The title says it all. In no particular order...
This was interesting in that the doctors claimed they couldn't give me anything to stop the gas pains because they wanted the system to keep working, even if it was painful. But, as it turns out, the reason I didn't have any appetite was because of the gas pains. The morning after I got out of the hospital, I ate a soft boiled egg and a whole piece of toast without a problem---and I was mildly hungry when I ate it. So, I'll leave it to you, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, to do the math on that particular problem.
After my surgery, I asked for a heating pad. I was told they'd have to order one, but the nurse brought me a hot blanket instead. I didn't think much about it at the time, but it should have struck me as odd that they'd have to order a heating pad. You'd think that would be something they'd have on hand. Alas, I was drugged up, so I didn't think too much about it, other than to note I was making the nurses and nurses' assistants run around a lot, fetching me blankets out of the warmer.
The next morning, the heating pad arrived and where I was expecting a simple heating pad, like the kind you'd buy at a drug store, what I received was something different entirely. It was a heating pad, all right, but it was, in essence, a big rubber pad that looked like the larger variety of bubble wrap. It had a small water heater running to it via flexible metal tubes. The theory was this: you poured distilled water into the heater, it warmed up and, after traversing the metal tubes, it flooded the little pillows in the rubber pad with soothing warm water. You were, in theory, supposed to get some relief from this contraption. It didn't happen in reality because you couldn't adjust the heat on the water heater. It wouldn't let you and it was set low because of the fears that someone would burn themselves and would, inevitably, sue. Because of this, and some heat loss in the metal tubes, well, it actually seemed as if the temperature of the heating pad was less than my body temperature.
This thing was worthless, but I used it anyway. It at least did a pretty good job of holding onto the heat from the constant supply of warm blankets that were applied on top of it. I swore repeatedly that if I won the Powerball, I was going to endow the floor with enough heating pads for all and set up a small legal fund to fight off the personal injury lawyers.
All I can hope is that somewhere, there's a personal injury lawyer who has made some money off of one of these suits, that is suffering mightily after severe abdominal surgery because due to liability issues, they can't have a heating pad
Heh. That would be justice.
Ah, I feel a wee bit better now.
Before I get going, I'd like to thank everyone for their kind words and well wishes. It's been an amazing experience reading the comments and nice emails people have sent. I truly appreciate all of you and I'm very sorry I can't respond to each of you individually---I just don't have the energy yet. But I'm sure you understand.
Because that's why you're my devoted Cake Eater Readers, eh?
Anyway, moving away from the schmaltzy stuff before my menopausal emotional state reaches Defcon One, aka, "Full-On Meltdown" lets get to it. If you're interested in reading about my travails in the hospital, take the jump. If you're not, well, what the hell are you doing here? This blog, much like John Edwards campaign, has turned into an All Cancer-ALLTHEBLOODYTIME experience. Perhaps you'd rather go read about Obama's trip to Kenya instead?
Heh. Couldn't resist. I'll see all interested parties below the fold.
(Oh, I should probably include the disclaimer that some of what is below might be considered "graphic." I don't know what your tolerance for such things is, so if you're sensitive that way, by all means, skip reading the post.)
So, where was I? Ah, yes. The recovery room at the hospital. Or what they call "post-op." I wish I could say I had some breathtakingly dramatic moment when I figured out the cancer diagnosis, but no, it left my head the minute I put it down on the pillow and was replaced by a wish for some pain medicine. Then, when the pain got to be too much, I wished aloud and, magically, some fabulous fairy drifted down from on high and shot something into my IV. (This would be code for "I never saw it happen." Because we all know that's when the fairies appear). While the pain didn't go away, it at least dissipated enough for me to drift away into the ether again. The next time I woke up, well, it was time to go to my room.
