I've had weekend-long sessions at my healing school (which I still would like to blog about some time...) in Meadville (which is in the upper-left-hand corner of Pennsylvania, as opposed to the lower-right corner where Deb and I live) for the last four years. Roughly six or eight sessions a year.
I graduated from that school last weekend. It was a marvelous experience that touched all participants quite deeply. And I want to blog about that as well. (I will be attending the school for at least one more year as a graduate. It's all rather complicated...) But that's not what I want to write about this morning. Not exactly, anyway.
When I go to the school, I make it a habit to take a backpack/satchel gizmo with me. I picked it up at an annual convention of the Society of Vertebrate Paleontology. Nice logo on the pack, and wonderfully useful. I keep several notebooks in it, along with papers relevant to the school, plus pens, a book of Sudoku puzzles, my checkbook and my datebook/calendar.
And when I get to the school, I empty my pockets into the pack: my wallet, my cell phone, my car keys, and whatever coins I've brought with me. When the school session starts, it's important to me (for reasons I don't fully understand) to have empty pockets.
When I get ready to leave the school, I retrieve my wallet, phone, and car keys -- but I never retrieve the coins. Probably because I'd have to pull everything else out of the pack to get to them, since they're all lying at the bottom.
Anyway, yesterday, I decided to do just that: pull all the paper out of the pack and retrieve the quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies that have accumulated there. I'm sure there was $20 worth down there, and it might well have been $30. It didn't seem to be necessary to count it...
I spent a moment looking down at the money before I started hauling it out, thinking about how much weight the coins had added to the pack through the years. And the phrase came to mind: "Four years' worth of change."
And then I thought about how deeply and in how many ways the school has helped me open and redirect my life over that time. And I thought about last year's illness and its attendant treatments. And how much that experience has changed me. And how my marriage has become a stronger and deeper experience. And how my golf game has improved. And how much learning and playing my electronic keyboard has meant to me. And on and on...
And then I thought: "Yup, four years' worth of change. That's about right."
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Saturday, June 19, 2010
What (I Think) You Should Know about Blood Clots
I guess it's not surprising that so many people know so little about blood clots. I certainly didn't until my body started producing them. Those two deep-vein-thrombosis (DVT) clots and the recent death of my nephew Jon prompt me to suggest a few things I think you should know about blood clots you may develop. (Folks have asked me about this...)
First of all, please understand that almost anyone, it seems, can develop a blood clot. Your age doesn't seem to matter (Jon was 24 and I'm 63). Your physical size and your physical condition don't seem to matter. And your gender doesn't seem to matter either. There may be a genetic predisposition to clotting, but that won't guarantee that you will or won't develop clots somewhere in your lifetime.
So, there are many causes of blood clots, as described in this article: http://www.insideheart.com/causes-of-blood-clots.html (with thanks to Pooja for posting this link back in late April!) But in addition, I'd like to address the issues of "How do you know if you've got one?" and "What do you do if you think you do have one?"
"How do you know?"
I've been thinking about the experiences that Jon and I shared, based on what I've learned from Jon's dad. I will grant you that a patient sample size of two is quite small and unscientific, but it's the best I can do. If you've got a clearer idea, please feel free to post that information!!
Jon and I both experienced pain -- me in my calf and Jon in his chest. The pain lasted for several days, getting somewhat stronger or weaker from time to time. The thing we both had in common here was we couldn't think of any reason for the pain. I hadn't been playing Rugby, doing wind sprints, or doing anything other unusual strenuous activity. The pain felt very much like a muscle pull, and Jon's dad seemed to be saying that was what Jon felt as well. In addition, the normal stretching or other palliative activities that might have alleviated the pain weren't working.
(Swelling in the affected area is noted in the literature as a symptom, but I didn't experience much of that...)
