After my cancer surgery, I slowly adjusted to my new self. At first, I couldn't lift my arms, and I had to do exercises each day to increase my range of motion. The right side, because of lymph node removal, felt very tight and sore, but I did my work so that my range of motion would be as large as possible. My wounds were healing, and my drains were eventually pulled (a yucky experience, but such a relief to have them gone). I had to wait until everything was completely healed before I could start chemo, but in the meanwhile, I had even had saline added to my tissue expanders which gradually stretch the skin in preparation for permanent implants.
When I went in to have the saline injected, through a port under each arm, my plastic surgeon noticed that I had a very small spot on the wound on the left side that hadn't completely closed. He looked at it very carefully, determined that it was superficial (meaning the deeper layers of the wound had healed), coated it with antibiotic ointment, and told me to keep it very clean. Then, because of that slight opening, he only filled each side with 50 cc's of saline, instead of the normal amount of 100 cc's.
I was in a pretty good place at this point. I hadn't started chemo yet, so I didn't know what was waiting for me (ignorance is bliss, or something like it). I was fairly happy with my reconstruction so far, feeling fairly normal. And I felt peace. I had a few people tell me to be prepared for swinging emotions, that I would feel angry, that I would have moments when I needed to rage, and to cry. But none of that happened. After my 'break down' (or whatever it was) when I found out my lymph node biopsy was positive, I hadn't shed a tear. I felt positive, and strong. I can't explain that, except to say that I believe God, through the prayers of others and His gift of faith to me, simply wrapped His Holy Spirit around me and bouyed me up. I had many people comment that I was so calm, was so strong, that they wouldn't deal with this situation as well. All I know is, I had two children who needed to see that Mommy was okay, and God made me stronger than I was.
A day shy of one month after my surgery, on April 15, a Sunday, my husband took me 'out'. We went to Target - okay, not a date exactly, but my first real excursion. I'd been to church that morning, I was feeling good, my energy level was okay. So, we dropped our kids at my parents house, and went shopping. We slowly pushed the cart around the store, buying a few things, and then we sat at Starbucks and drank coffee. Sitting there, a strange feeling came over me. I said, "something's not right, I feel off." It was that fast. I felt fine, then I didn't. I tried to explain to him what I was feeling. I was experiencing a very sharp pain on my left side when I inhaled. I asked if he could think of any metal in my implant that could be poking me. The answer was no. He reminded me that the implant was just a silicone balloon, with rounded edges, nothing sharp. He asked if I felt sick, and I said no. I just felt wrong - I couldn't even put it into words at the time, but it was as if the world was pulling away from me, and I was shrinking. My thoughts were becoming indistinct, I couldn't hold onto a thought and focus on it. It was like a fog was settling around me.
We went back to my parents', and because all my sisters were at the house, they asked us to stay and visit. I told them I wasn't feeling right, and needed to go home. Later in the afternoon, my husband went to work (one of his overnight shifts) and my sister from Michigan came home from my folks' to be with me. We put the little one to bed, and I baked cookies (notice I didn't say made). I scooped dough from a bucket and put it on a cookie sheet. Then I did something that I thought for the rest of the night was a critical error. I pinched off a little piece of dough and put it in my mouth. This is something I'm sure lots of people do, in spite of the dire warnings about raw eggs, etc. My sister, my older daughter, and I sat down to watch 'The Miracle Worker', and within half-an-hour, I was feeling queazy. I was certain it was the raw dough. And then my energy level crashed. I didn't even have what I needed to wash the one pan dirtied baking the cookies. Suddenly, the biggest accomplishment of my life was going to be climbing the stairs and getting into my bed.
My sister encouraged me to call my doctor. And tell them what? I'd made myself sick eating raw cookie dough? I don't think so. In addition to that, it was Sunday night, and my only recourse would be going to the E.R., which I really didn't want to do. So I crawled upstairs and went to bed.
The next morning I woke up at 6. My husband was still at work, so I was alone in my room, with my littlest girl in her crib. I was so violently nauseated, I was afraid I might vomit on the floor. "O God, help me make it to the bathroom." This was my prayer, and in my mind, I was jumping out of bed and racing to the bathroom. But it didn't happen. My body didn't move. I was so ill. When I realized I could hardly even move, my prayer changed to, "O God, help me get to the phone." Something was drastically, horribly wrong. My body hurt, I was sick to my stomach, I had terrible pain on my left side when I breathed, and I couldn't even sit up. I focused all my energy on putting my hands under my head, and pushing myself up. After a tremendous effort, I only stayed up about two seconds before I crumpled back to the bed. I tried calling my sister, but I knew she couldn't hear me. I tried, and failed, several more times to sit up. Finally, I let gravity help me, and I rolled off the bed and dropped to the floor. I began to crawl to the top of the stairs, where it was more likely that my sister, who was sleeping downstairs, could hear me.
Now, I never thought, through any of this, that I would die. I knew God had me in His hand, I had His promise (see the post Are You There God, it's Me, LaRae), I knew He had a purpose, I believed I still had a calling on my life. I knew I would survive whatever was happening to me. But the thought was there - This is how people feel before they die. Although I had no intention of answering, this was Death knocking. And my prayer changed again, to the shortest prayer any of us ever pray - O God, help me, help me, help me......help.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Friday, April 9, 2010
Coming Home - Mar, 2007
Coming home from cancer surgery, I felt two things. The first was an extreme thankfulness for drugs. The other, was a fear that if I moved too quickly, I might yank something loose that was supposed to be sewn together; so, I moved very, very carefully.
