Well, I finally, somehow, got my sister's attention, and we made it downstairs to the couch. I called my plastic surgeon's office, and told them what I was feeling. The nurse asked me if the side that was hurting was red.
Now, I need to explain something. I had been wearing a cotton, tank top camisole 24 hours a day for 30 days. I was sleeping in one, and when I would change it for a clean one, I would pull it over my head and put the new one on without looking down. With the material against my skin, I felt 'held together', which is hard to explain, but I simply felt better with it on. So, I hadn't actually looked at my chest for days.
When the nurse asked me how my left side looked, I simply pulled the top of my camisole forward, and looked. The sides looked the same to me, so I told her I didn't see any red. She asked if I was swollen, and I said it didn't look like it. She asked if I had a fever, and I said I didn't. But, because of my other symptoms, she made an appointment for me to see my regular (primary care) doctor immediately.
My sister took me to the office, and I couldn't even hold myself up, so she got a wheelchair. It turned out that some mistake had been made, and my appointment wasn't in the book until the next day. My doctor wasn't even in the building, so they squeezed me in with a physician's assistant who was available. She ordered an x-ray before I came up to the examining room. I was wheeled back to radiology, and then asked to take off my shirt and put on a gown (open to the back, please). Why is this? I exchanged a cotton shirt, for a cotton gown. Who knows - but I did what they asked. In the little changing room, there was a mirror on the wall the size of my refrigerator (at least), and the purpose for this totally escapes me. Why do I need an enormous mirror in front of which I'm supposed to disrobe? The question was in my mind, and the answer never materialized; however, I faced this mirror as I took my shirt off. And I sat transfixed. The left side of my chest was noticeably bigger than the right, and there was an area as big as my open hand that was a bright, fire-engine red - an angry, burning, ugly thing. I touched it lightly with my hand, and it was very hot.
When I finally saw the P.A., she looked at my chest and said I clearly had an infection, either staph or strep - it was impossible to tell. Every centimeter of my body hurt, even my pinkie toes; I was extremely nauseated; I was so dizzy, I couldn't sit up; and I had finally developed a fever. All this was a concern, because these are symptoms of septicemia (blood poisoning caused by the bacteria) which is no picnic and must be treated. She took a Sharpie marker, and outlined the red skin with a dotted line. I asked about the x-ray, and she said because of the proximity of the infection to my heart, they needed to take a look. Thankfully, my heart was unaffected. But, the fact that she ordered the x-ray before she saw me made me realize that they assumed I had an infection from the moment I called, whereas I was totally clueless to what was wrong until I stood in front of that mirror and saw the infection's monstrous calling card staring me in the face. And even then, because the wound itself looked completely normal, even healed, I only knew something was horribly wrong, but not necessarily what. The word infection never entered my head, until the P.A. said it.
I was sent home with oral antibiotics, and the instruction that if the red traveled outside the dotted line, I was to waste no time getting to the emergency room. An appointment was made with my surgeon for one o'clock the next afternoon, and I went home.
Even after just one dose of antibiotic, I felt better (like I might live). I stayed in bed, but the fact that I could feel an improvement gave me hope. I slept well, and at six the next morning, I got up and went to the bathroom mirror, lifting my shirt. The red was completely contained inside the black line. It may have been my imagination, but it seemed slightly paler in color. It was a Tuesday, and my children, who are homeschooled, had places to go. My oldest went to her homeschool enrichment group, and my youngest went to MOPS (Mothers of Pre-Schoolers) with a friend of mine. My husband was at work, and I was feeling okay, so my sister went to get her workout at Curves. I was alone in the house, and, not feeling like doing much, I sat mindlessly in front of the T.V.
Around 10:30, everything changed. I took a breath, and had a sharp, stabbing pain on my left side. It was sudden - the hundred breaths before that moment were pain-free. Then, in that breath, sharp pain shot across my left side, and again in the next breath, and the next. With a sinking feeling, I ran to the bathroom and lifted my shirt. In the mirror, I saw two angry red fingers, wrapping under my arm and toward my back. About two inches of red was outside the black line. I immediately called my surgeon's office, and told the nurse who answered what was happening. And then I innocently said, "I have an appointment at 1 o'clock anyway. Should I just come to that?"
She asked if I had someone to watch my children, which I did. She asked if I had someone to bring me in. My parents were five minutes away, so I said yes. Then she said, "LaRae - I don't want you to panic, but I need you to get here as fast as you possibly can. Can you be here in under 1/2 hour?" I said yes, then she told me to bring my toothbrush, because my doctor would probably admit me.
What?? Admit me to the hospital? This is NOT what I wanted to be happening. The tension and urgency in her voice hit me like a slap, and although I felt calm and clear headed, I began to shake - violently. My friend arrived a few moments later, with my littlest and lunch, and I know I gave her a scare. Here was her very calm, level friend, shaking like I was having a seizure. I was feeling worse each second, dizziness beginning to creep up on me. I sat on the bottom step, like a lump of jell-o, until my dad got there to take me to the doctor. All this while, my little girl was looking at me, wide-eyed, and I kept saying, "Mommy is okay, Mommy is okay."
Well, I was admitted to the hospital, and started on I.V. antibiotics. My surgeon had to take me back into surgery, to open the wound and flush it with antibiotics. He told me he was optimistic that he could clean out the wound and around the implant, and I would be able to keep it and be okay. He also assured me I would feel much better after surgery. When I woke up, I put my hand to my chest. Flat. The implant was gone. I shut my eyes and said, "No...." I had that disappointed, I can't believe this is happening, feeling. The infection, which they determined was staph, was too far gone to save the implant. Only about 10% of patients develop an infection after surgery, and my doctor hadn't had to remove an implant for over three years. So I was in a very small group (removing the implant), which was already in a small group (getting the infection), which was already in a small group (having the cancer to begin with). It seemed I had taken a wrong turn somewhere, and every complication that could arise, did. But then my doctor talked to me in my room. He laid his hand on my arm and said how fortunate it was that I hadn't started chemo yet. This was Wednesday, and I was scheduled for my first infusion on Friday. He told me that if the infection hadn't surfaced for two more days, I would certainly be in ICU, fighting for my life, because of how profoundly chemo affects the immune system. He let me know this little, bitty bacteria could have killed me, and it was a very good thing everything happened when it did.
All of this says something about God. I could have felt like God was letting me down. I was thankful that I hadn't had chemo yet, but why did I have to get the stupid infection at all? (I tend to say 'stupid' when my attitude is in the pits, and this all felt very, very stupid.) We, as people, tend to think that God should do our bidding, answering our prayers exactly the way we want them answered, and if He doesn't - well, then maybe we don't want to believe in Him after all. But if I learned anything during my walk through cancer, it was this - God is sovereign. He is not in subjugation to me, and I am not in control. He is. Everything that comes to me, comes from Him. I am NOT saying that God made me sick - absolutely not. But if I truly believe that He is sovereign, then I must believe that anything that comes to me, comes through Him first, and through the shed blood of Christ, and all Jesus did on that cross - including nailing my infirmities onto it. And if it comes through Him, then essentially it comes from Him. This gives me peace, because anything that comes from Him, comes with great purpose. And, anything that comes from Him, can be trusted.
Apparently, He trusted me enough to let me handle something hard. And although the path has been difficult to walk, grueling at times, the view from where I stand is good. From here, I can see, at least partially, His purpose in handing this to me. I have seen my testimony touch others, and I have witnessed the core of my being become stronger and more compassionate. He has done as He promises in His Word - He has accomplished a good purpose, even from ugly circumstances. (Romans 8:28)
Friday, May 14, 2010
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