Today's good news/bad news about my cancer.
Good News: I gained a few pounds. I'm up to 205
Bad News: I have to shave my belly
After I left the hospital last, I still had open wounds from my surgery and they were bandaged. The bandages had to be changed on a daily basis until the wounds no longer needed to be packed with gauze. I had a nurse come and take care of this situation for the last month or so. The bandages were stretched across my belly and secured with tape. Let me fill you in on some information about tape that you may not be aware of. There seems to be two choices in medical tape. You can either have tape that holds the bandages on by adhering with super strength and winds up peeling off sections of your skin when you remove it. Or you can have tape that is gentle on the epidermis, but often falls off while you're sleeping, or walking, or sitting, or breathing. The last time I was on chemo, I lost some of my body hair. Not all of it, and not uniformly, but still there was some thinning. One of the places that saw a little less foliage was on my belly. Today I visited my surgeon and he said the wounds were healing well. I no longer need to have a nurse change the bandages, I can do it myself. I also don't need the bandaging to be as expansive, stretching two bandages across my gut and taping them down, I can go with simple 4x4s over the two remaining sites.
So how does this all tie together? Well, since you've decided to take the long road with me, I'll bring it all home now. When my belly hair was sparse, and the bandages wrapped around to my sides, the tape wasn't that difficult to adhere or remove. But now the hair has filled back in, and it's decided to sprout thickest right around the sites of the wounds. In a proactive attempt to mitigate the pain involved with bandage removal I'm going to shave. Nobody tells you this when you first get cancer. The doctors don't tell you. The support groups don't tell you. The books don't tell you. I'm going to put together a little class on all the stupid stuff people have to go through with cancer. Dave can help teach.
Oh, and on another good note, I'm going to Amsterdam on Friday!!!! One last big bash before the new round of chemo. That's life baby.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Friday, April 13, 2007
Welcome To The Monkey House
Two posts today. The first one will be quick.
Kurt Vonnegut passed away on Wednesday.
For many reasons he was one of my all time favorite authors. I would consider myself lucky if I could have even an ounce of his skill, creativity, insight, and wit.
I also shared a connection with my mother regarding Mr. Vonnegut. She always remembered my admiration for him. Many a Christmas there was a Vonnegut book in my stocking.
I will miss them both.
And now for a very long and in depth look at Billy's psychosis....
Kurt Vonnegut passed away on Wednesday.
For many reasons he was one of my all time favorite authors. I would consider myself lucky if I could have even an ounce of his skill, creativity, insight, and wit.
I also shared a connection with my mother regarding Mr. Vonnegut. She always remembered my admiration for him. Many a Christmas there was a Vonnegut book in my stocking.
I will miss them both.
And now for a very long and in depth look at Billy's psychosis....
They're always after me lucky charms
It's been a while since you've heard from me. I know, I know; you yearn for more pearls of wisdom clicked out on my keyboard. Well, I've been busy. Busy mostly trying to get back in the swing of life and pretending I don't have cancer until the next obvious 2x4 whacks my head. That will come in may when I resume chemo. blech
I've been working. I make it into my office three or four days a week, and work from home the other days. I've gone out once or twice with friends. I've got some plans on the horizon that don't include tumors or doctors or surgeries. But this blog isn't about that is it? No, it's about cancer, so let's get on with it.
Things were pretty quiet on the cancer front. I still have open wounds from my last surgery and I have a nurse come every other day to change the bandaging. I've seen my surgeon once since my last hospital stay. He said things were looking good. The wounds were healing well, and my early March CAT scan looked very good. My oncologist hasn't bugged me. Before I was discharged from the hospital he told me to come see him around April. He said he wanted me to get healthier and stronger before I see him and begin chemo again. I'm going to Amsterdam at the end of April, so I'm going to wait until May to see him. Oh yeah, did I mention I'm going to Amsterdam? Well I am. I am going to Amsterdam.
My brain hasn't had to deal with too much cancer stuff since I've made it back to my apartment. I've let it take a break from that. I'll be consumed with it soon enough. But, as many of you may know, I'm a bit of a tv junkie. Most nights are spent laying on the couch watching the tube. While many may see it as the lowest form of art, it is still indeed art. TV shows are stories. Stories written by talented people, told by talented people. Sure, not all of it, but still...
Last night on CSI New York they told a story of a group of young people who had been diagnosed with terminal diseases. These people had decided to commit suicide, each with a fantasy tint, rather than to let the diseases ravage them to an ugly and undignified death. I've dealt with this idea. Hell, I'm still dealing with it. I vacillate on the issue. I'll tell you more later. I have something else I'd like to tell you about today.