When the husband's Grandma Nelson was still alive, she used to plan a trip to the local Super Wal-Mart like Eisenhower planned the invasion of Normandy---i's dotted, t's crossed and nothing was left to chance. She was a woman with a plan---and the reasoning for this plan was because she didn't want to get so tired when she walked around the place that she wouldn't have enough energy to get back out again. We pointed out to her that there were mechanical carts available for her to drive around the store and her reply was, "Oh, save those for the people who really need them. I'm not old enough yet." She said this when she was eighty-three years old. Now, there's nothing quite like being wheeled around when you're in bed. Even if you're in the hospital, and in pain, it, nonetheless, feels very sinful if you're capable of walking. When I was in the ER room, I could have raised my fat ass up off the bed and walked where I needed to and I suspect Grandma Nelson was frowning down on me from heaven for taking a wheeled bed from someone who could really use it. It would have hurt, but I could have done it. This, however, was another case entirely, and I don't think Grandma would have begrudged me the bed. I couldn't have pulled my fat ass up off that bed for all the tea in China. Not. Going. To. Happen. I could offer up several good excuses for this---major abdominal surgery, the aftereffects of anesthesia, the fact that I was drugged out of my skull---alas, however, I did not need excuses as the good people in charge were very happy to wheel me to the seventh floor of the hospital and the "Surgical Specialities" ward.
However, they were not quite so accomodating when it came to putting me into my new bed, and, not surprisingly, all the tea in China stayed in China.
This, they insisted, was something I had to do on my own. I had to slide over to the new bed, as opposed to them performing a lift and transfer motion with my body. It was much more comfortable, they promised. They told me I could do it. And I did. Somehow, I managed to shimmy over from one bed to another---and I let out the loudest yelp I could muster when I did so. Because I have never felt such pain in my life. Honestly. It felt like I was a raw steak slapped into a very hot pan. It was exhausting, too, this simple act most people could perform without a second thought. But not for me. I was winded when I got settled, but very, very freakin' happy I wouldn't have to move again for a while. Then the nurses buzzed around me like multi-colored bees in their bright scrubs to get my morphine machine set up and within a few minutes they put the button in my hand and helped me push down on it.
And with that push of morphine, I gained enough clarity for one single thought: those fuckers on ER would have lifted me over on the count of three. But these people? Noooooooooo.
With that, the clarity left and I was out of it again. It was was to be the first of many "tough love" lessons I would learn over the next week.
That night was a long one. I finally got to see the husband a little while later and I was worried when I saw him. He looked exhausted and scared and a bit like he'd been beaten up with a sack of oranges so you couldn't see the bruises. I've never seen him look so worried in all the time I've known him as I saw him look that night. It scared me a bit to know he could be so worried and that I'd made him so. Mr. H. was with him when he finally appeared in the room, and he looked worried, too, as he leaned against the wall next to my door. I waved hello to him as the husband came over and kissed me and held my hand in a way that signaled he was never going to let go if he had his way. Mr. H. told me later that the husband was terrified he would have to be the one to tell me what had happened, and that he could tell the husband was relieved when I told him I already knew. I wish I could say I remembered this bit, but I don't. I just remember the greeting. What I really remember from that night was watching the clock, wondering if ten minuted had passed, or if I'd just pushed down on the button in vain, because I couldn't feel significant pain relief, and ringing the nurse repeatedly for hot blankets, because, apparently, the one thing they don't have at this particular hospital are working heating pads.
The rest of the week I spent in the hospital is something of a blur now, which really isn't surprising given the amount of seriously good drugs I was on. It was filled with lots of little achievements, like being able to walk laps around the floor, getting off IV's, having catheters removed (yes, the one you're thinking of, and, yes, I know TMI TMI TMI, but also the one that was attached to a fanny pack of numbing medication that went directly to my incision), having one honking long bandage removed from my incision and being stunned at how my belly now resembled Frankenstein's head with the forty-one staples they used to put me back together. My biggest achievement, however, was when the bandage was removed and I got the first look at the incision. This may sound weird, but when I actually got a peek at it, I looked at the husband and said simply, "I win." The doctor, who was in the middle of trying to make sure he didn't rip out what was left of my pubic hair as he pulled away the tape, was a bit confused by this comment and stopped what he was doing. He looked at me, then looked at the husband, and the husband clarified that he'd had spleen surgery years before. The doctor smiled and went back to what he was doing. The husband made a comment about my weird sense of humor, but did not concede defeat. He said, "We'll see about that." We, of course, measured our respective abdominal scars when I got home and it turns out that I did indeed beat him---by two inches, and mine is nine and a half inches long if that gives you a clue as to how impressive the husband's is.
