Shelli Armstrong's Blog, page 4
November 3, 2014
Chemo #1
Today was my first day of chemotherapy.
I was really worried that I was going to be nervous--too nervous to get a good night's sleep or function--and was pleasantly surprised that I slept fine (going to bed at 2:00 a.m. will aid in that) and woke up feeling the same calm and detachment that I've felt throughout this continued ordeal. For the record, there's only place that the calm comes from and that is from Heavenly Father. I would be a wreck otherwise, and somehow, I have felt nothing but fine this whole time. I mean, there are moments, don't get me wrong, but a part of me feels like this is all part of a bigger purpose or is not without meaning, and I'll survive. And I don't just mean that I'll live. Dying of Stage 1C/II Granulosa cell carcinoma was never going to be my cards. But I'll survive the treatments, the nausea, the going bald. I'll survive as I have to regrow my hair (oh, my friends, I have great plans for this...) and the other physical changes. I will survive the fatigue. And that knowledge does not come from my optimistic attitude. It comes from my faith and my knowledge that I know who provides peace and comfort, my Father in Heaven.
It was a long day, but not nearly as bad as I imagined. Meghan picked me up from home and drove me to Huntsman, where they checked me in, we ran and got breakfast in the cafeteria, and then we came down and started the preliminary infusions. I tried to get the port in my right hand, but I guess my right arm is pretty worthless when it comes to veins. It made it difficult each time I went to the bathroom. Imagine trying to do something with your least dominant hand that you have been doing for some 27 years with your dominant hand. It's not easy. The prelim stuffs include anti-nausea and Benadryl to help control some of the side effects.
They did the Taxol first. This is the three hour infusion and the drug that makes you the most nauseous and the one that makes you lose your hair. Within seconds of it hitting my blood stream, I looked at Meghan and said, "What were the symptoms that I was supposed to report?" She asked me how I was feeling and I sat up and said, "Sick." I couldn't believe how fast it hit me. The nausea was first, but almost as immediate a vice had taken to my chest and I couldn't breathe and my shoulders and face felt as though someone were spraying me with a blow torch. Meghan said that my face turned bright red. The weird thing was, I wasn't really worried until I looked at Meghan's face, and she looked worried. She ran and got the doctors, and really, it had been thirty seconds since the onset, that they took the Taxol off, gave me more Benadryl, and started the whole process over on a lower dosage.
We were able to bump the dosage up once, but never to full strength because I was hovering on feeling sickish for a while. It added several hours to the whole day.
I got up and walked around a bit, but they had me trapped in the infusion room. So I couldn't go far. All I wanted was to be able to walk in a loop, but I was told not to leave the tiled area. Mostly I just sat and talked to Meghan.
Kati brought lunch for us, and the spicy Thai was just what I needed to curb the nausea that was lurking nearby. I really felt pretty great after that, and would have liked to visit the library or go outside. Anything to get out of that room.
We met a guy named Dove (pronounced like the verb, not the noun) who had gone through eight surgeries, and THOUSANDS of hours of chemo. He was the cancer celebrity of the unit, and told us some of the crazy stories that he had a hand in. Things like Chemo Cupid, and hiring a male stripper for one of the patient's birthdays. He was a ray of sunshine, and given his prognosis--terminal--it was a really good reality check. I am blessed, and really don't have much to complain about.
Everyone was really nice. Other patients were giving me encouragement and all of them said that after their first treatment, it wasn't so bad. And I have to say, that I really do feel very good. Not at all like my body has been pumped full of poisons that are killing my cells.
When I left the hospital after eight hours of infusions, I got a call from the doctor saying that I am anemic and I need an iron supplement infusion. That's another four hour treatment to take place sometime this week or next.
I also had a hair appointment last night. I have been reading different blogs and boards, and everyone says that it is recommended that you cut your hair. That way, it's easier to make it look puffier and healthier by giving it more volume as it starts to thin; and, it tends to be less traumatic when you finally lose your hair. So I did it. I chopped it all off, as short as I could go without shaving my neck. And I put pink in it. It's fun and sassy. And I'm devastated that I was so close to my "mermaid hair" goal (I wanted my hair long enough that it would cover my boobs) and had to cut it off. I may never get to that point. Everything I look at shows a full eighteen months of regrowth before you have a decent bob--a bob! That means my 30th birthday. . .oh gosh. Let's not think about it. My stylist did have me save my pony tail so that I could maybe use it later as extensions. That might help. I guess we'll cross that bridge when we get there. Just like everything else.
This is going to have to be a day at a time things. I feel fine now, but I have no idea what is in store for me in the next few days as the drugs continue to course through my body. I am to start taking more anti-nausea pills tomorrow, and that's suggesting that tomorrow may be rougher than today. Again, I just have to wait and see.
So one treatment of the six is done and done. It's probably too much to ask that they all go so smoothly.
I was really worried that I was going to be nervous--too nervous to get a good night's sleep or function--and was pleasantly surprised that I slept fine (going to bed at 2:00 a.m. will aid in that) and woke up feeling the same calm and detachment that I've felt throughout this continued ordeal. For the record, there's only place that the calm comes from and that is from Heavenly Father. I would be a wreck otherwise, and somehow, I have felt nothing but fine this whole time. I mean, there are moments, don't get me wrong, but a part of me feels like this is all part of a bigger purpose or is not without meaning, and I'll survive. And I don't just mean that I'll live. Dying of Stage 1C/II Granulosa cell carcinoma was never going to be my cards. But I'll survive the treatments, the nausea, the going bald. I'll survive as I have to regrow my hair (oh, my friends, I have great plans for this...) and the other physical changes. I will survive the fatigue. And that knowledge does not come from my optimistic attitude. It comes from my faith and my knowledge that I know who provides peace and comfort, my Father in Heaven.
It was a long day, but not nearly as bad as I imagined. Meghan picked me up from home and drove me to Huntsman, where they checked me in, we ran and got breakfast in the cafeteria, and then we came down and started the preliminary infusions. I tried to get the port in my right hand, but I guess my right arm is pretty worthless when it comes to veins. It made it difficult each time I went to the bathroom. Imagine trying to do something with your least dominant hand that you have been doing for some 27 years with your dominant hand. It's not easy. The prelim stuffs include anti-nausea and Benadryl to help control some of the side effects.
They did the Taxol first. This is the three hour infusion and the drug that makes you the most nauseous and the one that makes you lose your hair. Within seconds of it hitting my blood stream, I looked at Meghan and said, "What were the symptoms that I was supposed to report?" She asked me how I was feeling and I sat up and said, "Sick." I couldn't believe how fast it hit me. The nausea was first, but almost as immediate a vice had taken to my chest and I couldn't breathe and my shoulders and face felt as though someone were spraying me with a blow torch. Meghan said that my face turned bright red. The weird thing was, I wasn't really worried until I looked at Meghan's face, and she looked worried. She ran and got the doctors, and really, it had been thirty seconds since the onset, that they took the Taxol off, gave me more Benadryl, and started the whole process over on a lower dosage.
We were able to bump the dosage up once, but never to full strength because I was hovering on feeling sickish for a while. It added several hours to the whole day.
I got up and walked around a bit, but they had me trapped in the infusion room. So I couldn't go far. All I wanted was to be able to walk in a loop, but I was told not to leave the tiled area. Mostly I just sat and talked to Meghan.
Kati brought lunch for us, and the spicy Thai was just what I needed to curb the nausea that was lurking nearby. I really felt pretty great after that, and would have liked to visit the library or go outside. Anything to get out of that room.
We met a guy named Dove (pronounced like the verb, not the noun) who had gone through eight surgeries, and THOUSANDS of hours of chemo. He was the cancer celebrity of the unit, and told us some of the crazy stories that he had a hand in. Things like Chemo Cupid, and hiring a male stripper for one of the patient's birthdays. He was a ray of sunshine, and given his prognosis--terminal--it was a really good reality check. I am blessed, and really don't have much to complain about.