So Jon and I each had several days' notice that there was a problem. Fortunately for me, the staff at my radiation-therapy doctor's office picked up immediately on the symptom (which they noticed since I came to their office on crutches) and directed me to the hospital -- stat. As I understand it from Jon's dad, his doctors were still working through other possible causes for his pain. And they didn't come up with the right answer in time.
"What do you do?"
Get it checked out. Do not wait for it to get better all by itself!!
The level of pain Jon and I felt was considerable, and (as mentioned) we couldn't think of any activity which might have caused it. That's your symptom. It ain't much, I grant you, but it helps explain to me why (according to one website I saw) 200,000 people a year die of this. It's just so subtle.
Now, this is strictly me speaking: If you start feeling a pain you can't explain and your medical practitioner starts looking for other causes, that's fine. But you have the right to ask him/her: "Could this be a blood clot? Should I get an ultrasound? A sonogram?"
And listen carefully to the answer. And if you're not comfortable with it, maybe you should ask someone else.
First of all, please understand that almost anyone, it seems, can develop a blood clot. Your age doesn't seem to matter (Jon was 24 and I'm 63). Your physical size and your physical condition don't seem to matter. And your gender doesn't seem to matter either. There may be a genetic predisposition to clotting, but that won't guarantee that you will or won't develop clots somewhere in your lifetime.
So, there are many causes of blood clots, as described in this article: http://www.insideheart.com/causes-of-blood-clots.html (with thanks to Pooja for posting this link back in late April!) But in addition, I'd like to address the issues of "How do you know if you've got one?" and "What do you do if you think you do have one?"
"How do you know?"
I've been thinking about the experiences that Jon and I shared, based on what I've learned from Jon's dad. I will grant you that a patient sample size of two is quite small and unscientific, but it's the best I can do. If you've got a clearer idea, please feel free to post that information!!
Jon and I both experienced pain -- me in my calf and Jon in his chest. The pain lasted for several days, getting somewhat stronger or weaker from time to time. The thing we both had in common here was we couldn't think of any reason for the pain. I hadn't been playing Rugby, doing wind sprints, or doing anything other unusual strenuous activity. The pain felt very much like a muscle pull, and Jon's dad seemed to be saying that was what Jon felt as well. In addition, the normal stretching or other palliative activities that might have alleviated the pain weren't working.
(Swelling in the affected area is noted in the literature as a symptom, but I didn't experience much of that...)
So Jon and I each had several days' notice that there was a problem. Fortunately for me, the staff at my radiation-therapy doctor's office picked up immediately on the symptom (which they noticed since I came to their office on crutches) and directed me to the hospital -- stat. As I understand it from Jon's dad, his doctors were still working through other possible causes for his pain. And they didn't come up with the right answer in time.
"What do you do?"
Get it checked out. Do not wait for it to get better all by itself!!
The level of pain Jon and I felt was considerable, and (as mentioned) we couldn't think of any activity which might have caused it. That's your symptom. It ain't much, I grant you, but it helps explain to me why (according to one website I saw) 200,000 people a year die of this. It's just so subtle.
Now, this is strictly me speaking: If you start feeling a pain you can't explain and your medical practitioner starts looking for other causes, that's fine. But you have the right to ask him/her: "Could this be a blood clot? Should I get an ultrasound? A sonogram?"
And listen carefully to the answer. And if you're not comfortable with it, maybe you should ask someone else.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Jon -- the Aftermath
My brother -- Jon's dad -- sent an e-mail with some details of the coroner's report. And, as we thought, Jon died of a pulmonary embolism: a blood clot that went to Jon's lungs.
I understand that there are more details available on Jon's Facebook page -- information that Jon himself wrote shortly before he died plus postings from friends and family afterwards. But I can't bring myself to go looking for this.
I'm told, however, that Jon complained of chest pains shortly before he died and that his doctor described this condition as "bronchitis." (I can't confirm the leg pains that I mentioned in a previous posting. In retrospect, I see that my description of that was actually me projecting my own symptoms onto Jon...) And since Jon was young and otherwise healthy, it's understandable (I suppose) that the doctors didn't schedule a scan of his chest to find the root cause of his discomfort.
