Nevertheless, I did beg to have the tight, scratchy, hot compression stockings removed. Those nurses were not swayed by my shameless begging.

Apparently the docs were pretty pleased with their handiwork, and if you missed Trevor’s and Amy’s guest blogs while I was too loopy to post, go back and take a peek. Long story short, the flaps were cooperating, the morphine headache abated, some regular food arrived, and life rolled on. At some point they moved the flap checks to every two hours instead of hourly, which was mighty nice. It’s amazing how your perspective changes in a situation like that. After umpteen hours with no food, a simple PB&J was a delicacy. After being awake most of the night, a short cat-nap seemed a decadent luxury.

I’m sure I said some goofy stuff and probably offended someone at some point with my off-color humor. Apparently I channeled my mom, too, telling my friend Laura who works at Methodist and who visited me several times a day, “Thanks for dropping by.” Every time she came by. I was just being mannerly and didn’t realize I’d seen her a few hours previous.

There are conflicting reports on how the turf war between the Drs S played out. All parties are being quite cagey on the details of who did what part of the surgery, and like a good murder mystery, we may never know who real killer was. I have my suspicion, but even asking point-blank hasn’t garnered an answer, so we may have to label that information “permanently classified.”

I did get to skate out of the hospital a few days ahead of schedule, and even though I received impeccable care, I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Coming home is always sweet, but never as sweet as when I’m leaving a hospital room.

I have more mobility than I did after the mastectomy, but not as much as I’d like. The first few times I had to get up without using my arms but relying on my legs and abs, the hip-to-hip incision on my tummy protested mightily. But it got better every time, and now I do it almost without thinking about it. Almost. I still can’t walk completely upright because the incision is still very tight, but I’m not quite the Quasimodo I was in the hospital. I get a bit straighter every day.

I came home with 6 JP drains this time, and had to upgrade my VB sling bag to a bigger VB bag that could accommodate the drain party. I knew from last time around that 4 drains fit nicely, with a little extra room for my Blistex, some folding money, and a teeny ziplock bag of pills, should they be necessary. Six drains would have burst my handy little bag right open. Wonder how many drains this lady is toting in her VB bags?

I had my first real shower today, not counting the seated variety the hospital offers. Again, it’s the little things we take for granted. I’m down to just 2 drains and back to my sling bag, thanks to Jenn removing the 4 drains up top yesterday. She gave me a good report; everything looks good and is healing nicely. 

While I feel a whole lot better and am ready to get back to normal, my handlers think one week post-op is a bit premature to jump right back into the day-in, day-out routine. I am trying to take it easy. I’m resigned to the fact that I’m back to one outing a day for a while, and sadly, a doctor’s appointment counts as an outing. Yesterday I had a small entourage escort me to see Jenn, and we had a bite of lunch (sans margaritas) beforehand. The handlers insisted on snapping a photo of this maiden voyage, and there was some talk of me earning a margarita for every device I had removed at the subsequent appointment. Between the two doppler wires and the 4 JP drains, somebody owes me 6 margaritas. No salt.

Although I complain about going to the med center, there’s always something interesting to see along the way. Getting out of the suburbs is a good thing, and there’s a whole ‘nother way of life in this big city of ours. Last time I was at the med center for some testing, I saw this car and had to take a picture, to show Macy. I knew this car would appeal to her:

She loved the polka dots and said she’d like to have that car, then she saw the back and said forget it. Fickle.

Yesterday on the way home from the med center, I saw this:

and had to snap a picture. Yes, it is a zebra car, complete with a long tail. Gotta love the big city.

Seriously???

Posted: March 7, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, Surgery | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Got this letter in the mail while I was in the hospital for the Big Dig, aka reconstruction. I don’t even know what to say.

And that doesn’t happen very often.

As you lovely readers know, I usually have a lot to say, about a variety of topics, and one of my favorite things about blogging is being able to blab away about whatever tickles my fancy at the moment. Sometimes silly, sometimes ticked off royally, sometimes serious, but rarely speechless.

When I saw yet another envelope from the Methodist Hospital, I didn’t think much about it because I get a lot of mail from that fine place. Between the bilateral mastectomy and the post-mastectomy infection, I’ve spent a lot of time at Methodist, both in Sugar Land and at the Medical Center. Getting mail from Methodist is nothing unusual. (If you click on the Sugar Land link above, you’ll see a pic of several doctors on the Methodist SL home page. The dark-headed one on the far right is my oncologist, Doogie Howser. Yes, he is that young, and yes he is that cute in real life.)

But this letter is definitely unusual.

Now I’m not dogging Methodist. I’ve had most excellent care there on all of my visits, and I don’t for one second take for granted the supreme luxury of having such esteemed medical care right around the corner (Sugar Land) and a short hop down the toll road (Med Center). I know that people come from far and wide to seek care at the places that are easy drives for me. So let’s be clear that I’m not dogging Methodist.

One of my favorite things about Methodist SL is this:

Love that. Hell yes, I should get special parking, right up front, at the breast center. Even though until just a few days ago I had no breasts, I still liked the special treatment that Methodist SL affords its breast care patients. Wish the grocery stores and Target would follow suit.

But back to the letter.

I know, I know it’s a terrible picture. The iPhone camera stinks, but it’s convenient, and let’s remember, people, that I am 5 days post-op here, with 6 JP drains sprouting from my body, and today was my first day without any pain pills, so keep your comments about the shoddy photography to yourself. This is not a photography blog, after all. I probably shouldn’t even be typing yet, but I’m dedicated to bringing severe belly laughs to you, my lovely readers, so you’re welcome. 