Everyone was really nice. Other patients were giving me encouragement and all of them said that after their first treatment, it wasn't so bad. And I have to say, that I really do feel very good. Not at all like my body has been pumped full of poisons that are killing my cells.
When I left the hospital after eight hours of infusions, I got a call from the doctor saying that I am anemic and I need an iron supplement infusion. That's another four hour treatment to take place sometime this week or next.
I also had a hair appointment last night. I have been reading different blogs and boards, and everyone says that it is recommended that you cut your hair. That way, it's easier to make it look puffier and healthier by giving it more volume as it starts to thin; and, it tends to be less traumatic when you finally lose your hair. So I did it. I chopped it all off, as short as I could go without shaving my neck. And I put pink in it. It's fun and sassy. And I'm devastated that I was so close to my "mermaid hair" goal (I wanted my hair long enough that it would cover my boobs) and had to cut it off. I may never get to that point. Everything I look at shows a full eighteen months of regrowth before you have a decent bob--a bob! That means my 30th birthday. . .oh gosh. Let's not think about it. My stylist did have me save my pony tail so that I could maybe use it later as extensions. That might help. I guess we'll cross that bridge when we get there. Just like everything else.
This is going to have to be a day at a time things. I feel fine now, but I have no idea what is in store for me in the next few days as the drugs continue to course through my body. I am to start taking more anti-nausea pills tomorrow, and that's suggesting that tomorrow may be rougher than today. Again, I just have to wait and see.
So one treatment of the six is done and done. It's probably too much to ask that they all go so smoothly.
October 31, 2014
Dear Prudie--How do I begin?
Hi. It's me. This time I'm not being hacked.
Have any of you read the "Dear Prudie" columns? Or any advice columns? I wrote to one once, and never saw an answer to my question, so I feel like it would be a waste of time to do it again. If I did send in a question, it would read something like this:
Dear [Insert Advice Guru Here],
The past week has been an overwhelming roller coaster of emotions. I have cried nearly everyday, sometimes out of fear and anxiety, but mostly, because I'm overwhelmed with gratitude and have a heart that is full to bursting as friends, family, strangers, and others have rallied around me in a time of need.
Not with just kind words, notes and messages, and prayers--though, there have certainly been those--but with people who understand me and understand my need to be able to find the humor in this situation and find a way to laugh about the things that really suck. Monday was quite possibly the lowest day of my life, and if not my life, it was certainly the lowest I have felt since I discovered pesky Abner, the tumor, in June. I could not find a single thing to laugh about, and yet, a phone call to my mom (and a cry fest in my car) followed by dinner at Meghan's where she and Jared were able to talk me through some things, find something to laugh about, and turned my mind away from it all had me feeling a little more stabilized.
Tuesday was completely different. A particular coworker changed my mood entirely in what, I think, others might have found to be insensitive or inappropriate, and yet, it was the exact thing I needed to feel better about the coming weeks. I also received a most beautiful bouquet of flowers (seriously, stunning).
And then there was the fundraiser.
I saw a few comments on Facebook where people were wondering if I had any idea of what was going on, if I knew about the fundraiser.
The thing is, I did. But I couldn't quite formulate a message to put out there. It would be foolish for me to demand it be shut down simply out of pride; and it would feel too avaricious for me to encourage it or advertise it on my own in any way. But I've been watching as people contributed to the fund, shared the link to their friends (often accompanied with really sweet messages that also made me cry). Seriously, overwhelming is a gross understatement.
There have been contributions from my family--biological and otherwise; from high school classmates that I haven't spoken to since we graduated; from friends, but also from their family members; and coworkers both past and present; and total strangers; and a myriad of anonymous donors.
My question is this: How do I begin to express my gratitude?
I guess I start with this post. Thank you. A million times. If you sent me a card, wrote me a message, or said a prayer, thank you. And if you did donate to the fund, please know, that you are the answer to not only my prayers, but to those being offered in my behalf. Out of all the things (aside from the chemo, which has recently taken the #1 spot), how to finance this has been my number one anxiety. The fundraiser will help ease that burden. Things will always be tight, but the bills will not devastate me as they would have done.
I love you all. I love your willingness to help and to see me through this. And I love your willingness to laugh with me.
I hope you all will still love me when I don't have hair...or eyebrows.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
-S-
Have any of you read the "Dear Prudie" columns? Or any advice columns? I wrote to one once, and never saw an answer to my question, so I feel like it would be a waste of time to do it again. If I did send in a question, it would read something like this:
Dear [Insert Advice Guru Here],
The past week has been an overwhelming roller coaster of emotions. I have cried nearly everyday, sometimes out of fear and anxiety, but mostly, because I'm overwhelmed with gratitude and have a heart that is full to bursting as friends, family, strangers, and others have rallied around me in a time of need.
Not with just kind words, notes and messages, and prayers--though, there have certainly been those--but with people who understand me and understand my need to be able to find the humor in this situation and find a way to laugh about the things that really suck. Monday was quite possibly the lowest day of my life, and if not my life, it was certainly the lowest I have felt since I discovered pesky Abner, the tumor, in June. I could not find a single thing to laugh about, and yet, a phone call to my mom (and a cry fest in my car) followed by dinner at Meghan's where she and Jared were able to talk me through some things, find something to laugh about, and turned my mind away from it all had me feeling a little more stabilized.
Tuesday was completely different. A particular coworker changed my mood entirely in what, I think, others might have found to be insensitive or inappropriate, and yet, it was the exact thing I needed to feel better about the coming weeks. I also received a most beautiful bouquet of flowers (seriously, stunning).
And then there was the fundraiser.
I saw a few comments on Facebook where people were wondering if I had any idea of what was going on, if I knew about the fundraiser.
The thing is, I did. But I couldn't quite formulate a message to put out there. It would be foolish for me to demand it be shut down simply out of pride; and it would feel too avaricious for me to encourage it or advertise it on my own in any way. But I've been watching as people contributed to the fund, shared the link to their friends (often accompanied with really sweet messages that also made me cry). Seriously, overwhelming is a gross understatement.
There have been contributions from my family--biological and otherwise; from high school classmates that I haven't spoken to since we graduated; from friends, but also from their family members; and coworkers both past and present; and total strangers; and a myriad of anonymous donors.
My question is this: How do I begin to express my gratitude?
I guess I start with this post. Thank you. A million times. If you sent me a card, wrote me a message, or said a prayer, thank you. And if you did donate to the fund, please know, that you are the answer to not only my prayers, but to those being offered in my behalf. Out of all the things (aside from the chemo, which has recently taken the #1 spot), how to finance this has been my number one anxiety. The fundraiser will help ease that burden. Things will always be tight, but the bills will not devastate me as they would have done.
I love you all. I love your willingness to help and to see me through this. And I love your willingness to laugh with me.
I hope you all will still love me when I don't have hair...or eyebrows.
XOXOXOXOXOXOXOX
-S-
October 29, 2014
Wherein I take over Shelli’s blog and Shelli learns she should not use the same password for everything
If you’ve been following Shelli’s Facebook feed, you’ll notice that I’ve been posting “on her behalf” (aka, I hacked her page and then wrote whatever I wanted). I’ve now done the same to her blog—she should really learn that using the same password for all her accounts isn’t a good idea. BUT, it is good news for me because now I can use her blog to tell you a little story.
I met Shelli about six years ago. I worked at a local software company as a writer and it was her first day as the marketing coordinator. Our boss set her in the cubicle next to mine and I remember going over to make the obligatory small talk. I told her that if she needed me to show her around to let me know—little thinking that she would actually take me up on my offer.
