Surgery... Again

Mom had been taking chemo for only two weeks and something was horribly wrong. It's early May 2008 and mom's systems are once again failing her. Nothing tastes good, she can't pass anything and she is starting to bloat up again. Dad contacts Dr. McDreamy. The two of them agree to get her back in the hospital immediately. The nurses and techs were expecting her. No sooner had they assigned her a room that they were already running tests and taking cat scans. I take another day off of work. Thank goodness for understanding bosses.

After the tests have been taken and mom is once again planted in her room, Dr. McDreamy is seated in the nurses station studying a computer monitor intently. I venture over, not really sure that I'm allowed behind the main desk. He's studying mom's cat scan and motions me over to look. He points to a large void in her abdomen.

"You can see that the intestines are distended here, but..." He shuttles through images of mom's cat scan, essentially taking us farther back into her abdomen. "Then, it just stops. The good news is, there's no spot or lump. But it just stops there." He now is moving back and forth between the different layered images, searching for some sign of what has gone wrong. "I'm not sure what's going on. We're going to have to go in there and find out." I thank him for his explanation and patience in explaining what he sees. He smiles and tells me "No problem." His smile carried a hint of worry. I know mine totes quite a bit of worry.

Soon, mom is once again wheeled off to prep for her operation. Once again, dad and I wedge ourselves into a corner of the all-too-small pre-op room as the nurses bustle about. Once again, we watch her being wheeled off through the large double doors toward the operating room, a full contingent of medical personnel in tow.

Days later (okay, maybe only a couple hours to those not rapt in worry), mom is once again out of surgery and recovering in her room. Dr. McDreamy shows up, his confident familiar smile across his face again. About a foot and a half of mom's small intestine had died. They think that it had twisted on itself and strangled this now dead section. They recect... rescect... reasec... cut out the deceased segment and reattached the healthy sections back together. Once again, we learn that a delay of a day, or even a few hours, could have killed her. She, and we, have been spared that again.

After a couple of days, mom was doing all those things the nurses want to see after that sort of procedure (Poop, pass gas, you know the drill), and mom went home again. Back to the grey industrial goo...

The jig is up

Returning, for the moment, to the here and now -- I told mom about this blog today. I figured it was as safe a time as any. She and dad are visiting friends 3 hours away and she couldn't smack me upside the head without either a significant reach or significant effort. She called me later and told me that she had read my blog -- and that she liked it. I was told it was funny, yet poinient (I sure wish I knew how to spell that word). "It's interesting to find out what you remember from last April", she said. Then she actually apologized for making me sad -- that she didn't know how this had effected me. So, this next little paragraph is really for you, mom. The rest of you are invited to read it, but it's really for her:

Yes, this makes me sad. There is a section of my heart that aches nearly constantly -- and it should. You are one of my best friends -- you and my wife. Thank you for everything that you have done and continue to do. This cancer will not affect our friendship, until it separates us. Until then, we will keep that shadow limited to its small corner of the room and we will ignore it because it is irrelevant to my relationship with you, so long as we both breathe the same air. I love you mom.

Whew! The rest of you may tune back in now.

I also told my beautiful wife today. This was actually more difficult than telling mom, and not just because of her physical proximity (think: dope-slap). No, I was relatively certain of mom's response, but not so much of my bride's. Although we're close, I was afraid she would be offended that I kept a blog and talked about my feelings/concerns/dreads to total strangers. By this very act, I would be excluding her or somehow violating our little inner sanctum. Fortunately, as she has many times before, she surprised me. Her words were sweet and supportive. She offered the sage advice of making sure that I didn't use any real names and such, but overall she was pleased.

So, today my blog came out of its closet, in a matter of speaking, to those closest to me. And once again, they have proven their love and acceptance of this wretched soul. Thank you, each and every one.

Next time, I'll pick our little story back up. Until then: Ta Ta.

Magic Goo, Revelations, and the Beginning of Chemo

It's now toward the end of April 2008, and mom has had a successful surgery. Dr. McDreamy removed about 8 inches of her colon and took a couple of biopsies of her liver. He was pleased with how the colon came out (no pun intended), but he stated that the liver looked like swiss cheese. Ugh.