Since it’s such a shoddy photograph, let me reiterate the juicy parts: The Methodist Sugar Land Hospital Breast Center’s records indicate that based on my US mammo f/U uni performed on March 22, 2010, it is time to schedule a routine screening mammogram.

Oh, you mean the mammogram last March that set off the chain of events, preceded by my annual well-woman exam, that led to me being diagnosed with breast cancer at age 40? That mammogram?

The letter goes on to tell me that I need to be aware that many breast cancers do not produce symptoms. That “early detection requires a combination of monthly breast self-exams, yearly physical exams, and periodic mammography according to your age and physician’s recommendations.”

And that I should contact Methodist Sugar Land Hospital Breast Center at 1-800-HOW-STUPID-IS-THIS to make an appointment, and they thank me for my cooperation.

Wow.

The irony is stifling.

On one hand, it’s nice that the MSLHBC is so on top of things as to remind its patients that it’s time to come in for the good old smoosh & squeeze. Lots of women need reminders, and the hospital certainly should not be tasked with knowing I don’t happen to be one of those women.

On the other hand, it’s pretty hilarious and utterly ridiculous. And scary, too; don’t forget scary: the idea of anyone touching my newly sculpted chest, much less putting it through the greatest flat iron ever, makes me very, very afraid.

Thank you, Methodist, for the reminder. I will get right on it.

Back in the saddle

Posted: March 6, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer, Surgery | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Well, sort of. I’m sitting at my computer but feel pretty fuzzy-headed. At this time on a Sunday morning, I would normally be on the tennis court, earning my beers after 3 sets, but there’s a new normal nowadays, and tennis will have to wait.

I figured I’d better get back to blogging before my guest bloggers took over permanently, making me a redundancy. Big thanks to Trevor and Amy for filling in for me while I was unable to think straight or type coherently.

My handlers have established some boundaries for me, which I apparently need. Visiting hours today are 2 to 4 pm, and tomorrow from noon to 1 pm. Bring a brown bag and visit awhile, but don’t get your feelings hurt if you get kicked out. My handlers are determined to make sure I don’t overdo it; I have no idea why they think I need that.

It’s pretty great to be home, and while the nursing care at Methodist was the best I’ve ever had, nothing compares to home sweet home. No one woke me up last night to check the new skin or peek at the incisions or take my temp and blood pressure. I’m pretty mobile but still walk all hunched over. I think Amy compared me to Quasimodo. I’d agree with that characterization, but must note that I don’t have a hump on my back!  

Dr Spiegel said not to push myself to straighten up; the incision on my belly is pretty tight, and if I try to straighten up I run the risk of tearing the incision. I also need to be careful to limit my arm movement and not raise my arms above my head, because the microsurgery requires such tiny stitches that they’re easily ripped.

It sure would be nice to have a non-complicated recovery this time around. Fingers crossed.

Last night was a Good, Good Night….and it was the LAST night…in the hospital

Posted: March 5, 2011 | Author: | Filed under: breast cancer | Tags: , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Amy here.

Nancy is a changed woman!  As I type this she is walking around the room brushing her teeth.  Wow!  What a difference a good night’s rest and a little bit of activity can do!  We settled in for the night around 10 PM and she had the Norco to keep a handle on any pain. She had her “flap checks” every two hours and didn’t even need the Ambien, Ativan or the Flexeril!  I think she had peace of mind just knowing they were there at the ready.

Around 6 AM, Nancy was ready to get moving, and get moving she did!  She is able to get out of bed with little assistance (and that’s because the staff insists on that little bit!). She’s taken a long walk in the hospital corridors, had her breakfast and is preferring the chair over the bed.  I would say she is in a chipper mood.

Dr. Spiegel showed up around 7:15 to talk to Nancy about discharge.  Nancy had one main thing to keep her here and one main thing that made her want to go home.  She definitely wanted to go home because that signaled the end of the compression hose wearing!  On the other hand, she knows that she’s a busy body and it is much easier at the hospital to maintain a low profile, resting as needed and staying inactive.  Dr. Spiegel asked what she was planning to do at home and we talked all that through.  So now Nancy wants you to know, “I’m throwing these dumb hose in the trash!”  Yep, homeward bound!  There was even talk about these crazy contraptions that Dr. Spiegel says you wear around your chest called a “bra.”  Nancy didn’t know what in the world she was talking about!

She has one more dose of IV Vancomycin (1.5 hour infusion) so that is what is keeping her from packing out just yet.  She is extremely grateful for the great care that she has received at Methodist Med Center.  We both agree that this is the quietest hospital room that she’s had so far–and she was even right across from the nurses’ station!

Speaking of home.  Trevor and Nancy would like to respectfully request that today and tomorrow morning be a “hospital day” at home.  One of her main concerns about not going home just yet was that she would be tempted to generally NOT get the rest that she would at the hospital, even with those blasted “flap checks” every two hours!  That said, if you are thinking about stopping by for a visit, Nancy would like to post “visiting hours” for tomorrow afternoon, Sunday 3/6 from 2PM to 4PM.  Please feel free to stop by during those times, and even if she tries to get you to stay past 4PM, please don’t listen to her!  We all know she’s a social gal and would love to “take some tea on the veranda” for much longer than is good for her recovery process.

Her plan after discharge is to take it easy, rest often, and walk hunched over at least for 2 weeks.  She will followup with Jennifer in Dr. Spiegel’s office next week and Dr. Spiegel feels that she will unload the majority, if not all, of her drains and wires.

Here’s to a speedy recovery for Nancy.  Thanks to Nancy for allowing me to be her guest blogger and for the added privilege of being able to assist her at the hospital. It has been my great pleasure.

Her nurse is here with the Vancomycin now….

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