A few hours later she popped in and said, “Ok, I’m ready for my tour.” I am notoriously unfriendly, so I was horrified that I would have to spend time with another human being. But Shelli approached our friendship the same way she approaches everything else: with enthusiasm and courage. Six years later we’re still friends—almost all of which I attribute to her incredible tenacity.
Here’s the thing: I know these qualities will keep her going during her chemo treatments. But no amount of enthusiasm, courage, or tenacity will help her pay the mountain of bills she’s already starting to incur.
The AVERAGE cost of one chemotherapy treatment is now approximately $10,000. She will need six. And that’s ON TOP of the doctors visits, CT scans, blood work, and surgery. Yes, she has insurance, but as we all know, that only covers so much.
So I’m asking again—please donate. Shelli shouldn’t have to worry about paying her bills when she should be focusing on getting well again. And she really shouldn’t have to put her life on hold once she does get well to pay off her treatments.
If you have any questions or have any ideas on how to raise additional funds, please contact me at meghan.potts@gmail.com.
I met Shelli about six years ago. I worked at a local software company as a writer and it was her first day as the marketing coordinator. Our boss set her in the cubicle next to mine and I remember going over to make the obligatory small talk. I told her that if she needed me to show her around to let me know—little thinking that she would actually take me up on my offer.
A few hours later she popped in and said, “Ok, I’m ready for my tour.” I am notoriously unfriendly, so I was horrified that I would have to spend time with another human being. But Shelli approached our friendship the same way she approaches everything else: with enthusiasm and courage. Six years later we’re still friends—almost all of which I attribute to her incredible tenacity.
Here’s the thing: I know these qualities will keep her going during her chemo treatments. But no amount of enthusiasm, courage, or tenacity will help her pay the mountain of bills she’s already starting to incur.
The AVERAGE cost of one chemotherapy treatment is now approximately $10,000. She will need six. And that’s ON TOP of the doctors visits, CT scans, blood work, and surgery. Yes, she has insurance, but as we all know, that only covers so much.
So I’m asking again—please donate. Shelli shouldn’t have to worry about paying her bills when she should be focusing on getting well again. And she really shouldn’t have to put her life on hold once she does get well to pay off her treatments.
If you have any questions or have any ideas on how to raise additional funds, please contact me at meghan.potts@gmail.com.
October 27, 2014
The Update -- Chemotherapy
I had my chemotherapy consult appointment today.
It was . . . overwhelming.
I made the choice to post my adventures in cancer on my blog and post updates on Facebook in an effort to hedge off questions and make it seem as though this were an ordinary, everyday kind of thing. But after today's appointment, it hit me that this is actually happening. And as grateful as I am that we are moving forward with the chemo--I want to make sure all the cancer cells are gone, so the likelihood of it returning is too--it's all a little terrifying.
The thing is, I still don't have a cancer that I'm going to die from. Not this year, nor in any future years. My cancer could come back, but that could be 20 or 30 years from now. Or, hopefully, it just won't. I'm not really "fighting a battle" against cancer. The battle is over, the chemo is just taking prisoners. But dying of cancer is not really the scary part. Living through the treatments is.
I start chemo on Monday. Treatments will last through February. And yes, I'm going to lose my hair. (Apparently that part is not negotiable.) And yes, it is probably going to suck. It's an excellent time of year, though, for chemotherapy. Navigating flu season with a lowered immune system sounds like just the sort of thrill I've been seeking. I'll also get to wear festive hats (actually, dying of cancer doesn't sound that bad) and scarves through all the best holidays, since starting on Monday means that I'm going through Thanksgiving, my birthday, Christmas, New Year's, and Valentine's Day before finally being done.
I don't want to do it.
Today my stoicism broke and I'm having a hard time piecing it together. Maybe tomorrow will be better. If not, ask me again when my hair is back, at least, to the length of my collarbones. . .. I can't handle people being nice to me about it. Seriously. Stop it. Half of the tears shed today were from generous offers and well wishes. I am overwhelmed as it is.
In the meantime, if you find a giveaway and want to borrow my cancer as an excellent reason to win, as long as you promise I get to go too, then by all means. Let's milk this cancer for all it's worth!
It was . . . overwhelming.
I made the choice to post my adventures in cancer on my blog and post updates on Facebook in an effort to hedge off questions and make it seem as though this were an ordinary, everyday kind of thing. But after today's appointment, it hit me that this is actually happening. And as grateful as I am that we are moving forward with the chemo--I want to make sure all the cancer cells are gone, so the likelihood of it returning is too--it's all a little terrifying.
The thing is, I still don't have a cancer that I'm going to die from. Not this year, nor in any future years. My cancer could come back, but that could be 20 or 30 years from now. Or, hopefully, it just won't. I'm not really "fighting a battle" against cancer. The battle is over, the chemo is just taking prisoners. But dying of cancer is not really the scary part. Living through the treatments is.
I start chemo on Monday. Treatments will last through February. And yes, I'm going to lose my hair. (Apparently that part is not negotiable.) And yes, it is probably going to suck. It's an excellent time of year, though, for chemotherapy. Navigating flu season with a lowered immune system sounds like just the sort of thrill I've been seeking. I'll also get to wear festive hats (actually, dying of cancer doesn't sound that bad) and scarves through all the best holidays, since starting on Monday means that I'm going through Thanksgiving, my birthday, Christmas, New Year's, and Valentine's Day before finally being done.
I don't want to do it.
Today my stoicism broke and I'm having a hard time piecing it together. Maybe tomorrow will be better. If not, ask me again when my hair is back, at least, to the length of my collarbones. . .. I can't handle people being nice to me about it. Seriously. Stop it. Half of the tears shed today were from generous offers and well wishes. I am overwhelmed as it is.
In the meantime, if you find a giveaway and want to borrow my cancer as an excellent reason to win, as long as you promise I get to go too, then by all means. Let's milk this cancer for all it's worth!
October 8, 2014
Stage 1C
Two and a half weeks ago I had surgery to remove my ovary and tube and Abner, the tumor. At least, that's what I thought they were removing. I mean, they did remove those things. The left ovary, rather than the right, which is weird. And Abner is no more. Flash frozen and sliced, he's been run through a myriad of pathology tests and is now destroyed.
Side note: This is sort of sad, as Abner, the tumor, in a jar (with googly eyes) was destined for a life of adventure if only they had given him to me in a jar.
It turns out that Abner was not just any old tumor, but a granulosa cell tumor. All my research of this type of tumor proves that it is pretty rare, and even more so in a person my age. The tumor is a hormone (usually estrogen) producing tumor, that built up around my ovary, and as a little present, spread to my small intestine. They discovered that during the surgery, and were able to remove all presence of Abner, the ovary, and the tissue of the small intestine, before they closed me up.
From the research, it looks like all granulosa tumors are classified as cancer. This seemed at odds at what we had been told: that it was benign, and so I was pretty confused. However, when I went into my follow up appointment today, I was told that in fact, I am stage 1C. Meaning, stage one, ovarian cancer*.
Lucky for me, all the hard work has been done. The surgery removed all the cancerous cells from my body. The likelihood of it coming back seems to be low enough that the doctor doesn't think I'll have to do chemo, though, he will be presenting my case to a tumor board on Monday, and I'll hear back following that meeting to know how they recommend I be treated. (His nurse believes that the chemotherapist will recommend it.)
The chemo that I would be put through is not the type of chemotherapy you see on the movies where people are puking and hating their lives worse than they are hating the cancer. It's the "good chemo", and so, again, I say, I have been through the worst of it.
Which is why as everyone who so kindly comments for me to "stay positive" and that they are sending thoughts and prayers my way, I wonder if the Cancer Club of people who have really been through the ringer: the ones that have been fighting aggressive cancers for years with the "bad chemo" and surgeries and losing their hair, their strength, their money; the ones that have been through so, so much heartache and pain and misery . . . you know, those guys, are going to show up and say, "Stage 1? STAGE 1?! That's nothing! That's hardly cancer!" I would agree with them. And cower in my boots, and prostrate myself for their forgiveness for every time I intend to use the cancer card (like, such as skipping out on work today... #sorrynotsorry).
