Soon I will be her

I started the week with outpatient surgery: extraction of the sentinel lymphatic nod, insertion of the port for the chemo to come. Before surgery, I had several injections of a nuclear substance that will help track any cancerous influence on the sentinel nod. That was a quick and unpleasant procedure, which however provided fun and colored side-effects on the following days. Who has not dreamed of aquamarine-colored pee one day or another?

Waking up from surgery turned out to be quite a process. I was not the only one in charge. In addition to my own, usual, self (polite, timely, compliant) my body insisted to be part of the conversation and I must admit, my body is rebellious and mulish. It went like this:

Nurse: How are you doing honey?

Me: I feel a little dizzy.

My body: this is awful! I protest! Nausea City!

Nurse: I just gave you some anti-nausea drug in your IV. Try and eat some of those crackers. That will help.

Me: thank you.

My body: If you munch even one of those fish shaped cracker, you will regret it bitterly.

Me: …sorry…

Nurse: That’s ok honey. We are used of patients projectile-vomiting all over the place.

My body: Told you so. I will do it again in the car on the way home, by the way.                           

The next morning, I was dealing with a sore upper-chest area but I had been able to sleep and I was no longer feeling sick. It was time for another kind of trauma: the chemo class. It could be sub-titled “Be scared. Be very scared”. This is about letting you know what to expect through chemo, a time to detail all the possible side-effects, and of course there are loads of them. I should expect discomfort, turbulent digestive system, over-sensitive skin, pains and aches. I am required to panic at any infection or cold and get seen by a doctor in the very next hours – or I may end up in intensive care, as my immune system will be weakened.  

I was utterly terrified when I left the class with Irvin. Yet there were some thought I could hold on to. This will last for a few weeks. Some time in spring, maybe by the end of April, it will be over. I met a friend in the lobby of the oncologist clinic. She gave me the biggest hug – so sorry to see me start a journey she knew all too well. But she is cancer-free now and was coming for her regular follow-up. Soon, I will be her. 

A one-on-one fight

Last Sunday, I went to church for the first time since the cancer diagnosis. I received hugs and comforting words, as well as tears from some who were caught off guard by the news. The congregation surrounded me and prayed for me, their hands on my shoulders and head while Irvin anointed me with oil. I felt supported by those prayers as by a network of imperceptible threads of lights. I am not alone in this unwanted trip.

Two days ago, I received the results of all the MRI and scanner I went through during the week. The nurse took my blood pressure. She seemed surprised. “Do you have high blood pressure?” she asked. I smiled.  “No. I am scared.” She looked skeptical and started all over again. She probably found the same result as she did not say anything else.

The results were good. No additional tumor anywhere – except, maybe, a small one by the location of the original one. Tomorrow Monday, I will have an outpatient procedure during which the “sentinel node” will be extracted, the port for the chemo will be inserted, and some additional tissue will be taken out to check out this possible second tumor. If it is there, it will be swiped away by the chemo and the radiations anyway.

I felt the effects of relief, cascading sweetly in waves all evening. I am comfortable facing one small tumor, aggressive or not. There will be blood.  

Scrutiny week

This morning, it was PET-scanner time, which required an almost superhuman effort. I was not allowed, in the previous 24 hours, to consume any dairy, sugar, fruits, starch or caffeine. No bread, no cheese, no yogurt… no chocolate… as I told Irvin “the foundation of my pyramid food is taken away from me!” I nostalgically munched on lettuce and roasted chicken… 

The exam requires also being injected with a radioactive substance. It is not painful, but I got mildly concerned when I noticed the syringe had its own lead armor.  The scanner device looks identical to the MRI one, but it is silent.

Making comparison was easy: I had a brain MRI in the afternoon and even with ear plugs, yes it was strident. Since I had time on my hands (the exam last 45 minutes, in 2 parts) I tried to categorize the diverse noises. There was first some techno beats, then a symphony of alarms, then a conversation between pneumatic drills that would even shake the whole engine once in a while. There were also isolated weird noises in between, slamming of doors and the occasional drunk frog croak…

I appreciated the presence of a small mirror which allowed me to see outside while I was still in this big tube. Wherever we are, even for less than an hour, it is good to always be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel. 

Praise to Mammograms

Some critics have addressed mammograms lately. We (I mean, we women) can all agree getting a mammogram is an unpleasant, oppressive, yet required experience. Some contest its necessity though; claiming mammograms would be uncertain, provide too many “false positive” and create unnecessary distress and concerns on healthy women.

The fact is, I prefer dealing with several “false positives” rather than missing one “true positive”. My mother and my best friend Beatrice, in France, both faced “true positive” and their early diagnosis allowed them to avoid chemo for an only-radiations treatment and more generally to be alive and cancer-free today.

I hope for the same luck, particularly in regard to the no-need-for-chemo route. 

I found out this week that I was also a “true positive”. The small nodule of pre-cancerous cells, detected in November at my yearly mammogram, was hiding a 1 centimeter large “invasive ductal carcinoma”. The whole thing was excised on December 31 then biopsied. The tumor was found. 

This morning, the surgeon was telling me, meditatively “This is a weird, unusual cancer”. I know too little about cancer to be informed of the difference between a weird one and, let’s say, a regular cancer. (Is there such a thing as regular cancer?) I am only aware I am stepping into a new territory. I was (still am) a chaplain, listening to patients. I will now occasionally switch to the patient side. And I will do my best to make it a learning experience - for instance, on overcoming fear and dealing with the unexpected.

The surgeon told me, as he referred me to an oncologist that I will meet tonight for the first time, “You are the driver in this process. We, the doctors, work for you. Don’t let anyone switch the roles.” I liked that.

And I like also that I am dealing today with a 1 centimeter tumor (one third of an inch) and not an angry multifaceted monster in, let’s say, 2015. 

Thanks to a mammogram. 

Across the Stream

A dream brought me to pray. I saw a narrow bridge, a foot path over a wide stream, sturdy built but narrow, a place of both beauty and choice. Here an elder kept watch, bidding travelers to lay down their burdens before crossing the bridge.

The vision is simple and clear. Let us leave as much as we can here, on this side of time, before we cross over to tomorrow. Let us come to the end of this year without regrets, worries, fears or anger. Let what needs to be left behind be released that our steps are as light as innocent hope, our hearts as free as first felt love. - Rev. Steven Charleston, Choctaw

9 hours after France, it is our turn to enter into year 2013.

Happy New Year to all!