This last weekend, my sister and I worked on our Dad's house -- trying to get it ready to put on the market, since he's currently living in an Assisted Living facility. On Sunday afternoon, we drove over to see him and tell him about Jon. Dad's memory is spotty enough now that we had to explain several times who Jon was. Dad understood clearly that a young member of our family had passed away, but he struggled hard to place Jon's name and his position in the family. We tried five or six times, but we could almost watch the information quickly slide away from him.
On Dad's bedstand were three photos that were taken the previous weekend. We think they were taken at Jon's engagement party in New Jersey. The photos showed Jon's dad (our brother) and mom, his sister and her husband... and Jon. I hadn't seen Jon or a picture of him in almost a year, and it was striking to see what I felt was a new maturity and sense of purpose in Jon's face.
Perhaps it's for the best that Dad can't remember the details of who Jon was. He already lost his eldest son (my older brother) several years ago, and now he's lost a grandson. And it is crystal clear to all of us that the most important treasure in Dad's life is the family he's created. Dad neither needs nor deserves the heartache that the rest of us are feeling.
I e-mailed Jon's dad explaining that my doctors feel that I shouldn't be in a car for more than two or three hours a day because of my own blood clot situation. And, for that reason, I wouldn't be able to get to western Virginia in time for Jon's viewing or memorial service. And he wrote back that he was sure that Jon wouldn't want anyone to put themselves at risk so that they could attend his services. The response was beautifully worded and felt so much like Jon and his Dad writing to me simultaneously.
I don't believe I ever understood that beauty and pain could express themselves together like this...
I understand that there are more details available on Jon's Facebook page -- information that Jon himself wrote shortly before he died plus postings from friends and family afterwards. But I can't bring myself to go looking for this.
I'm told, however, that Jon complained of chest pains shortly before he died and that his doctor described this condition as "bronchitis." (I can't confirm the leg pains that I mentioned in a previous posting. In retrospect, I see that my description of that was actually me projecting my own symptoms onto Jon...) And since Jon was young and otherwise healthy, it's understandable (I suppose) that the doctors didn't schedule a scan of his chest to find the root cause of his discomfort.
This last weekend, my sister and I worked on our Dad's house -- trying to get it ready to put on the market, since he's currently living in an Assisted Living facility. On Sunday afternoon, we drove over to see him and tell him about Jon. Dad's memory is spotty enough now that we had to explain several times who Jon was. Dad understood clearly that a young member of our family had passed away, but he struggled hard to place Jon's name and his position in the family. We tried five or six times, but we could almost watch the information quickly slide away from him.
On Dad's bedstand were three photos that were taken the previous weekend. We think they were taken at Jon's engagement party in New Jersey. The photos showed Jon's dad (our brother) and mom, his sister and her husband... and Jon. I hadn't seen Jon or a picture of him in almost a year, and it was striking to see what I felt was a new maturity and sense of purpose in Jon's face.
Perhaps it's for the best that Dad can't remember the details of who Jon was. He already lost his eldest son (my older brother) several years ago, and now he's lost a grandson. And it is crystal clear to all of us that the most important treasure in Dad's life is the family he's created. Dad neither needs nor deserves the heartache that the rest of us are feeling.
I e-mailed Jon's dad explaining that my doctors feel that I shouldn't be in a car for more than two or three hours a day because of my own blood clot situation. And, for that reason, I wouldn't be able to get to western Virginia in time for Jon's viewing or memorial service. And he wrote back that he was sure that Jon wouldn't want anyone to put themselves at risk so that they could attend his services. The response was beautifully worded and felt so much like Jon and his Dad writing to me simultaneously.
I don't believe I ever understood that beauty and pain could express themselves together like this...