It's just a touch of cancer. And it's mostly gone. Chemo or not, I'm fine. The prognosis is about the same as every other healthy person who has to leave their house. So fear not, little ones. I'm still not worried, or nervous and you shouldn't be either. I'm not down in spirits and I don't need too much encouragement to continue being my regular old self. (Everyone likes a bit of flattery now and then, so please, continue to call me beautiful and witty and "a real catch" and all of that, but don't worry about needing to reassure me that I'm strong and I'll beat it--in my eyes, it's been beat already!--Abner, the tumor-foe is no more!)
*I had to Google a little further, and found the following:
Following is a description of the various stages of ovarian cancer:Stage I - Growth of the cancer is limited to the ovary or ovaries.Stage IA - Growth is limited to one ovary and the tumor is confined to the inside of the ovary. There is no cancer on the outer surface of the ovary. There are no ascites present containing malignant cells. The capsule is intact.Stage IB - Growth is limited to both ovaries without any tumor on their outer surfaces. There are no ascites present containing malignant cells. The capsule is intact.Stage IC - The tumor is classified as either Stage IA or IB and one or more of the following are present: (1) tumor is present on the outer surface of one or both ovaries; (2) the capsule has ruptured; and (3) there are ascites containing malignant cells or with positive peritoneal washings.http://www.ovarian.org/types_and_stag...
Side note: This is sort of sad, as Abner, the tumor, in a jar (with googly eyes) was destined for a life of adventure if only they had given him to me in a jar.
It turns out that Abner was not just any old tumor, but a granulosa cell tumor. All my research of this type of tumor proves that it is pretty rare, and even more so in a person my age. The tumor is a hormone (usually estrogen) producing tumor, that built up around my ovary, and as a little present, spread to my small intestine. They discovered that during the surgery, and were able to remove all presence of Abner, the ovary, and the tissue of the small intestine, before they closed me up.
From the research, it looks like all granulosa tumors are classified as cancer. This seemed at odds at what we had been told: that it was benign, and so I was pretty confused. However, when I went into my follow up appointment today, I was told that in fact, I am stage 1C. Meaning, stage one, ovarian cancer*.
Lucky for me, all the hard work has been done. The surgery removed all the cancerous cells from my body. The likelihood of it coming back seems to be low enough that the doctor doesn't think I'll have to do chemo, though, he will be presenting my case to a tumor board on Monday, and I'll hear back following that meeting to know how they recommend I be treated. (His nurse believes that the chemotherapist will recommend it.)
The chemo that I would be put through is not the type of chemotherapy you see on the movies where people are puking and hating their lives worse than they are hating the cancer. It's the "good chemo", and so, again, I say, I have been through the worst of it.
Which is why as everyone who so kindly comments for me to "stay positive" and that they are sending thoughts and prayers my way, I wonder if the Cancer Club of people who have really been through the ringer: the ones that have been fighting aggressive cancers for years with the "bad chemo" and surgeries and losing their hair, their strength, their money; the ones that have been through so, so much heartache and pain and misery . . . you know, those guys, are going to show up and say, "Stage 1? STAGE 1?! That's nothing! That's hardly cancer!" I would agree with them. And cower in my boots, and prostrate myself for their forgiveness for every time I intend to use the cancer card (like, such as skipping out on work today... #sorrynotsorry).
It's just a touch of cancer. And it's mostly gone. Chemo or not, I'm fine. The prognosis is about the same as every other healthy person who has to leave their house. So fear not, little ones. I'm still not worried, or nervous and you shouldn't be either. I'm not down in spirits and I don't need too much encouragement to continue being my regular old self. (Everyone likes a bit of flattery now and then, so please, continue to call me beautiful and witty and "a real catch" and all of that, but don't worry about needing to reassure me that I'm strong and I'll beat it--in my eyes, it's been beat already!--Abner, the tumor-foe is no more!)
*I had to Google a little further, and found the following:
Following is a description of the various stages of ovarian cancer:Stage I - Growth of the cancer is limited to the ovary or ovaries.Stage IA - Growth is limited to one ovary and the tumor is confined to the inside of the ovary. There is no cancer on the outer surface of the ovary. There are no ascites present containing malignant cells. The capsule is intact.Stage IB - Growth is limited to both ovaries without any tumor on their outer surfaces. There are no ascites present containing malignant cells. The capsule is intact.Stage IC - The tumor is classified as either Stage IA or IB and one or more of the following are present: (1) tumor is present on the outer surface of one or both ovaries; (2) the capsule has ruptured; and (3) there are ascites containing malignant cells or with positive peritoneal washings.http://www.ovarian.org/types_and_stag...
The Surgery
Ah, life. It never quite settles down like you think it's going to.
Two and a half weeks ago, I picked my parents up from the airport--a real treat to have them all to myself for the first time since I was 13 months old and blessed with a baby sister--and prepared myself for surgery. Huzzah! The thought of getting the overly large, fairly disgusting Abner, the tumor, out of my body was positive enough that I wasn't overly concerned or nervous. I had every confidence in my doctor, and the ideology that once Abner was gone, I could move on.
For the record, surgery totally sucks. My dreams of one day getting an internal bra are currently on hold, as I'm not certain that I will ever be able to reconcile myself to elective surgery.
Funny story: We had to be at the hospital ungodly early--6 a.m.!--and so as we were hustling out the door, and I was grabbing things I thought I would need in the hospital for my one night stay, I misplaced my phone. I knew I had several people to update, but could not find it anywhere and didn't have time to lose. We got to the parking garage at 6 a.m., and by 6:15 a.m., I was in the prep room changing into my beautiful gown and hairnet, and wondering what to do with my glasses, when my mom stands up and finds my phone in her back pocket!! I had slipped it in there before going downstairs to get something at home. You might have had to be at the hospital in the wee hours of the morning to find it funny, but truly, I thought it was hilarious.
All the TV shows and movies always show people counting backwards from 100 or being told to think of a happy place before they go in for surgery. But that's not true. The residents came in and made sure I knew what was going to happen, the anesthesiologist came in and explained what his role was going to be. We discussed that everything was going to go well, and only the worst scenario would involve an epidural and complete hysterectomy, and then I was wheeled out the door and promptly forget everything until I was in the recovery room.
Coming out of anesthesia is weird and not very fun. I could overhear the nurses saying something about my left ovary being removed, but had no way to ask, "Um--what the heck??!" since it was supposed to be my right ovary. By the time I got my eyes opened, I tried to focus on the clock to see how long I had been out, hoping that would indicate whether or not I had needed the epidural or not. But the clock was spinning on an axis, the same as though I were on a very fast Ferris wheel. I couldn't get my eyes focused, and for some reason, that made me cry. Actually, I was just leaky and weepy anyway. Not in pain, not uncomfortable...just confused and crying.
A nurse was near me, keeping a close eye and I managed to ask a few questions, "Was there an epidural?" "Are my parents OK?" and "Why the left ovary?" There wasn't an epidural, the surgery had gone well and there was just a surprise with which ovary had been enlarged and needed to be taken out, but everything was good. And my parents were OK. She noticed my tears and told me that it was normal for me to cry--that often happens with female patients coming out of anesthesia. She told me something that men were prone to do, but for the life of me, I can't remember.
At some point, I was taken to my room. I vaguely remember going into the elevator. My parents were there waiting for me, where I said--still crying--that they took the wrong ovary. I could hear the worry in my mom's voice as she was like, "WHAT?" but didn't have the control left to explain that it was intentional and that it was OK. I fell asleep after that, I think.