The week was also filled with setbacks, like when I became dehydrated, rejected my food and started puking this very verdant stuff up---seriously, it looked like pureed broccoli---which I found out later was bile. Somehow, I even managed to throw up the Body of Christ after I received the Eucharist from a roving EME. I don't exactly know how that works---one would think that there might be a little divine intervention on that front, ya dig, but alas, no. It came up just like everything else. So, I'm sorry, God. I didn't really mean to reject your Son, it just kind of happened. It wasn't a theological problem or anything---it was completely physical revulsion---er, that didn't sound so good. Anyway, after that, I had to go back on an IV, and it stayed in so long they actually had to stick me afresh because it had gone past its sell-by date. This is when it got frustrating. Oh, so, frustrating. Before, it was simply a matter of hoping to be released; after this setback it was a matter of me going past my sell-by date. I should have been home by then. Why wasn't I? Every morning we waited for the doctor to appear, to judge the results of the previous day, and it was frustrating to see if I could go home, only to be told they wanted to keep an eye on me for one more day. That if x, y, and z happened, maybe I'd get to go home the next day---and, of course, x, y and z were things I had very little control over. You'll either keep your food down or you won't. There's not a whole lot you can do about it in the meanwhile, eh?
There's nothing quite like wanting to get better, doing all the things you're supposed to do and doing them with gusto and still not getting what you want. I can't begrudge the doctors---they just didn't want to send me home only to have me wind back up in the ER a day later. I have no issues with that. It's just that, well, have you ever tried to get well in a hospital? It's practically impossible. Getting well requires decent food and lots of rest---and neither are easy to come by in a hospital. When you try to sleep, the nurses or nurses' assistants wake you up to check your vital signs or to give you medication. People knock and bring in food, or they want to see if you're ready to take a shower so they can change the linen, or as was the case on one day, you have an RN in training and she's overzealous about "being available." Lady, if I need you, I know where the call bell is, eh? Go AWAY! Just don't disappear when I need the drugs, ya dig? Then I'll really be pissed.. I know they're just doing their job. Really and truly I do know this. And they did a fabulous job taking care of me. I just wished they wouldn't come in at four in the morning---just when I'd finally managed to drift off. By the following Wednesday night, almost a week after the surgery, my parents had just driven in from Omaha, and it all became a bit too much for me. I'd had it and started to bawl in the middle of Lost. This was the one where Hurley found the van and professed his need for "a win." I could relate. At this stage, I was holding steady, but I needed a win. I needed to get the hell out of that place. I honestly felt it was holding my recovery back.
But for that, I needed to be able to eat, and I've never felt less of an urge to eat as I did at that stage of the game.
The scary thing about the surgery---besides the surgery itself---was that they had to transfuse me twice during it. I was on the operating table for five hours, so I don't suppose this should be all that surprising in the scheme of things, but when the technician took a sample of my blood before the surgery, for typing and crossing, she'd used the words, "if they need it" rather casually. Like it probably wasn't going to happen. But it did. Twice. Because of this I was anemic. The doctor told me on Wednesday that my crit was at eight---and if it didn't improve by my eating and keeping the food down, and it dropped to a seven and half, I would have to be transfused again. He asked me if I'd had a problem with anemia in the past and I nodded and he said that this was common with such people. Great. Just what I needed: more pressure exerted over things I had no control over.
So, the problem was this: how do you eat when you have no appetite? You wouldn't think it wouldn't be such a big task, would you? Particularly not when you think about how many times a day the average prosperous, office working human nibbles on a piece of candy, or a donut, or those peanut butter and cheese crackers they sell in the vendo machines when they're not hungry. We eat all the freakin' time and we generally don't need to. How do you muster up the energy and desire to eat? It's like having to remind yourself to breathe---a natural instinct you were born with has just up and disappeared. What do you do? It's a bizarre situation to find yourself in. I couldn't even watch food shows on tee vee because they made me nauseous---and do you have any idea how many freakin' cooking shows are on television these days?