Friday, June 11, 2010
Remembering Jon. Remembering me.
My nephew died yesterday.
Jon had been, as far as I knew, in all-but-perfect health. He was large, friendly, pleasant, and always eager to help anyone in any way he could. He was a varsity wrestler in high school and had competed for -- and nearly won -- the Virginia Sate Championship in the Unlimited weight group. He was clever and thoughtful and he was very good with his hands: auto repairs, plumbing, carpentry, electrical work -- Jon could do it all.
He was also 24 years old -- and engaged to be married. A first-timer.
He was a wonderful young man with enormous potential.
Jon had some difficulty "getting traction" in his life after high school, but recently had seemed to be putting pieces in their proper place. And I looked forward to hearing which of his many career opportunities he would decide to follow.
I only met his fiancee once, but I remember thinking, "Yes, this is a life partner with whom Jon can flourish." I couldn't make it to his engagement party -- which took place last weekend. That's right: last weekend.
Y'know, sometimes death can seem just unimaginably cruel. That such a splendid young man should be killed at such an early age. And that we should all be deprived of his gifts. His presence.
(I'm fairly sure I have the following story right, but all these events are so recent... And I will correct the story as I learn more.)
My brother-in-law checked Jon's Facebook page after he heard of Jon's death. And he found out that, the morning of the day he died, Jon wrote that he felt a cramp in his leg that wouldn't release and that he had some trouble breathing.
Classic symptoms of a pulmonary embolism: a blood clot that had broken loose and travelled towards his heart and lungs. But who would expect a robust young man like Jon to have such a condition? And who of you out there reading this would have recognized these symptoms?
Now, I know the first of these two symptoms because I had that "cramp-that-won't-go-away" feeling twice: I felt it once last year in association with the blood clot in my right leg and once again six or seven weeks ago associated with the clot in my left leg. But there's no reason on earth that Jon would have known this...
(If you've been reading this blog since its inception, you may recall the following story from the July 1, 2009 posting titled "Me and My Blood Clot." I'll give you a capsule summary:)
In late June of last year, I felt a cramp in my lower right leg, but it didn't concern me much and I didn't think much about it. (Being in the middle of radiation and chemotherapy, I had other physical issues to hold my attention.) But it kept getting worse, and I wound up going to one of my radiation treatments on crutches. The nurse on duty saw me hobble into the treatment center and she got very alert, very quickly and started asking very specific questions. Questions that started with "Why?" and "How?" and "When?" She then notified the doctor on duty.
The doc followed up by asking more questions, then saying, "Randy, we're going to give you your radiation treatment today and then send you immediately to the hospital. Don't waste time by going home and then to the hospital! By the time you're done here, I will have given the hospital staff their 'stat' instructions. Just drive immediately there and tell them your name. They'll be waiting for you." And things unfolded just that way.
I was processed through the hospital admission procedures at high speed and wound up with a Heparin drip and inflatable "stockings" that gently squeezed both right and left legs with a gentle pulsing motion. I stayed at the hospital overnight, with an hourly checking on my situation. (Yup, being awakened every hour to make sure I way okay.)
And up until yesterday, that the entire incident seemed unnecessarily dramatic. And it seemed so even after I came across the on-line statistic that 200,000 people a year die from pulmonary embolism.
But today I understand. While all this was happening last year, I had no idea that my life could literally be "hanging by a thread" -- that is, the "thread" that was keeping the blood clot in place in my leg. Now I can see that the rush to get me admitted to the hospital and into treatment, that the Heparin and follow-up Lovenox and Coumadin and the compression stockings -- all this was thoroughly justified.
Two very different stories. But I find the irony in juxtaposing them to be both frightening and humbling: if I had not been receiving radiation treatment, I would not have been swept into the hospital so quickly and I would simply have waited for the cramping to go away. And quite possibly, I would have died from a pulmonary embolism while I waited for my leg to heal itself. And if I had died, Jon would probably have heard my story from his folks, and maybe would have recognized his symptoms as matching mine and maybe then he would have sought treatment. And then maybe he wouldn't have died yesterday.