You can imagine that having a six inch incision is not a fun time, and it isn't. Especially if some of the meds make you nauseous and throw up. And if you cough. Or laugh. Or move. The first pair of nurses on shift had me control my pain meds as I felt I needed them, which was sort of a crappy move on their part, as there were then lulls in which I was hurting pretty bad. At one point, I was in so much pain and they had come in to give me meds, but they asked me what the scale of pain I was in. I asked them to clarify and they told me to classify it from 1-10. The problem with that is, what classifies as a 1? What's a 10? (Look up Brian Reegan's sketch on the ER, and you'll understand.) I didn't feel like I was dying, I hadn't given birth, or had a leg severed off. I imagined those were the tens. So I said a five. I'm certain they thought I was the biggest whiner. Then they asked what my tolerance level was and I just said, "Not this!" It was agony! And really, that was the worst of it. Except when I puked a few more times. That was pretty awful too, but once I figured out it was the IB Profin that made me sick, I stopped taking it and was fine.
My parents stayed with me during the day, and then left at night. My mom thought I was being a huge baby and told my sister who told me. Rude. I loved when Thelma, the best nurse, came on shift, because she knew how to control my pain and when she was in charge, I never lagged for meds and was kept nice and comfy.
They had me up and out of bed and walking around the next morning. It hurt so much to get in and out of the bed, but, it didn't take too long before I was up and walking circles around the hospital floor. Sometimes with my mom and dad, and sometimes by myself while they stopped at home and got some food. The TV didn't work, but whenever I took pain pills, I was passed out for a few hours at a time, and so that was easy for me to avoid.
I had a lot of visitors, which was pleasant and some were unexpected. It was a perfect way to pass the time between hazy pain pill naps. A couple walked around and passed the sacrament to LDS patients on Sunday and I went to their sacrament meeting in my hospital gown and blanket with no bra on. It was a half hour. And simply the best. Maybe we should revisit the whole three hour thing? They had two talks and the sacrament in half an hour with a "come as you are" attitude. Utterly brilliant.
After that, I was discharged from the hospital. Which my parents were very happy about. They were practically chomping at the bit to get out of there and be somewhere where they could get some work done, instead of watching me lie around in pain. I made it home, and really, just took a pain pill, slept, walked, slept, took a pain pill, then slept for about two days. Then I was sleeping a little less, and watching more TV, and occasionally walking. And mostly watching my parents blow through a to do list like crazy.
I was still coughing while at home, which was pretty awful. And we watched comedians and Miranda, which made me laugh so hard I cried, and then I cried just because it hurt to laugh. Oi.
By the time my dad left, almost a full week later, I was feeling much more the thing. So my mom and I were able to accomplish a lot the whole second week I was in recovery. Including, taking lots of naps and watching all the pilot shows that came on TV.
Really, I think that is the key to recovery: TV and sleep. And more sleep. And, surprisingly, getting up and walking about.
It was so wonderful to have my parents here to help and get me through this. For as many offers as I had for people to take care of me, I don't think I could have comfortably relied on them as I was able to my parents. I am so SO grateful they were here. It almost makes me want to cry again! (Apparently I do that a lot.)
My mom left on Sunday, which sucked...but what can you do? I was fit and ready to go back to work, and so there was not much more I could do--no relapse I could truly threaten--and she had to get back to real life as I did. Siiiiiiiiiigh.
If anybody hears of a job my dad would be perfect for in Utah, please let me know immediately. I would like to have them closer to me.
Two and a half weeks ago, I picked my parents up from the airport--a real treat to have them all to myself for the first time since I was 13 months old and blessed with a baby sister--and prepared myself for surgery. Huzzah! The thought of getting the overly large, fairly disgusting Abner, the tumor, out of my body was positive enough that I wasn't overly concerned or nervous. I had every confidence in my doctor, and the ideology that once Abner was gone, I could move on.
For the record, surgery totally sucks. My dreams of one day getting an internal bra are currently on hold, as I'm not certain that I will ever be able to reconcile myself to elective surgery.
Funny story: We had to be at the hospital ungodly early--6 a.m.!--and so as we were hustling out the door, and I was grabbing things I thought I would need in the hospital for my one night stay, I misplaced my phone. I knew I had several people to update, but could not find it anywhere and didn't have time to lose. We got to the parking garage at 6 a.m., and by 6:15 a.m., I was in the prep room changing into my beautiful gown and hairnet, and wondering what to do with my glasses, when my mom stands up and finds my phone in her back pocket!! I had slipped it in there before going downstairs to get something at home. You might have had to be at the hospital in the wee hours of the morning to find it funny, but truly, I thought it was hilarious.
All the TV shows and movies always show people counting backwards from 100 or being told to think of a happy place before they go in for surgery. But that's not true. The residents came in and made sure I knew what was going to happen, the anesthesiologist came in and explained what his role was going to be. We discussed that everything was going to go well, and only the worst scenario would involve an epidural and complete hysterectomy, and then I was wheeled out the door and promptly forget everything until I was in the recovery room.
Coming out of anesthesia is weird and not very fun. I could overhear the nurses saying something about my left ovary being removed, but had no way to ask, "Um--what the heck??!" since it was supposed to be my right ovary. By the time I got my eyes opened, I tried to focus on the clock to see how long I had been out, hoping that would indicate whether or not I had needed the epidural or not. But the clock was spinning on an axis, the same as though I were on a very fast Ferris wheel. I couldn't get my eyes focused, and for some reason, that made me cry. Actually, I was just leaky and weepy anyway. Not in pain, not uncomfortable...just confused and crying.
A nurse was near me, keeping a close eye and I managed to ask a few questions, "Was there an epidural?" "Are my parents OK?" and "Why the left ovary?" There wasn't an epidural, the surgery had gone well and there was just a surprise with which ovary had been enlarged and needed to be taken out, but everything was good. And my parents were OK. She noticed my tears and told me that it was normal for me to cry--that often happens with female patients coming out of anesthesia. She told me something that men were prone to do, but for the life of me, I can't remember.
At some point, I was taken to my room. I vaguely remember going into the elevator. My parents were there waiting for me, where I said--still crying--that they took the wrong ovary. I could hear the worry in my mom's voice as she was like, "WHAT?" but didn't have the control left to explain that it was intentional and that it was OK. I fell asleep after that, I think.
You can imagine that having a six inch incision is not a fun time, and it isn't. Especially if some of the meds make you nauseous and throw up. And if you cough. Or laugh. Or move. The first pair of nurses on shift had me control my pain meds as I felt I needed them, which was sort of a crappy move on their part, as there were then lulls in which I was hurting pretty bad. At one point, I was in so much pain and they had come in to give me meds, but they asked me what the scale of pain I was in. I asked them to clarify and they told me to classify it from 1-10. The problem with that is, what classifies as a 1? What's a 10? (Look up Brian Reegan's sketch on the ER, and you'll understand.) I didn't feel like I was dying, I hadn't given birth, or had a leg severed off. I imagined those were the tens. So I said a five. I'm certain they thought I was the biggest whiner. Then they asked what my tolerance level was and I just said, "Not this!" It was agony! And really, that was the worst of it. Except when I puked a few more times. That was pretty awful too, but once I figured out it was the IB Profin that made me sick, I stopped taking it and was fine.
My parents stayed with me during the day, and then left at night. My mom thought I was being a huge baby and told my sister who told me. Rude. I loved when Thelma, the best nurse, came on shift, because she knew how to control my pain and when she was in charge, I never lagged for meds and was kept nice and comfy.
They had me up and out of bed and walking around the next morning. It hurt so much to get in and out of the bed, but, it didn't take too long before I was up and walking circles around the hospital floor. Sometimes with my mom and dad, and sometimes by myself while they stopped at home and got some food. The TV didn't work, but whenever I took pain pills, I was passed out for a few hours at a time, and so that was easy for me to avoid.