Tonight on my recorded episode of Crossing Jordan from last night (remember? I was watching CSI New York) the main character is going in for brain surgery. Right before the surgery there is a small moment when she starts to get anxious. This reminded me of something very real for me, and that's what I want to talk about. Before all of my surgeries, 5 or so in 3 years, I've had some time to think about them. I've had the wonderful luxury of being able to spend a few days stewing in a hospital bed before they sliced me open. For the most part I was calm. I never worried about what would happen during the surgery. There is no good in worrying. It solves nothing. Though, there is plenty to worry about. Simple surgeries, if there actually is such a thing, are still dangerous. I have been on the table for 15 plus hours at a pop. That's a lot of time for something unexpected to happen. But for those days before, I was relaxed. Until, right up until, they put me on the gurney to wheel me to the OR. Allow me a moment to try and explain to you the minutes for me right before the surgery.
The experience of the trip from my hospital room to the operating table is unlike any other I have met in my lifetime. At first it's calm, simply moving from my bed to the gurney. Then they begin to wheel me towards our destination. I tell my family everything is fine and that I love them. I lay back and watch the ceiling roll by. Hallway to hallway to elevator to hallway. Then we get to the door outside the OR suite. We have to make a brief stop so that the orderlies can don hair caps and feet covers. I start to feel a little nervous. They punch in the combination to the door and wheel me through. I begin to feel anxious. As the surgical teams mill around quickly and they bring me towards my operating room I begin to think about what I'm going to go through. The anesthesia, the cutting open, the removing of big chunks of my body. Everyone is walking around. They all seem very focused on what they are doing. The orderly passes me off to an OR nurse who tells me he/she will be my nurse and asks me some basic questions. I start to breath a little faster. My mind goes into overdrive. She brings me to the door of the room. She goes in to alert the team that I am here. For a minute or two, which feels like days, there is a brief calm. Right outside the room is quiet. It's a little bit off the fairway of the OR suite so there isn't much traffic. I take deep breaths. The world slows down. But then the door opens. In the room is the table, thin and long with wings where they will place my arms. This cross like table bares an eerie resemblance to the table used when they put a prisoner to death, if you can believe tv and the movies. My brain kicks back into hyperdrive. My breathing gets very very rapid. This is the point that is unlike any other, EVER, in my life. I'm terrified. I'm not sure what I'm scared about, but it is an overwhelming feeling. Then I begin to panic because I don't know why I'm scared. This in turn makes me even more afraid. It's a spiral, downward and quick. I try to tell the nurses that this is not normal for me. They try to calm me down as they attempt to move me onto the table. As they stretch out my arms I begin to ask for drugs, something to calm me down. There are lots of reassuring voices, one nurse holds my hand delicately as others strap my arms down. By now I'm probably hyperventilating and making no sense to anyone. It's that room. The lights, the machines, the table, it instills an anxiety that takes over my mind and body. My surgeon comes in and suddenly I'm calm again. I'm still afraid, very afraid, but I trust him with every cell of my being. He is a great guy who has always been open and honest with me. I tell him I'm nervous. I tell him I'm scared. He tells me to stop. The nurses finish strapping me it, wrapping my legs with some sort of medical apparatus. I can't stop the fear though. I get anxious again. I don't want to be there. I don't want to have surgery. I don't want to be me any more. Then there is the sweetest, loveliest, most reassuring voice the heavens have let loose upon this earth. It's my anesthesiologist telling me I'm about to get some pharmacological help. The plunger is pushed and I begin to quiet down. The edge is taken off. Not just the edge of the anxiety, but also the edge of my vision. My eyesight begins to blur. I'm scared, but I don't care any more. Then that lovely voice tells me that I'll be asleep soon. A darkness washes over me. My body goes limp. I'm out.
I'm bothered that this happens to me. I don't like that my mind can melt like this. I'm also bothered that I can remember it so vividly. My mind and body can recall this experience 100 percent. But if you ask me, I'll deny it all. I'm not afraid of anything.
I've been working. I make it into my office three or four days a week, and work from home the other days. I've gone out once or twice with friends. I've got some plans on the horizon that don't include tumors or doctors or surgeries. But this blog isn't about that is it? No, it's about cancer, so let's get on with it.
Things were pretty quiet on the cancer front. I still have open wounds from my last surgery and I have a nurse come every other day to change the bandaging. I've seen my surgeon once since my last hospital stay. He said things were looking good. The wounds were healing well, and my early March CAT scan looked very good. My oncologist hasn't bugged me. Before I was discharged from the hospital he told me to come see him around April. He said he wanted me to get healthier and stronger before I see him and begin chemo again. I'm going to Amsterdam at the end of April, so I'm going to wait until May to see him. Oh yeah, did I mention I'm going to Amsterdam? Well I am. I am going to Amsterdam.