What to do? Well, if you're me, you force feed yourself. I can't tell you how tough this was. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were delivered, and I sat there and stared at the trays that were placed before me each time, dreading the process. I knew what was on each one. Broth, jello, a carton of milk and, maybe if I was lucky, some sort of processed ice cream dessert. I had chicken broth for breakfast, beef broth for lunch and vegetable broth for dinner. And after I stared at it for a while, sighing at the inevitability of it all, I got down to business and started spooning up what I could get down, praying it would stay down. When I was done, I would breathe a sigh of relief when the husband would put the tray on the other side of the room, out of sight. Then I'd go and do laps around the floor, to deal with the inevitable gas buildup that was making me even more miserable, but which I will spare you, my devoted Cake Eater Readers, the resulting tales in an attempt at being decent. (Suffice it to say, the resumption of biological functions were a BIG deal on the surgical specialties floor. I thought the nurses were going to erupt in a round of applause when I managed to fart for the first time. Seriously.) When I reached the end of the floor, I'd stare out of the big picture window for a few moments before I turned and resumed walking. I could see the world from there, whereas the view from my bed only showed sky. It appeared that everything was moving along quite nicely without me. Cars went places. People waited for buses and crossed the street into the hospital. They went into my OB-GYN's office, which was directly across the street from the hospital. I could also see the mall from these windows and I could see people parking and walking into Macy's, to go shopping, and it made me wonder how often I'd driven by the hospital without ever once giving a thought to the people stuck inside it. It made me think about how careless and cavalier I'd been with my health, how much I'd taken it for granted that I would always be healthy enough to do whatever I wanted. Now, I wasn't healthy and I envied those people going into the mall, to buy stuff they probably didn't need, on credit cards that were probably close to being maxed out. Oh, I envied them. I was green with it. They were leading lives and I was walking the floor of a hospital---more like shuffling---my feet encased in booties with texturized grips so I wouldn't slip, bent over because I couldn't stand up straight with the pain, my IV stand acting as a walker. I wanted out. I wanted to be better. Home would make me better. I was sure of it. So, I swallowed the broth when I didn't want to. I ate the fake ice cream. I drank a lot of fluids.
And then, on Thursday morning---a week after my surgery---the doctor showed me the keys to the kingdom: if, said he of the last name that is synonymous with the word pain, I managed to keep my breakfast and my lunch down, I could get out of there. Of course, however, there was a catch. It wasn't broth being served up this time, but actual food. They were also going to lock off my IV, so that my sole source of nourishment was going to have happen the old fashioned way. But, for once, that was cool. I was up for the challenge. And a challenge was forming. You see, a blizzard---and honest to God blizzard with horizontal snow---was starting and I didn't want to get stuck in the hospital, with no doctors around to release me. Dr. Pain was off to Vegas that afternoon, or so he'd announced, and if all went well, another doctor would have to sign the papers. The husband and I looked out the window at the swirling snow and said simultaneously, "Good luck with that." The poor guy obviously wanted to get out of town because he knew the exact time his flight took off and announced it to us, like we cared. He was optimistic, though, and then shot off to tell the nurses' station what was up.
I started to get keyed up, even though I knew it was bad move. I couldn't help myself. This was the closest we'd actually been to getting out of hospital hell. I couldn't think about getting out, but, even more, I couldn't bear to steel myself for the disappointment of not being released. I simply refused to think about it. They delivered a stack of menus for the rest of the day and for the next, and I flat-out refused to fill out the ones for Thursday dinner and Friday. I wouldn't do it. It would jinx the whole thing. I was sure of it. Then breakfast---a steaming bowl of cream of wheat---arrived and I managed to get a bit of it down, even though they did not provide nearly enough sugar or cream to make it palatable. I drank the milk. I had a cup of tea. When I was done, I pushed it aside and took a walk. And I managed to keep it down. Ok, so it looked like one problem was solved---the puking---while the other---the loss of appetite---was still in full force. You obviously cannot win them all. The husband went home to get cleaned up and shovel the rapidly accumulating snow and then my mother arrived and we did laps together. I took a nap---or at least tried to. Mom went back to the hotel room. I waved off the nurses' assistant who tried to get me to take a shower, because, if it all worked out the way I cunningly had it planned, I could shower at home. And what's more---I could possibly shave at home. I had some serious armpit hair going and it was bugging the hell out of me. I might have even appealed to a Frenchman if I hadn't also looked like a bedraggled carcass at that stage---but who knows, they might like bedraggled carcasses with an overabundance of armpit hair. Lunch arrived: fruit salads galore. (I'd gone a little crazy with the ordering, figuring there had to be some fruit I could keep down and I wanted a wide variety available.) So, I ate some grapes. I drank some milk. I had some pineapple. I ate some lettuce. And while this would not have served to fully feed a two-year-old, because I managed to keep it down, it was enough to get me out of the freakin' hospital.