When the blood clot showed up in my left leg a couple of weeks ago, I recognized the symptoms quickly and got treatment as soon as I could. As a result, this new clot was not nearly as advanced as last year's when treatment started -- and there was no rushing around, no Heparin, no inflatable stockings, no overnight stay in the hospital. And as a result, the residual swelling was not and is not nearly as noticeable. And I was off crutches in two days rather than ten.
Over the course of my cancer treatment, I have been constantly amazed at how tough and durable life can be -- not only in my situation but in the treatment of dozens of other cancer patients I've met along the way. Our bodies want very much to stay alive and heal.
But Jon's death tells a different story -- one that doesn't necessarily contradict the "tough-and-durable" story, but one that adds an important caveat: Life can also be fragile and easily lost. Lost sometimes by what we do, sometimes by what we don't do, and sometimes independently of anything we might or might not do.
And what I've learned is that now is a time to celebrate who and what we are. And a time to be grateful for life in all its glory.
And for those of us who knew Jon, it is especially time to be grateful for having had his presence in our lives.
Jon had been, as far as I knew, in all-but-perfect health. He was large, friendly, pleasant, and always eager to help anyone in any way he could. He was a varsity wrestler in high school and had competed for -- and nearly won -- the Virginia Sate Championship in the Unlimited weight group. He was clever and thoughtful and he was very good with his hands: auto repairs, plumbing, carpentry, electrical work -- Jon could do it all.
He was also 24 years old -- and engaged to be married. A first-timer.
He was a wonderful young man with enormous potential.
Jon had some difficulty "getting traction" in his life after high school, but recently had seemed to be putting pieces in their proper place. And I looked forward to hearing which of his many career opportunities he would decide to follow.
I only met his fiancee once, but I remember thinking, "Yes, this is a life partner with whom Jon can flourish." I couldn't make it to his engagement party -- which took place last weekend. That's right: last weekend.
Y'know, sometimes death can seem just unimaginably cruel. That such a splendid young man should be killed at such an early age. And that we should all be deprived of his gifts. His presence.
(I'm fairly sure I have the following story right, but all these events are so recent... And I will correct the story as I learn more.)
My brother-in-law checked Jon's Facebook page after he heard of Jon's death. And he found out that, the morning of the day he died, Jon wrote that he felt a cramp in his leg that wouldn't release and that he had some trouble breathing.
Classic symptoms of a pulmonary embolism: a blood clot that had broken loose and travelled towards his heart and lungs. But who would expect a robust young man like Jon to have such a condition? And who of you out there reading this would have recognized these symptoms?
Now, I know the first of these two symptoms because I had that "cramp-that-won't-go-away" feeling twice: I felt it once last year in association with the blood clot in my right leg and once again six or seven weeks ago associated with the clot in my left leg. But there's no reason on earth that Jon would have known this...
(If you've been reading this blog since its inception, you may recall the following story from the July 1, 2009 posting titled "Me and My Blood Clot." I'll give you a capsule summary:)
In late June of last year, I felt a cramp in my lower right leg, but it didn't concern me much and I didn't think much about it. (Being in the middle of radiation and chemotherapy, I had other physical issues to hold my attention.) But it kept getting worse, and I wound up going to one of my radiation treatments on crutches. The nurse on duty saw me hobble into the treatment center and she got very alert, very quickly and started asking very specific questions. Questions that started with "Why?" and "How?" and "When?" She then notified the doctor on duty.
The doc followed up by asking more questions, then saying, "Randy, we're going to give you your radiation treatment today and then send you immediately to the hospital. Don't waste time by going home and then to the hospital! By the time you're done here, I will have given the hospital staff their 'stat' instructions. Just drive immediately there and tell them your name. They'll be waiting for you." And things unfolded just that way.