I had a lot of visitors, which was pleasant and some were unexpected. It was a perfect way to pass the time between hazy pain pill naps. A couple walked around and passed the sacrament to LDS patients on Sunday and I went to their sacrament meeting in my hospital gown and blanket with no bra on. It was a half hour. And simply the best. Maybe we should revisit the whole three hour thing? They had two talks and the sacrament in half an hour with a "come as you are" attitude. Utterly brilliant.
After that, I was discharged from the hospital. Which my parents were very happy about. They were practically chomping at the bit to get out of there and be somewhere where they could get some work done, instead of watching me lie around in pain. I made it home, and really, just took a pain pill, slept, walked, slept, took a pain pill, then slept for about two days. Then I was sleeping a little less, and watching more TV, and occasionally walking. And mostly watching my parents blow through a to do list like crazy.
I was still coughing while at home, which was pretty awful. And we watched comedians and Miranda, which made me laugh so hard I cried, and then I cried just because it hurt to laugh. Oi.
By the time my dad left, almost a full week later, I was feeling much more the thing. So my mom and I were able to accomplish a lot the whole second week I was in recovery. Including, taking lots of naps and watching all the pilot shows that came on TV.
Really, I think that is the key to recovery: TV and sleep. And more sleep. And, surprisingly, getting up and walking about.
It was so wonderful to have my parents here to help and get me through this. For as many offers as I had for people to take care of me, I don't think I could have comfortably relied on them as I was able to my parents. I am so SO grateful they were here. It almost makes me want to cry again! (Apparently I do that a lot.)
My mom left on Sunday, which sucked...but what can you do? I was fit and ready to go back to work, and so there was not much more I could do--no relapse I could truly threaten--and she had to get back to real life as I did. Siiiiiiiiiigh.
If anybody hears of a job my dad would be perfect for in Utah, please let me know immediately. I would like to have them closer to me.
September 16, 2014
The Unknown
I've been pretty calm about the whole surgery thing. That is, until today. Today I've been freaking out a little bit. Not of the surgery itself, really.
I'm not an anal planner and I can typically--as they say--go with the flow. But with surgery scheduled for Friday, and me having ZERO knowledge of what is going on or what to expect, I am in the middle of a meltdown.
My parents are flying standby. (Their choice. I've had offers for people to BUY tickets for them--did I mention that my friends are amazing, generous people?) With standby tickets you DON'T KNOW if and when you will arrive to your destination.
So come Friday morning, my parents may or may not be here for the surgery. But that's fine because I DON'T KNOW when my surgery is. Just that it is on Friday, some time in the morning. I also DON'T KNOW how I'm going to react to the anesthesia. Or how long I'm staying in the hospital. Or how long recovery will take, or how worthless I'm going to be while recovering. Or how I'm going to be affected by the surgery physically or emotionally.
I DON'T KNOW what I'm going to do with myself for two weeks while I'm off work. Or how much this is all going to cost me in the end. (Twenty percent of a most outrageous sum, most like. . .) I DON'T KNOW if there is still fluid in my lungs, though I suspect there is since my cough isn't gone; which means that I DON'T KNOW if that's important or not. Because shouldn't my lungs be in full working order before they put me under and do unmentionable things to my insides? I guess out of all the things, this will be answered tomorrow, since I'm headed back up to the doctor to have it all looked at again. Yippee.
I'm so clueless about all of it, and it is making me batty and moody and emotional. And, I don't like it all already. I didn't realize that I was so scared of the unknown. I mean, I have mini panic attacks every once awhile about the future and how things aren't going exactly as I thought they should. But those usually pass... Usually.
I'm not an anal planner and I can typically--as they say--go with the flow. But with surgery scheduled for Friday, and me having ZERO knowledge of what is going on or what to expect, I am in the middle of a meltdown.
My parents are flying standby. (Their choice. I've had offers for people to BUY tickets for them--did I mention that my friends are amazing, generous people?) With standby tickets you DON'T KNOW if and when you will arrive to your destination.
So come Friday morning, my parents may or may not be here for the surgery. But that's fine because I DON'T KNOW when my surgery is. Just that it is on Friday, some time in the morning. I also DON'T KNOW how I'm going to react to the anesthesia. Or how long I'm staying in the hospital. Or how long recovery will take, or how worthless I'm going to be while recovering. Or how I'm going to be affected by the surgery physically or emotionally.
I DON'T KNOW what I'm going to do with myself for two weeks while I'm off work. Or how much this is all going to cost me in the end. (Twenty percent of a most outrageous sum, most like. . .) I DON'T KNOW if there is still fluid in my lungs, though I suspect there is since my cough isn't gone; which means that I DON'T KNOW if that's important or not. Because shouldn't my lungs be in full working order before they put me under and do unmentionable things to my insides? I guess out of all the things, this will be answered tomorrow, since I'm headed back up to the doctor to have it all looked at again. Yippee.
I'm so clueless about all of it, and it is making me batty and moody and emotional. And, I don't like it all already. I didn't realize that I was so scared of the unknown. I mean, I have mini panic attacks every once awhile about the future and how things aren't going exactly as I thought they should. But those usually pass... Usually.
September 11, 2014
Alumna Failure
In July, I moved from Salt Lake City to West Jordan. With the move came a ward change, naturally. Matti and I had the fellowship committee stop by our house . . . twice. In one night. It was fine, really, but anyone who knows me knows that I am not good at the small talk. Last night, I went in for a "get to know you" interview with one of the bishopric members.
He was a pretty nice, but it was all small talk. He asked how many singles wards I had been in. I never thought to take the time to count--but I guess it's something like, nine? Ten if you count the home YSA ward, though, I wouldn't. Since I attended that ward more when I was 17 than when I was 18 and never actually had my records transferred there. Nine different wards in the ten years I've been in Utah. That's more than I would have thought, considering I lived in The Neighborhood ward for nearly three years. . ..
Anyway, when I told him that I had gone to BYU, he was like, "Oh, really? You went to BYU and you didn't leave with a husband?"
"Nope. I didn't," I said in order to say something.
"Did you try?"
What?
What kind of question is that? And how am I supposed to answer? "Well, I stood on the corner with a billboard sign every night, but no one was really responsive." Not really knowing what to say, I felt the need to explain or defend myself, which afterward, I was kind of ticked about. Because there's absolutely no reason to feel ashamed about how my life has turned out thus far.
"I did try--or I tried as best I could while working full time and going to school full time. And trying to find a chance to sleep somewhere in between." Honestly, my social life in college never really picked up steam until the final semesters when I lived at the Omni and actually had time to make a friend or two. My dating life has yet to pick up, but, there's only so much I can do about that.
So, just to be awkward, I told him, "Besides, gay guys love me. My friends' husbands tolerate me. But single guys? They don't seem to like me much."
He didn't know how to respond to that, so we talked about his son instead. . ..
Over all, the ward doesn't seem a bad sort. Everyone seems friendly. The ward is run pretty efficiently--we already have visiting teaching assignments and home teachers and they are working on getting us callings. There are plenty of activities. He asked me if I attended activities often and I told him that I didn't know how to respond to that. If I said yes, they might put me on the activities committee because I like activities (I don't, really) and if I said no (the truth), then they might put me on the activities committee in order to try and force me to come to things. I did not see a winning answer. Luckily, he changed the subject.
* * * *
In other news, a lot of people have been asking for updates. I'm--still--a little torn about how much detail to put out on the web. But it is much more efficient to just tell everyone at once here than individually.
I have no problems talking about the fact that Ab, the tumor, is on my right ovary. But as soon as I say "ovary" people feel like they have overstepped, or I worry that I'm over-sharing. I'm sure if I talked about Ab being on my right elbow, no one would bat an eye. Including me. (Although, let's be honest, a 10 cm, baseball-sized tumor on my elbow would be really gross.) Regardless of delicacy, Ab and said ovary are scheduled to come out on Friday, the 19th. That's a week from tomorrow.