Hallelujah.
We packed up dying flower arrangements and our scant possessions. I walked around the hospital room, in a happy fog, unable to figure out what I needed to do first and do it in an energy conserving manner. We arranged to meet my parents in the parking garage, from whence they could drive us home. I put on street clothes for the first time in a week, gleefully throwing aside the hospital gown I was wearing. My IV was removed. We were handed a stack of papers, the wheelchair arrived and we were on our way out of that place. I was as happy as I'd been in quite a while at that point. I was keyed up and I knew I'd crash hard later, but I didn't really care. I was going home. In a blizzard, of course, but I was going home. That's all that mattered. To get out, we had to go down one set of elevators, across the lobby where the husband had waited for hours on end to find out how I was a week before, up another set of elevators to the skyway to the parking garage. When we entered, I saw my mom waiting for us at the other end. We met up with her and I was wheeled out into the snowy parking garage. It was then I got my first breath of fresh air in a week. It was delightful. It was cold and damp and refreshing as anything I'd ever felt. I relished it and it almost made me dizzy with pleasure. I felt snowflakes on my face, and they, too, felt wonderful. They signaled change. I was on my way home.
Well, my neglected-yet-still-uber-devoted Cake Eater Readers, I've got news.
As you might have gathered from the title of this here post, it's rather momentous news.
And not "momentous" in what most people would associate with the phrase "good way," either.
Yes. I have cancer. Not really any more, though. It's kind of confusing, so if you would like to read about trips to the ER, vaginal ultrasounds (which are not nearly as sexy as they sound), cat scans, a doctor who is a grown-up version of Cindy Lou Who (with a few doses of collagen in the lips), another doctor whose last name is, quite literally, synonymous with the word "pain", an oncologist who wears fuzzy sweaters, and a diagnosis of ovarian cancer on an operating table followed by a full blown hysterectomy, well, take the jump.
To be clear about this, first off, I have to get something off my chest. I wasn't going to tell you, my devoted Cake Eater readers, about this. This is pretty personal stuff. When I was writing this blog daily, there was a lot I told you about me. But no matter how much I told you, you didn't get to see all of my dirty laundry, ya dig? Because I wasn't going to let that happen. You saw a thong here, or a pair of granny panties there, but you never did see the particularly ratty underwear that's stayed hidden in the bottom of the undie drawer for years. That was a conscious choice, and I had no hassles with not sharing it with you: I'm not an exhibitionist after all. There is a line between the private and the public.
But now there's this.
I've thought long and hard about throwing this particularly soiled peignoir out into the vastness of the world wide web, for the consumption of the masses. I mean, for Chrissakes, I don't have a reproductive system anymore---I don't know how it could get more personal than that. You could see why I'd be hesitant, eh, my devoted Cake Eater readers, to share the details of my journey here?
Here's the thing, though: I'm having a lot of trouble sleeping lately. I've been having funky dreams. And the other night's version was the last straw. The husband and I have been seriously behind the times with our Battlestar Galactica viewing. Ever since they moved it to Sunday night, we've been fucked. We can never seem to remember they moved it (Damn you, Sci Fi Channel!). So, the husband, genius that he is, went on a bittorrent frenzy and downloaded and burned to DVD the episodes we've missed. The other night, we watched the episode where Chief becomes the big union boss all over again and while it didn't mean more to me at the time than just an hour's worth of entertainment, it apparently got into my psyche and I dreamed about it. In my dream, Chief told me, in a very sympathetic way, that he was really sorry, but I was now obsolete and that it simply wasn't worth it to the fleet to fix me. He walked away, shaking his head, and rejoined Callie (who annoys me to no end) who was shooting me sympathetic glances. I laid there, on a gurney, in the middle of the hanger, the funky lighting doing absolutely nothing for my already pale complexion, and I was stunned. I thought I was worth repairing. I thought Chief would think so, too, as he's generally a pretty sympathetic guy when it comes to broken stuff. Alas, this was not the case. Then I woke up. In a sweat, but that's another story entirely.