I was processed through the hospital admission procedures at high speed and wound up with a Heparin drip and inflatable "stockings" that gently squeezed both right and left legs with a gentle pulsing motion. I stayed at the hospital overnight, with an hourly checking on my situation. (Yup, being awakened every hour to make sure I way okay.)
And up until yesterday, that the entire incident seemed unnecessarily dramatic. And it seemed so even after I came across the on-line statistic that 200,000 people a year die from pulmonary embolism.
But today I understand. While all this was happening last year, I had no idea that my life could literally be "hanging by a thread" -- that is, the "thread" that was keeping the blood clot in place in my leg. Now I can see that the rush to get me admitted to the hospital and into treatment, that the Heparin and follow-up Lovenox and Coumadin and the compression stockings -- all this was thoroughly justified.
Two very different stories. But I find the irony in juxtaposing them to be both frightening and humbling: if I had not been receiving radiation treatment, I would not have been swept into the hospital so quickly and I would simply have waited for the cramping to go away. And quite possibly, I would have died from a pulmonary embolism while I waited for my leg to heal itself. And if I had died, Jon would probably have heard my story from his folks, and maybe would have recognized his symptoms as matching mine and maybe then he would have sought treatment. And then maybe he wouldn't have died yesterday.
When the blood clot showed up in my left leg a couple of weeks ago, I recognized the symptoms quickly and got treatment as soon as I could. As a result, this new clot was not nearly as advanced as last year's when treatment started -- and there was no rushing around, no Heparin, no inflatable stockings, no overnight stay in the hospital. And as a result, the residual swelling was not and is not nearly as noticeable. And I was off crutches in two days rather than ten.
Over the course of my cancer treatment, I have been constantly amazed at how tough and durable life can be -- not only in my situation but in the treatment of dozens of other cancer patients I've met along the way. Our bodies want very much to stay alive and heal.
But Jon's death tells a different story -- one that doesn't necessarily contradict the "tough-and-durable" story, but one that adds an important caveat: Life can also be fragile and easily lost. Lost sometimes by what we do, sometimes by what we don't do, and sometimes independently of anything we might or might not do.
And what I've learned is that now is a time to celebrate who and what we are. And a time to be grateful for life in all its glory.
And for those of us who knew Jon, it is especially time to be grateful for having had his presence in our lives.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Health Update: 5/2/10
I wanted to hold off on saying anything about my health until today, because I had an appointment with my E/N/T guy this morning. Which I'll explain in a bit. But first:
"What was that all about?" revisited:
Last Tuesday, the 25th (at least we think it was Tuesday...) I had a follow-up appointment with Nurse Vicki at our family doctor's practice. (We think Vicki is wonderful!) Over the weekend, a nurse friend of ours had suggested that the non-appendicitis episode I'd had the previous week was due to the aforementioned -- and newly discovered -- gallstones. Like, when you pass a gallstone, it can be painful. So we made that suggestion to Vicki.
She was not crazy about that idea, because the symptoms did not sound like passing a gallstone. But she didn't have any better idea, and told us to consult with a surgeon, who would have a more informed opinion.
And wouldn't you know that the guy she recommended was the fellow who installed (and later removed) my food tube. Small world is medicine in the West Chester community. But she did recommend him very highly, and I really can't complain about him yanking the food tube out of my tummy with no warning. As described in gruesome detail in a posting from last year. I mean, he told me exactly what he was going to do. Yanking the tube out and all. And I was just shocked that he was telling me the unvarnished truth. I thought he was kidding. More fool me.
Anyway, we made the appointment, and the surgeon could not have been more understanding and supportive. He had me lay back on an examination table as he probed and prodded and poked. He told me that he had found a small hernia -- something else I was unaware of. I mean geez, what else is going to show up? And when? Gallstones. Hernias. Where does it end??