The waiting is what is killing me.
Everything else is fine. I'm trying hard not to think about what it means to be one less ovary. Like, it probably doesn't matter, but it's still different than having your tonsils or gallbladder removed. I can function fine without one ovary. I can even--theoretically--still have as many babies as I want with one ovary. (But only if I can do it by myself, since my insurance doesn't cover "infertility" treatments.) Still, there is a sense of loss that I'm largely ignoring and not thinking about more than I have to. I'll deal with it all once it has finally happened. Maybe when they cut into me, they'll see that Ab wasn't as destructive to my ovary as they thought, and it can stay. Maybe this particular ovary is what has been the bane of my very existence since I was 13 years old, and the removal will solve all my other problems. Maybe this is God's way of prepping me for what is shortly to come! Or maybe, this all just really sucks. Or it could be a combination of the two or whatever.
In the meantime, I've been trying to research what exactly my recovery is going to entail. Since my parents are flying in, I want to be up and moving and doing things. I want to show them the mountains in the fall! and have my dad fix up my house! And, I'm not sure how it will all be accomplished, given I'll likely just be in bed. Boo. That doesn't sound fun at all--except for right now, I wouldn't mind climbing back in my bed and taking a smallish nap or two.
Thanks to everyone for their kind thoughts, prayers, and support. Y'all are more worried than I am most the time, so... you know, chill or something. :)
He was a pretty nice, but it was all small talk. He asked how many singles wards I had been in. I never thought to take the time to count--but I guess it's something like, nine? Ten if you count the home YSA ward, though, I wouldn't. Since I attended that ward more when I was 17 than when I was 18 and never actually had my records transferred there. Nine different wards in the ten years I've been in Utah. That's more than I would have thought, considering I lived in The Neighborhood ward for nearly three years. . ..
Anyway, when I told him that I had gone to BYU, he was like, "Oh, really? You went to BYU and you didn't leave with a husband?"
"Nope. I didn't," I said in order to say something.
"Did you try?"
What?
What kind of question is that? And how am I supposed to answer? "Well, I stood on the corner with a billboard sign every night, but no one was really responsive." Not really knowing what to say, I felt the need to explain or defend myself, which afterward, I was kind of ticked about. Because there's absolutely no reason to feel ashamed about how my life has turned out thus far.
"I did try--or I tried as best I could while working full time and going to school full time. And trying to find a chance to sleep somewhere in between." Honestly, my social life in college never really picked up steam until the final semesters when I lived at the Omni and actually had time to make a friend or two. My dating life has yet to pick up, but, there's only so much I can do about that.
So, just to be awkward, I told him, "Besides, gay guys love me. My friends' husbands tolerate me. But single guys? They don't seem to like me much."
He didn't know how to respond to that, so we talked about his son instead. . ..
Over all, the ward doesn't seem a bad sort. Everyone seems friendly. The ward is run pretty efficiently--we already have visiting teaching assignments and home teachers and they are working on getting us callings. There are plenty of activities. He asked me if I attended activities often and I told him that I didn't know how to respond to that. If I said yes, they might put me on the activities committee because I like activities (I don't, really) and if I said no (the truth), then they might put me on the activities committee in order to try and force me to come to things. I did not see a winning answer. Luckily, he changed the subject.
* * * *
In other news, a lot of people have been asking for updates. I'm--still--a little torn about how much detail to put out on the web. But it is much more efficient to just tell everyone at once here than individually.
I have no problems talking about the fact that Ab, the tumor, is on my right ovary. But as soon as I say "ovary" people feel like they have overstepped, or I worry that I'm over-sharing. I'm sure if I talked about Ab being on my right elbow, no one would bat an eye. Including me. (Although, let's be honest, a 10 cm, baseball-sized tumor on my elbow would be really gross.) Regardless of delicacy, Ab and said ovary are scheduled to come out on Friday, the 19th. That's a week from tomorrow.
The waiting is what is killing me.
Everything else is fine. I'm trying hard not to think about what it means to be one less ovary. Like, it probably doesn't matter, but it's still different than having your tonsils or gallbladder removed. I can function fine without one ovary. I can even--theoretically--still have as many babies as I want with one ovary. (But only if I can do it by myself, since my insurance doesn't cover "infertility" treatments.) Still, there is a sense of loss that I'm largely ignoring and not thinking about more than I have to. I'll deal with it all once it has finally happened. Maybe when they cut into me, they'll see that Ab wasn't as destructive to my ovary as they thought, and it can stay. Maybe this particular ovary is what has been the bane of my very existence since I was 13 years old, and the removal will solve all my other problems. Maybe this is God's way of prepping me for what is shortly to come! Or maybe, this all just really sucks. Or it could be a combination of the two or whatever.
In the meantime, I've been trying to research what exactly my recovery is going to entail. Since my parents are flying in, I want to be up and moving and doing things. I want to show them the mountains in the fall! and have my dad fix up my house! And, I'm not sure how it will all be accomplished, given I'll likely just be in bed. Boo. That doesn't sound fun at all--except for right now, I wouldn't mind climbing back in my bed and taking a smallish nap or two.
Thanks to everyone for their kind thoughts, prayers, and support. Y'all are more worried than I am most the time, so... you know, chill or something. :)
August 29, 2014
News to Start the Weekend
Got a phone call and then this email:
Shelli,Pathology results on your pleural fluid are: No malignant cells identified.Enjoy your weekend.Audra
That's good enough for me to go off and enjoy my Labor Day weekend. I'll have to wait until next week to find out about surgery and options and what's next. But for now, it is enough.
Shelli,Pathology results on your pleural fluid are: No malignant cells identified.Enjoy your weekend.Audra
That's good enough for me to go off and enjoy my Labor Day weekend. I'll have to wait until next week to find out about surgery and options and what's next. But for now, it is enough.
August 28, 2014
Why are you at the doctor so much lately?
Unintentionally, I've been posting a lot of pictures and quotes from doctors and their offices, and the question has arisen, "What the heck is going on with you?!"
I've been posting these things, not to be coy or cryptic, nor for the attention. But it has been at the forefront of my mind and my time these last few weeks, so it's all I have to post about. I've been debating about writing up anything or announcing it while I don't know anything. I really don't want people to think that I'm posting for attention or as a WOE IS ME! post. And I always hate when people give constant updates about their health, because it's supposed to be kind of private. You know? Like, there are laws in place to keep things private. Still, I've posted the few things that I have and it's got everyone's interest and worries piqued.
So, at the same time, I really don't care who knows. As long I'm not inundated with super sympathetic and outpourings of over-positivity. I need everyone who reads this to understand that I'm fine. I do appreciate the support--the really amazing, loving, awesome support--I've been getting, but I am positive that things are not only going to work out, but they are going to work out in my favor. I feel calm and untroubled about most of it. The hardest part is the waiting in between every test; and, on occasion, doing everything on my own gets to be a little overwhelming. (Doing things on my own, though, is largely by choice. As I've had plenty of offers to have someone accompany me to appointments and things.)
So here's the update:
Two months ago, I was working long hours on my first week at a new job. I spent the majority of my 10-12 hour days on my feet and talking to hundreds of people. So I was tired, and coughing, and noticed a "tumor" that was weird, but not surprising. Why not surprising? It's just one of a long list of things that I have come to expect.
But, it didn't go away like I would have expected after convention was over. I waited until I got my new insurance card and scheduled an appointment with my doctor because I was still coughing--the annoying, dry cough that just doesn't go away--and still had a giant "tumor" and...well, a thing or two more to discuss with the doctor. My doctor is a PA, though, and so after she ordered an ultrasound for said tumor and other things, and the radiologist commented that I should probably see an actual gynecologist instead of a PA.