After recovering in the hospital for a few days, mom did all the things the doctors and nurses wanted to see (pee, poop... you get the idea). So, she got to go home. Dad, in the meantime, had done what dad does in these type of circumstances -- research everything cancer related. He came up with some websites that were really helpful. Unfortunately, that means that he found many websites that were really doozies too (Astral projection anyone?). Armed with his newly-acquired knowledge, he built a substantial lifestyle regimen for eating, exercising, relaxing, etc. The UPS man made many stops at their house with packages and bottles with impressive sounding labels like "Glazimosis Ex Patrioitis", "Super Fantastico Cancer Strangulator" and "Dr. Whizenheimer's Double-Secret Elixir" (Obviously not their real names, but you didn't really expect me to remember their actual names, did you?)

So, once mom gets home she's feeling better, except in the mornings just after she's guzzled down another 64 ounces of potion disguised as grey industrial sludge. But we all settle back into our lives once again as best we can.

Shortly after her surgery, the medical-professionals-that-shall-remain-anonymous complete the biopsy analysis on that bit of mom's liver. Mom and dad are called into a new doctors office, supposedly one of the best cancer doctors around. We'll call her Dr. Doomandgloom. The news is not good -- it's very far from good -- you can't see "good" from there. Mom has 6 to 12 months to live. Mom and dad notified me and my 2 siblings of the news. God bless my mom -- she put on her big, infectious smile and assured us that all is not lost and that she is fighting this. I secretly wish I felt a shred of her optimism. On a positive note though, I'm not sure mom ever saw Dr. DoomandGloom again.

However, one day, I was talking to mom and asked the question: "What is the survival rate for your cancer?" The answer, although her voice delivered it with the softness of a feather, hit me hard. "Oh," my mom starts, "you don't survive this cancer. It may go into remission, but it will probably be what kills me." My peripheral vision disappeared. The world seemed smaller and darker now. "But, don't worry about me" she says, "I'll be fine. I'm going to fight this and we'll see."

....

"don't worry about me..." Really? Did she really just say that? DUH, I'm going to worry about her. DUH! If I get life-threatening cancer, I hope that my family worries sick about me. Heck, I hope some you all who I've never met worry about me!

OK. Back on task.

Back with her favorite (and "easy on the eyes", as my mother would put it) doctor, Dr. McDreamy, they put together mom's new chemotherapy. She started in late July 2008. Unfortunately, it didn't take long for things to go awry on her once more...

What happened so far, part 2

Let see... Where were we?

Mom was moved to prepare for her surgery. After a while, a nurse came and fetched dad and me so we could be with her. We stood by her bed in a room barely big enough for the bed and a person to pass on each side. There was a constant jockeying for position as the waves of nurses ebbed and flowed from her room. We'd move away as best we could when they would come in the room, then move closer to her as the nurses would hasten off, only to retreat again as new nurses entered. They would insert an IV port one time, then connect her to some monitor the next. I remember them telling me what they were doing, but for the life of me I can't actually remember any of it. The only real medical thing I remember is that IV port, but I'm not sure if that's what it's really called. The needle in her arm was attached by a short tube to some sort of hub with 6 to 8 additional ports -- each with it's own miniature valve.

In between the nurses entering and departing, we got to talk with mom. She was at peace - confident in the skill of the surgeon, confident more in her beliefs. Dad and I painted on our best smiles, cracked a few lame jokes and looked down on this lady that meant so much to us.

Once the prep work was mostly complete, Dr. McDreamy, now dressed in blue scrubs and tennis shoes, came in and once again went over what was going to happen. Very soon after he left, a small company of nurses reentered, gathered up mom and all her new monitors, and wheeled her off to surgery. Dad and I wished her well and that we would see her soon.

Dad has never been able to wait patiently for anything, especially when he's nervous. When I was born, his best friend, Gary, took him across the street from the hospital and they played tennis while they waited. So, today, I got to play the part of Gary. Dad and I went to a driving range and started hitting buckets of balls. The usual small talk seemed out of place and uncomfortable, but talking about mom introduced thoughts neither one of us wished to process. So, we mostly stuck to the safety of challenging each other to match shots -- a golf version of HORSE. About 2/3 through the way through our large buckets of balls, dad's phone rang. It was time to go back.