You could perhaps see where I would draw the conclusion that confession is good for the soul from that, eh? I need to be able to rest, undisturbed, right now. I HAVE to be able to do this, or I WILL NOT GET WELL. And I have to get well because I ain't done with all of this yet. So, if I have to dump some of this baggage to be able to rest, well, here seems as good a place to do it as any other. Privacy be damned, I guess.
So, sit right back and let me tell you a tale that, I can assure you, does not include a three hour cruise.
The Saturday after Valentine's Day, we were scheduled to have our bathroom light fixture replaced. I was pretty stoked about this because it'd been on the fritz for over a month, which meant, in our postage stamp sized bathroom, we had to have a freakin' floor lamp in there to see what we were doing. And it didn't really give off enough light so I didn't slice my legs to ribbons when I shaved. Our landlord recently moved to Ohio, so it had taken some time to get this organized, and of course there had been some setbacks, this being the Cake Eater pad, as longtime readers will be able to confirm for the n00bs. But, finally, the electrician was there to replace the thing. And it was fortunate for me that, for once in my long lifetime of watching , the guy knew exactly what he was doing and was quick about it, because about fifteen minutes into the installation, I began having some serious pain in my abdomen and I just wanted him to be gone from my house so I could suffer in privacy.
I knew what the pain was. Or at least I thought I did. I thought it was a gallbladder attack. I'd had two in the month of January and they were not pleasant little things to endure. They basically consisted of seriously sharp pain on my right hand side that I couldn't sleep through, couldn't get comfortable enough to be able to ignore, and just had to wait, in abject misery, until they had run their course.
You are, of course, wondering why, if they were so bad, I didn't run to the ER then. Well, because I had already run to the ER the first time I'd suffered through the first of these, last spring, and they'd told me nothing because, of course, the pain stopped the moment I stepped foot into the ER waiting room. They said it was probably either a kidney stone or a particularly hard piece of bowel that was passing through my intestines that caused the pain. Then they let me go, none the wiser. I didn't have another attack until January, and after that, I researched and it looked like it was a gallbladder problem. The pieces of the puzzle fit. I fully realize I should have gone to a doctor then, but alas, when you live in Entrepreneurial Hell (TM), there is no such thing as "health insurance." You are "self-pay" and if I could avoid another $500 visit to the ER to learn absolutely NOTHING, well, I was going to do so. I got better after the attack and was able to go about my daily business once I'd recovered. If it got really serious, well, then I'd go to the doctor.
It turns out this was the equivalent of waiting for the already lit low-oil light on your car to start flashing, to tell you to hot-foot it to the mechanic, when it was never designed to do that in the first place.
After one more attack in January, I was fine until that weekend in February. Then I'd had enough. After writhing around on the bed for a half hour, waiting for the pain to lessen, the husband asked me if I wanted to go to a doctor and this time I said "yes." I'd had it. No more suffering simply to keep the bills down. We got down to the hospital (fortunately, we live very near to a very good one), I was put into a wheelchair, and was able to leapfrog over all the other people (geriatrics mostly) waiting to get into a room. They poked, they prodded, they gave me an IV (my first ever) and some lovely, lovely morphine to quell the pain. They then Cat Scanned me (no House MRI of Dooooom here) and they found a mass in my lower left abdomen that needed to be looked at with the ultrasound, for greater specificity. So, after wheeling me in my bed from the ER to the Cat Scan and then back again, I was wheeled back down to the ultrasound room. Where I endured a normal ultrasound, with the gel across the belly, and the vaginal ultrasound, which is exactly what it sounds like, but I'm not going to get into that with you people. Suffice it to say, there was lots and lots of K-Y in attendance. Bleech.