Shortly after my cancer treatment was over, my daughter and I (whom I homeschool), studied the Presidents, and we chose one - John Adams - to study in depth. We learned that his daughter, in the early 1800's, had a mastectomy without anaesthesia. She wore her Sunday best, was put in a spare room with her arms and legs tied to the chair she sat in, bit down on a stick (after a dose of laudanum) and had a doctor remove her breast and sew the wound closed with instruments that had not been sterilized. The poor girl survived the surgery, avoided infection, but then died of her cancer because they had waited too long.
As strange as it was to come home with body parts missing, and in spite of the pain I experienced, I really did try to keep my perspective. Would I choose this surgery? No, but at least I had anaesthesia and Percocet to relieve the physical pain of it. Thank God I live in the age of modern medicine, and for narcotic pain meds, which I really view as miracle drugs. And I might not have my breasts, but at least they caught my cancer in time. And I might be facing a brutal plan of treatment, but at least I am alive. These were the things going through my mind. I was alive, and my goal was to stay that way.
I came home from my cancer surgery to two young children, ages eight and two. My two-year-old was still in her crib, and I would not be able to lift her for six to eight weeks. I also had three drains sewn into my wounds, one in my right underarm area where lymph nodes had been removed, and one at each mastectomy site. The drains were tubes coming out of my body, with bulbs on the ends that could be squeezed and then closed, creating a vacuum that gently pulled blood and fluid from the wounds. As these bulbs filled up, they would periodically have to be emptied, and the contents measured, and those measurements recorded, to ensure that I was bleeding an appropriate amount. Although I could empty my drains by myself, it was easier to have someone help me. During this time, my husband was working overnight twice a week, and I couldn't be alone because I wouldn't be able to lift my baby from the crib if she needed me. So my neighbor and dear friend stayed on my couch for five different nights in those first weeks, 'just in case'. I am so thankful for her. And, she is an R.N., so she wasn't grossed out helping me with my drains, which was a bonus. The other nights, my husband was my helper, and in the daytime, my parents. Then, my sister came from Michigan for three weeks, and all the while bouquet after bouquet of flowers came, until my home resembled a florist's. I received cards, and care packages, and meals, some from people I had never even met.
I was surrounded by love, encouragement, caring and sympathy. People's prayers, kind words, and practical support bouyed me up, and helped me walk a very difficult path. Nothing anyone did lessened my physical pain, nor did anything lessen my struggle; but, somehow, the support of friends and strangers lessened my burden. It made my journey bearable. I truly don't know how anyone faces this disease alone, and I thank God that He surrounded me with those all important others who make life what it is - joyful, relational, rich and fulfilling.
Shortly after my cancer treatment was over, my daughter and I (whom I homeschool), studied the Presidents, and we chose one - John Adams - to study in depth. We learned that his daughter, in the early 1800's, had a mastectomy without anaesthesia. She wore her Sunday best, was put in a spare room with her arms and legs tied to the chair she sat in, bit down on a stick (after a dose of laudanum) and had a doctor remove her breast and sew the wound closed with instruments that had not been sterilized. The poor girl survived the surgery, avoided infection, but then died of her cancer because they had waited too long.
As strange as it was to come home with body parts missing, and in spite of the pain I experienced, I really did try to keep my perspective. Would I choose this surgery? No, but at least I had anaesthesia and Percocet to relieve the physical pain of it. Thank God I live in the age of modern medicine, and for narcotic pain meds, which I really view as miracle drugs. And I might not have my breasts, but at least they caught my cancer in time. And I might be facing a brutal plan of treatment, but at least I am alive. These were the things going through my mind. I was alive, and my goal was to stay that way.
I came home from my cancer surgery to two young children, ages eight and two. My two-year-old was still in her crib, and I would not be able to lift her for six to eight weeks. I also had three drains sewn into my wounds, one in my right underarm area where lymph nodes had been removed, and one at each mastectomy site. The drains were tubes coming out of my body, with bulbs on the ends that could be squeezed and then closed, creating a vacuum that gently pulled blood and fluid from the wounds. As these bulbs filled up, they would periodically have to be emptied, and the contents measured, and those measurements recorded, to ensure that I was bleeding an appropriate amount. Although I could empty my drains by myself, it was easier to have someone help me. During this time, my husband was working overnight twice a week, and I couldn't be alone because I wouldn't be able to lift my baby from the crib if she needed me. So my neighbor and dear friend stayed on my couch for five different nights in those first weeks, 'just in case'. I am so thankful for her. And, she is an R.N., so she wasn't grossed out helping me with my drains, which was a bonus. The other nights, my husband was my helper, and in the daytime, my parents. Then, my sister came from Michigan for three weeks, and all the while bouquet after bouquet of flowers came, until my home resembled a florist's. I received cards, and care packages, and meals, some from people I had never even met.
I was surrounded by love, encouragement, caring and sympathy. People's prayers, kind words, and practical support bouyed me up, and helped me walk a very difficult path. Nothing anyone did lessened my physical pain, nor did anything lessen my struggle; but, somehow, the support of friends and strangers lessened my burden. It made my journey bearable. I truly don't know how anyone faces this disease alone, and I thank God that He surrounded me with those all important others who make life what it is - joyful, relational, rich and fulfilling.
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