So off to the gynecologist I went. Unfortunately at the time, the ultrasound results hadn't made it to him, so he went off what he could tell. He thought the "tumor" was probably a cyst and left me to make the decision whether or not I would drain it, or have it surgically removed. Just to be safe, though, he also ordered blood work. The blood work came back with an elevated CA125, so he ordered a CT scan and a chest x-ray. The "tumor" was in fact a tumor, and it has to come out. The CT scan also showed that the tumor was alarmingly big. (The ultrasound had too, but if you've ever seen CT scan images...let's just say, they put things in a terribly different perspective.) And that there was free floating fluid around my lungs, in my lungs, and in various other gutters and all sorts of other medical terms I had to Google.
He also recommended that I go see a gynecological oncologist.
The gynecological oncologist that he recommended only sees patients that meet certain criteria. He also only sees patients at the hospital covered by my insurance once a month. At first the office tried to schedule me with a different doctor. It was a little stressful, because from what I could tell, these other doctors did not have the same qualifications as the recommended doctor--in fact, they didn't have different qualifications from the doctor I had just left. They were just regular gynecologists. Luckily, my stress was resolved within a few days, because the office called me back and were able to schedule me for an appointment with the other gynecological oncologist in the office who had reviewed my blood work, ultrasound, and CT scan, and had determined that I needed to be seen right away.
Since the cyst draining option was taken off the table almost as immediately as it was put on the table of options, I've known that surgery was looming. But I haven't known when or how extensive or anything of that nature. The not knowing is really the hardest part. After a quick exam (the exam was quick, the waiting for an hour to be seen was not) and discussion with the doctor, I know still only that surgery is imminent but nothing else. He sent me down to have the fluid drained so that it could be tested for cancer cells--but was very confident that whatever I have it is not cancer--and then the decision would be made.
So after about three hours of waiting, they got me in, drained about a liter of fluid from my lung/around my lung and sent me up for another chest x-ray. As painful as it sounds, it really didn't hurt. They numbed my back and didn't let me see the needle (psychological warfare is a real thing, and everything about going to the doctor for something like this is seriously emotionally exhausting, so I am sort of grateful that I didn't see it--I did look at the fluid after, though) so I just felt some tightness and pressure, and then it was done. I got to go home after the all clear.
So what now?
Once the test results on the fluid is back and cancer is ruled out, I will have surgery and Abner, the tumor, will be removed along with my right ovary and tube. You can still function and theoretically get pregnant with only one ovary. If, on the off chance that it is actually cancerous, they will do a round of chemotherapy to get the tumor shrunk and keep it from growing, and then they will do surgery and remove it, the ovary and tube. Depending on the aggressiveness of the cancer (it's not cancer) will determine whether everything else comes out as well, though, the doctor made it a point to say that they would save everything they could.
So, I'm waiting again with a hole in my back and two band-aids--and I'm not sure how I'll get them off. The results will take something like three to five business days, which means, Tuesday at the earliest? And we'll go from there.
I will continue to keep everyone updated. Thank you for your thoughts, prayers, concerns, and magnanimous displays of generosity.
I've been posting these things, not to be coy or cryptic, nor for the attention. But it has been at the forefront of my mind and my time these last few weeks, so it's all I have to post about. I've been debating about writing up anything or announcing it while I don't know anything. I really don't want people to think that I'm posting for attention or as a WOE IS ME! post. And I always hate when people give constant updates about their health, because it's supposed to be kind of private. You know? Like, there are laws in place to keep things private. Still, I've posted the few things that I have and it's got everyone's interest and worries piqued.
So, at the same time, I really don't care who knows. As long I'm not inundated with super sympathetic and outpourings of over-positivity. I need everyone who reads this to understand that I'm fine. I do appreciate the support--the really amazing, loving, awesome support--I've been getting, but I am positive that things are not only going to work out, but they are going to work out in my favor. I feel calm and untroubled about most of it. The hardest part is the waiting in between every test; and, on occasion, doing everything on my own gets to be a little overwhelming. (Doing things on my own, though, is largely by choice. As I've had plenty of offers to have someone accompany me to appointments and things.)
So here's the update:
Two months ago, I was working long hours on my first week at a new job. I spent the majority of my 10-12 hour days on my feet and talking to hundreds of people. So I was tired, and coughing, and noticed a "tumor" that was weird, but not surprising. Why not surprising? It's just one of a long list of things that I have come to expect.
But, it didn't go away like I would have expected after convention was over. I waited until I got my new insurance card and scheduled an appointment with my doctor because I was still coughing--the annoying, dry cough that just doesn't go away--and still had a giant "tumor" and...well, a thing or two more to discuss with the doctor. My doctor is a PA, though, and so after she ordered an ultrasound for said tumor and other things, and the radiologist commented that I should probably see an actual gynecologist instead of a PA.
So off to the gynecologist I went. Unfortunately at the time, the ultrasound results hadn't made it to him, so he went off what he could tell. He thought the "tumor" was probably a cyst and left me to make the decision whether or not I would drain it, or have it surgically removed. Just to be safe, though, he also ordered blood work. The blood work came back with an elevated CA125, so he ordered a CT scan and a chest x-ray. The "tumor" was in fact a tumor, and it has to come out. The CT scan also showed that the tumor was alarmingly big. (The ultrasound had too, but if you've ever seen CT scan images...let's just say, they put things in a terribly different perspective.) And that there was free floating fluid around my lungs, in my lungs, and in various other gutters and all sorts of other medical terms I had to Google.
He also recommended that I go see a gynecological oncologist.
The gynecological oncologist that he recommended only sees patients that meet certain criteria. He also only sees patients at the hospital covered by my insurance once a month. At first the office tried to schedule me with a different doctor. It was a little stressful, because from what I could tell, these other doctors did not have the same qualifications as the recommended doctor--in fact, they didn't have different qualifications from the doctor I had just left. They were just regular gynecologists. Luckily, my stress was resolved within a few days, because the office called me back and were able to schedule me for an appointment with the other gynecological oncologist in the office who had reviewed my blood work, ultrasound, and CT scan, and had determined that I needed to be seen right away.
Since the cyst draining option was taken off the table almost as immediately as it was put on the table of options, I've known that surgery was looming. But I haven't known when or how extensive or anything of that nature. The not knowing is really the hardest part. After a quick exam (the exam was quick, the waiting for an hour to be seen was not) and discussion with the doctor, I know still only that surgery is imminent but nothing else. He sent me down to have the fluid drained so that it could be tested for cancer cells--but was very confident that whatever I have it is not cancer--and then the decision would be made.
So after about three hours of waiting, they got me in, drained about a liter of fluid from my lung/around my lung and sent me up for another chest x-ray. As painful as it sounds, it really didn't hurt. They numbed my back and didn't let me see the needle (psychological warfare is a real thing, and everything about going to the doctor for something like this is seriously emotionally exhausting, so I am sort of grateful that I didn't see it--I did look at the fluid after, though) so I just felt some tightness and pressure, and then it was done. I got to go home after the all clear.
So what now?
Once the test results on the fluid is back and cancer is ruled out, I will have surgery and Abner, the tumor, will be removed along with my right ovary and tube. You can still function and theoretically get pregnant with only one ovary. If, on the off chance that it is actually cancerous, they will do a round of chemotherapy to get the tumor shrunk and keep it from growing, and then they will do surgery and remove it, the ovary and tube. Depending on the aggressiveness of the cancer (it's not cancer) will determine whether everything else comes out as well, though, the doctor made it a point to say that they would save everything they could.
So, I'm waiting again with a hole in my back and two band-aids--and I'm not sure how I'll get them off. The results will take something like three to five business days, which means, Tuesday at the earliest? And we'll go from there.
I will continue to keep everyone updated. Thank you for your thoughts, prayers, concerns, and magnanimous displays of generosity.