So, I'd been wheeled the length and breadth of the hospital twice, and when you're in bed, it's really not that bad of a deal. But for the most part, like the rest of the day, the husband and I were left alone in our little room. I was able to rest a little bit and the husband was even able to check his email a few times on the hospital's computer in my ER room. That's when the consulting OB-GYN was called in to explain to me that what was causing all the problems was a ten centimeter mass on my left ovary. What was happening, in essence, was that every now and again, the mass would cause my ovary to twist over on itself, or what they call ovarian torsion. This was the cause of the pain.
The consulting OB-GYN was a pretty nice guy, who was very enthusiastic about his work (you could tell he enjoyed what he did for a living, but not in a creepy way) and he said I was going to have to have surgery to remove the cyst. He didn't think it was cancerous, but just in case he wanted to have a gynecological oncologist on hand when he did remove it because the minute he didn't, well, Murphy's Law would kick in and it would be cancerous and he'd have to close me up and we'd have to start all over again.
I have great respect for a doctor who, in turn, has respect for Murphy's Law.
You see, the thing with ovarian cysts is, if they do turn out to be cancerous, you have to have a gynecologic oncologist present at the surgery because, well, it's dangerous not to. If the cyst turns out to be cancerous, and it explodes, or leaks fluid or whatever during removal, the cancer will spread to whatever it leaks on. It's a given. And that's why you want a gynecologic oncologist on call---because if it looks dodgy, well, they're the people to deal with it. But the surgery looked like it could wait, because I wasn't in too much pain anymore, which was a good thing because the gynecologic oncologist wasn't available. So, they sent me home with a prescription for some vicodin and instructions to call this doctor's office on Monday to schedule the surgery. It was going to be fine, he assured me. It didn't "feel like cancer" to him, and to be honest, he was more worried about the fact it was going to have to be a vertical incision, rather than a horizontal one and he seemed concerned that I might be concerned about that. Pshaw. As if I wear bikinis in the first place. If I was lucky, it would be a simple cystectomy and that would be that. At worst, well, he thought I might lose my left ovary (what they call an oopherectomy) but even so, it didn't really matter all that much because, according to the doctor, one ovary is really and truly all you need. I'd still be able to have children and all would be well. The worst case scenario, the one he really didn't talk about all that much because he didn't think it was going to happen, was that if they got in there and they found cancer, they might have to give me a full hysterectomy. He didn't think that would happen, because, again, "it didn't feel like cancer" to him. He was sure I'd be fine and that my fertility would be saved.
Well, it didn't really turn out that way. It went worst case scenario and it did so in a hurry.
Fast forward to the following Thursday. This is when the surgery has been scheduled for, and, because of scheduling reasons, I now have a new surgical OB-GYN, who is actually younger than I am and is an adult version of Cindy Lou Who, from The Grinch Who Stole Christmas---all blonde hair, big blue eyes and a big ol' pout. We have a consultative meeting the day before the surgery and she's not as optimistic as the first doctor. She's fairly certain I'm going to lose my left ovary, just because she doesn't want to mess around with the cyst, because of the attendant risks listed above. She explains what will happen: I will be put under, and she will start with the taking of samples from the cyst and the left ovary: frozen sections will be done on these samples when I'm under and if they come back as being negative for cancer, she will proceed with the oopherectomy, and that will be that---it shouldn't take more than forty-five minutes. If, however, they find cancer in the frozen sections, that's when the oncologist will show up to start removing my ovaries, my fallopian tubes, my uterus, my omentum...and a cyst in a pear tree. She assures me it probably won't be all that bad, that I'll just lose an ovary and things will be fine. But she wants me to take the CA-125 screening test for ovarian cancer just so she has a pre-surgery measurement, and then I'm done and she'll see me tomorrow.