Upon our arrival, we got to do the very thing we had tried to avoid -- wait. Mom was in recovery and would take a while to come out of the anesthesia. Dr. McDreamy was off somewhere else. The nurses couldn't tell us anything. So, we begrudingly, impatiently waited.

After an hour or so, we were told that mom had been moved up to her room and were given the room number. We came into the room and were greeted by her smile. A groggy smile, but the one we recognize and love. News finally came that the surgery was a success and Dr. McDreamy had removed about 8 inches of her colon. He had also removed a small piece of her liver for a biopsy and rooted around inside her looking for additional signs of cancer, of which he found none.

She was on her way to recovery. It would be long and it wouldn't be entirely pleasant. But now she could get on with living.

Next time chemo, a somber education for me, and a glimmer of hope

What's Happened So Far, Part 1

About 18 months ago, mom started not feeling well. Food didn’t taste good, she was bloated and having trouble going to the bathroom (okay, having bowel movements for those of you purists/health care professionals). One day, mom and dad were driving to Kansas City, which is about 3 hours from where they live. She became so uncomfortable -- so ill -- that she couldn’t continue. So, dad turned the car around and they went back home and scheduled an emergency visit with their doctor’s office.

Unfortunately, the main doctor (let’s call him Dr. Dooright) wasn’t available, so she saw one of the other doctors (we’ll call him Dr. Knucklehead for reasons that will become obvious). Dr. Knucklehead examined her and took an X-Ray in the office. After which, he instructed mom to go to the hospital for further testing. Upon her arrival, the staff admitted her into a room in the ER and started running tests/exams, one of which was a cat-scan. Dr. Knucklehead told mom and dad that she had a completely blocked colon which was causing the intestine to distend (I have no idea if that’s spelled right. please forgive any mis-spellings) to a huge size. She also has numerous spots on her liver. But before actually doing anything, he wanted to run more tests, including jamming a camera up her rear-end (OK, OK, it's actually called an endoscope) so they could look at the big, black, evil-looking object up close. He informed mom and dad that they would do those tests tomorrow.

That was Dr. Knucklehead’s death knell. “Tomorrow?!? Are you kidding me??” was my dad’s response. By now, mom was in so much pain, she required good medicine to numb it. Still, her stomach looked like she was hiding a beach ball. After Dr. Knucklehead tried (unsuccessfully) to reassure mom & dad that it would be okay, dad, being the reserved & patient man I grew up with (HA!), tracked down Dr. Knucklehead’s boss: Dr. Dooright. Fortunately, the good doctor asked a friend of his (Dr. McDreamy), a well-respected oncologist, to take a look at mom’s cat scan. Waddya know, about 10 minutes after he looked at the cat scan, things started jumping around there. Tests and exams were being cancelled and replaced by surgeries! Nurses started paying more attention to mom. Dr. Knucklehead vanished mysteriously. And Dr. McDreamy explained to mom that it appeared she had Stage 4 colon cancer. For those of you that don’t know what stage 4 means, I have provided this handy guide.

Stage 1: “Oh, that little thing?!?”
Stage 2: “We need to take a look at that”
Stage 3: “I’m glad we caught that when we did. That could have gotten a lot worse.”
Stage 4: “Do you have your affairs in order?”

The cancer had grown to the size of a softball and was completely blocking her colon (that last little part of intestines before your processed food goes out your butt). Additionally, it had metastisized. She had numerous spots on her liver and a few on her lymph nodes. They were going to remove the blockage in her colon today, since it was causing a life-threatening blockage.

Then, they'd have to figure out what they were going to with the rest....

My first.

Hello everyone.

Well actually, “everyone” could just be you. Welcome to the potentially lonely world that is my blog. I’ve never kept a blog before and, frankly, don’t know who would even be interested in reading it.

Here, I’m hoping to deal with stuff here that is very serious, even grim. So, please forgive me when I may display inappropriate levels of humour or sarcasm. It is an emotional protection mechanism. Nonetheless, I am hoping to find that writing these thoughts and emotions down is cathartic.

You see, my mom is dying of cancer. Will you still sit and spend more time with me? If so, thank you.

I will post again soon.