My brain hasn't had to deal with too much cancer stuff since I've made it back to my apartment. I've let it take a break from that. I'll be consumed with it soon enough. But, as many of you may know, I'm a bit of a tv junkie. Most nights are spent laying on the couch watching the tube. While many may see it as the lowest form of art, it is still indeed art. TV shows are stories. Stories written by talented people, told by talented people. Sure, not all of it, but still...
Last night on CSI New York they told a story of a group of young people who had been diagnosed with terminal diseases. These people had decided to commit suicide, each with a fantasy tint, rather than to let the diseases ravage them to an ugly and undignified death. I've dealt with this idea. Hell, I'm still dealing with it. I vacillate on the issue. I'll tell you more later. I have something else I'd like to tell you about today.
Tonight on my recorded episode of Crossing Jordan from last night (remember? I was watching CSI New York) the main character is going in for brain surgery. Right before the surgery there is a small moment when she starts to get anxious. This reminded me of something very real for me, and that's what I want to talk about. Before all of my surgeries, 5 or so in 3 years, I've had some time to think about them. I've had the wonderful luxury of being able to spend a few days stewing in a hospital bed before they sliced me open. For the most part I was calm. I never worried about what would happen during the surgery. There is no good in worrying. It solves nothing. Though, there is plenty to worry about. Simple surgeries, if there actually is such a thing, are still dangerous. I have been on the table for 15 plus hours at a pop. That's a lot of time for something unexpected to happen. But for those days before, I was relaxed. Until, right up until, they put me on the gurney to wheel me to the OR. Allow me a moment to try and explain to you the minutes for me right before the surgery.
The experience of the trip from my hospital room to the operating table is unlike any other I have met in my lifetime. At first it's calm, simply moving from my bed to the gurney. Then they begin to wheel me towards our destination. I tell my family everything is fine and that I love them. I lay back and watch the ceiling roll by. Hallway to hallway to elevator to hallway. Then we get to the door outside the OR suite. We have to make a brief stop so that the orderlies can don hair caps and feet covers. I start to feel a little nervous. They punch in the combination to the door and wheel me through. I begin to feel anxious. As the surgical teams mill around quickly and they bring me towards my operating room I begin to think about what I'm going to go through. The anesthesia, the cutting open, the removing of big chunks of my body. Everyone is walking around. They all seem very focused on what they are doing. The orderly passes me off to an OR nurse who tells me he/she will be my nurse and asks me some basic questions. I start to breath a little faster. My mind goes into overdrive. She brings me to the door of the room. She goes in to alert the team that I am here. For a minute or two, which feels like days, there is a brief calm. Right outside the room is quiet. It's a little bit off the fairway of the OR suite so there isn't much traffic. I take deep breaths. The world slows down. But then the door opens. In the room is the table, thin and long with wings where they will place my arms. This cross like table bares an eerie resemblance to the table used when they put a prisoner to death, if you can believe tv and the movies. My brain kicks back into hyperdrive. My breathing gets very very rapid. This is the point that is unlike any other, EVER, in my life. I'm terrified. I'm not sure what I'm scared about, but it is an overwhelming feeling. Then I begin to panic because I don't know why I'm scared. This in turn makes me even more afraid. It's a spiral, downward and quick. I try to tell the nurses that this is not normal for me. They try to calm me down as they attempt to move me onto the table. As they stretch out my arms I begin to ask for drugs, something to calm me down. There are lots of reassuring voices, one nurse holds my hand delicately as others strap my arms down. By now I'm probably hyperventilating and making no sense to anyone. It's that room. The lights, the machines, the table, it instills an anxiety that takes over my mind and body. My surgeon comes in and suddenly I'm calm again. I'm still afraid, very afraid, but I trust him with every cell of my being. He is a great guy who has always been open and honest with me. I tell him I'm nervous. I tell him I'm scared. He tells me to stop. The nurses finish strapping me it, wrapping my legs with some sort of medical apparatus. I can't stop the fear though. I get anxious again. I don't want to be there. I don't want to have surgery. I don't want to be me any more. Then there is the sweetest, loveliest, most reassuring voice the heavens have let loose upon this earth. It's my anesthesiologist telling me I'm about to get some pharmacological help. The plunger is pushed and I begin to quiet down. The edge is taken off. Not just the edge of the anxiety, but also the edge of my vision. My eyesight begins to blur. I'm scared, but I don't care any more. Then that lovely voice tells me that I'll be asleep soon. A darkness washes over me. My body goes limp. I'm out.
I'm bothered that this happens to me. I don't like that my mind can melt like this. I'm also bothered that I can remember it so vividly. My mind and body can recall this experience 100 percent. But if you ask me, I'll deny it all. I'm not afraid of anything.
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