So, I go home and prepare to deal with the first surgery of my life and my first hospital stay ever. I also clean out my intestines by chugging two bottles of magnesium citrate (available over the counter at your local pharmacy!) or "Colon Blow" as the husband dubbed it. Two words: not recommended. The husband is optimistic and sleeps like a baby. Worn out from my exertions in the lavatory, I manage to get a bit of sleep as well. The next morning, we arrive and the hospital and get checked in. The husband is handed a beeper and a list of instructions on where to go and who to call should it go off. He's shown the nifty computerized monitoring system which will be how he finds out when I'm out of surgery and in my room. They do one more pregnancy test on me, because, even though I tell them I haven't had sex since the last one, "they can't take my word for it." Sheesh. They type and cross my blood in case I need to be transfused during surgery. I tell them I'm A+, that what's the point of giving blood if not to learn that crucial bit of information, but they can't take my word for that, either. And, when it's all said and done, and my clothes have been bagged, I'm led to the pre-op station in my hospital issued gown, circulation tights, booties and bathrobe. I'm led to a small curtained off alcove, told to climb into the bed, and now it's just a matter of waiting to get this show on the road. Then I'm informed by my surgeon: our operating room has been hijacked by someone with a gallbladder on the rampage. Great. The anxiety level ramps up a wee bit. Fortunately, the husband is there to keep me sane. He jokes, he chats, he holds my hand and tells me it'll all be over with sooner than I realize. The pre-op nurse goofs my IV and someone else has to make a second attempt. I'm not really happy about all this, but I'm trying not to panic. Panic, I know, won't do anyone any good. I just wanted to get the thing over with, that's all.
Then the surgeon comes over again and tells me she got the CA-125 test results back. I'm at 1245. Which is not a good number when it comes right down to it. You'd rather be at 400 rather than at 1245.
That's when I allow myself a moment of brief, abject panic. I freak right out. Hands go to the mouth. Shivers run up the spine. Dread breaks out all over, like an instant allergic reaction. The doctor reassures me that all is not lost, that while it's not ideal, it doesn't necessarily mean I'm one big hunk of cancerous material. They just won't know until they get in there. The husband does his best to back up the doctor. They flank me with their reassurances and I know I don't have any other option right now but to surrender to their good will.
They manage to get me calmed down and a few minutes after the doctor walks away, my anesthesia nurse shows up and starts asking me the same questions that the anesthesiologist asked a few moments before. And the next thing I know, the process that was taking way entirely too long is now moving, and it's going way too fast. We're ready to go. I kiss the husband goodbye and he tells me he loves me and that I'll see him soon. I tell him to make sure he calls my mother and tells her that the surgery has been delayed. He promises to do so.
I look at the clock and it's close to ten after one. Forty-five minutes and this will all be over with. Just forty-five minutes and I'll be cyst-free!
Then I'm wheeled away and I'm out like a light.
I awake and it's obvious that something is off. I hurt. A lot. My vision is blurry and I can tell I'm not going to come out of the fog I've found myself in any time soon. My hand goes to my face. It's leaden, but it moves. That's good, at least. My glasses aren't there, but there is something there. Something rubbery that I'm not strong enough to move away; I simply don't have the strength. It is an oxygen mask. I cry out, feebly, asking for my glasses. The same nurse who goofed my IV earlier comes over, finds them and puts them on my face. I see a clock on the wall opposite me and while I'm incapable of comprehending the exact time, I know it's somewhere around seven. I can only assume that it's p.m. and not a.m.
I know without having to be told that this is not good. And the nurse confirms it when I ask. The words that come out of his mouth are fuzzy, blurry, like the world looks like when my glasses aren't on. But I latch onto one that I understand: hysterectomy.
That I had a positive diagnosis for ovarian cancer the same time I had my reproductive system cut out of me, oddly enough, doesn't need to be mentioned. It's just there, whether I want it to be or not. It won't be until days later, when the pathology report comes back, that, even though I will be feeling the worst I've ever felt in my thirty-six years on this planet, I will realize that I am actually now cancer-free for the first time in a while, even though I'd had no idea I had it in the first place.
Next up in Part Two: Why a week in the hospital is really not that dream vacation you've been hoping for. Even if you've got a morphine machine, percoset and all the jell-o you can eat. Illustrated!
Topics that will be covered in later installments: Why menopause is not your friend; Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I haven't been doing a damn thing, why am I so freakin' tired!; the ultimate weight loss plan!; and, everyone's favorite, casserole hell.