Anyway, he also said everything else felt normal and he seemed genuinely pleased that his probing and prodding and poking had not caused me any pain whatsoever.
After I described the "non-appendicitis" episode at the Hospital the previous Friday, he said that it was an "unusual presentation" of a gallstone attack. Meaning he wasn't at all convinced that the stones were any part of the problem.
Medical jargon, I guess. "Presentation." Geez.
Then he said that removing the gall bladder would not be difficult -- that the procedure was "laparoscopic," which meant several small incisions, an overnight stay in the hospital, and a quick recovery. But he also said that there was no immediate need for the procedure, except that, without the operation, there was a minor chance that the gallstones might cause some serious difficulty in the future. Further, that any future pain like I had felt on Friday would dictate the immediate removal of the gall bladder. "Presentation" or no.
And then he said, "While I'm in there, I can fix that hernia." He sounded, for that moment, much more like an automobile mechanic than a doctor. Like "While I'm replacing the head gasket, I can clean the jets in your fuel injectors and check the valve clearance." That kind of stuff. An amusing moment, I guess, if you have some psychological distance from the procedure...
Anyway, I decided not to go ahead with the gall bladder operation at this time, and told him so.
And we shook hands. And he wished us a good summer. And we parted friends.
So, in answer to the question, "What was that all about?" there still is no resolution. Sigh...
Today's Visit with the E/N/T Guy
I guess my feelings leading up to this visit will be a common phenomenon for the next couple of years. I mean, I feel fine. People tell me I look fine. But then, I felt fine just before the initial diagnosis of cancer. So what good did that do me?
I hadn't seen my E/N/T guy in months. What had my body been doing since the last visit?
There is this post-cancer syndrome. Perfectly understandable. As the days dwindle down towards an appointment like this, the anxiety level subtly ratchets up. And that comes to a head on the morning of the appointment: What will I do if he finds something? What will he say? How will I feel? Will I break down in tears in his office? What treatment options are left after the "full-court press" of treatments last year?
But my E/N/T guy is so comfortable to be around. Comfortable in his own skin. Comfortable with the job he's doing. Thirty seconds with him and you're just plain... comfortable. And you become cognizant of the truth -- that your anxiety won't help the situation at all, but might make it worse by stressing your mind and body unnecessarily.
So he probed and prodded and poked my head and neck. Inside and outside my right cheek. Then my left cheek. Up and down my neck. He peered into my nose, my ears, down my throat.
And declared that there was no sign of anything unusual. Then he told me that I looked great.
And we shook hands. And he wished me a good summer. And we parted friends.
And, oh by the way, in regards to the Friday at the Hospital episode reported previously, I forgot to mention something really important: the area of interest that day was my abdomen. Of course. But this was an area that had never been scanned since the start of my treatment. And every now and then over the last 8 or 9 months, an irksome little voice that inhabits in my paranoia would suggest that, if the cancer had metasticized to my liver or any other organ down there, no one would know it. Because no one had checked in on that area.
So the entire episode had, for me, been a big success. I had been scanned with sophisticated medical equipment; not once but twice (the CAT scan and the sonogram) and had come out clean.
And so, dear friends, I continue to get the best of all possible reports from my medical team. And it such a pleasure to share this information with all of you.
I am well.
"What was that all about?" revisited:
Last Tuesday, the 25th (at least we think it was Tuesday...) I had a follow-up appointment with Nurse Vicki at our family doctor's practice. (We think Vicki is wonderful!) Over the weekend, a nurse friend of ours had suggested that the non-appendicitis episode I'd had the previous week was due to the aforementioned -- and newly discovered -- gallstones. Like, when you pass a gallstone, it can be painful. So we made that suggestion to Vicki.
She was not crazy about that idea, because the symptoms did not sound like passing a gallstone. But she didn't have any better idea, and told us to consult with a surgeon, who would have a more informed opinion.
And wouldn't you know that the guy she recommended was the fellow who installed (and later removed) my food tube. Small world is medicine in the West Chester community. But she did recommend him very highly, and I really can't complain about him yanking the food tube out of my tummy with no warning. As described in gruesome detail in a posting from last year. I mean, he told me exactly what he was going to do. Yanking the tube out and all. And I was just shocked that he was telling me the unvarnished truth. I thought he was kidding. More fool me.
Anyway, we made the appointment, and the surgeon could not have been more understanding and supportive. He had me lay back on an examination table as he probed and prodded and poked. He told me that he had found a small hernia -- something else I was unaware of. I mean geez, what else is going to show up? And when? Gallstones. Hernias. Where does it end??
Anyway, he also said everything else felt normal and he seemed genuinely pleased that his probing and prodding and poking had not caused me any pain whatsoever.
After I described the "non-appendicitis" episode at the Hospital the previous Friday, he said that it was an "unusual presentation" of a gallstone attack. Meaning he wasn't at all convinced that the stones were any part of the problem.
Medical jargon, I guess. "Presentation." Geez.
Then he said that removing the gall bladder would not be difficult -- that the procedure was "laparoscopic," which meant several small incisions, an overnight stay in the hospital, and a quick recovery. But he also said that there was no immediate need for the procedure, except that, without the operation, there was a minor chance that the gallstones might cause some serious difficulty in the future. Further, that any future pain like I had felt on Friday would dictate the immediate removal of the gall bladder. "Presentation" or no.
And then he said, "While I'm in there, I can fix that hernia." He sounded, for that moment, much more like an automobile mechanic than a doctor. Like "While I'm replacing the head gasket, I can clean the jets in your fuel injectors and check the valve clearance." That kind of stuff. An amusing moment, I guess, if you have some psychological distance from the procedure...
Anyway, I decided not to go ahead with the gall bladder operation at this time, and told him so.
And we shook hands. And he wished us a good summer. And we parted friends.
So, in answer to the question, "What was that all about?" there still is no resolution. Sigh...
Today's Visit with the E/N/T Guy
I guess my feelings leading up to this visit will be a common phenomenon for the next couple of years. I mean, I feel fine. People tell me I look fine. But then, I felt fine just before the initial diagnosis of cancer. So what good did that do me?
I hadn't seen my E/N/T guy in months. What had my body been doing since the last visit?
There is this post-cancer syndrome. Perfectly understandable. As the days dwindle down towards an appointment like this, the anxiety level subtly ratchets up. And that comes to a head on the morning of the appointment: What will I do if he finds something? What will he say? How will I feel? Will I break down in tears in his office? What treatment options are left after the "full-court press" of treatments last year?
But my E/N/T guy is so comfortable to be around. Comfortable in his own skin. Comfortable with the job he's doing. Thirty seconds with him and you're just plain... comfortable. And you become cognizant of the truth -- that your anxiety won't help the situation at all, but might make it worse by stressing your mind and body unnecessarily.
So he probed and prodded and poked my head and neck. Inside and outside my right cheek. Then my left cheek. Up and down my neck. He peered into my nose, my ears, down my throat.
And declared that there was no sign of anything unusual. Then he told me that I looked great.
And we shook hands. And he wished me a good summer. And we parted friends.
And, oh by the way, in regards to the Friday at the Hospital episode reported previously, I forgot to mention something really important: the area of interest that day was my abdomen. Of course. But this was an area that had never been scanned since the start of my treatment. And every now and then over the last 8 or 9 months, an irksome little voice that inhabits in my paranoia would suggest that, if the cancer had metasticized to my liver or any other organ down there, no one would know it. Because no one had checked in on that area.
So the entire episode had, for me, been a big success. I had been scanned with sophisticated medical equipment; not once but twice (the CAT scan and the sonogram) and had come out clean.
And so, dear friends, I continue to get the best of all possible reports from my medical team. And it such a pleasure to share this information with all of you.
I am well.
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