Power Port

Friday, July 24, 2009

Power Port

My Dad often brags about being "hermetically sealed." As in: never been operated on. The parts inside his body stay inside. The rest of the world stays outside.

This is an exaggeration, because blood has been drawn from him on occasion. But it's a life-affirming fiction for him, and one he uses to stupefy others.

For instance, one doctor looked at a mole on the side of his torso and recommended having it removed. Dad said, "It's holding an important part on the inside. If I take it off, something will fall out."

I am now guilty of gross violation of this "hermetically sealed" standard. It's not enough that I went bionic in October by having a plate screwed to my leg. Now, I'm sporting a Power Port.

Yes. It's really called that.

My very own valve. Stuff can be shot in. Stuff can be sucked out. I do not know what the Power Port has over a regular port, but I'm glad I got the best, baby.

And I like what having a port says to the world: "I see the coming year and the liters of fluid that will be pumped into my body and I am so OK with it, that I'm going to have a valve installed. So bring it on. It's never been easier to flood my system with drugs than it is right now."

My shoulder is still very sore from the procedure, and it's swollen, despite a lot of ice packs. But I'm betting that the discomfort now will be outweighed by the convenience and pain-savings of later when I don't have a nurse poking me with needles.

This latest episode has been very helpful in identifying something that has been a little troubling so far: this whole warrior language. Specifically, that many people refer to me (and others in my position) as warriors.

I know that people say it with the best of intentions, and my beef is not personal. I am not bothered by the people. I am just uncomfortable with the title.

Why? Because most of my appointments have been in an Army hospital. The day of my surgery, I saw a guy in the waiting room wearing a prosthetic foot.

And Mayfield mentioned that he was briefly assisting with an operation on a guy who'd take a round to his hip while in Afghanistan.

And the soldier in the pre-op bay across from me had the following words tattooed on his forearm: EXPECT NO MERCY.

These people are warriors. These people volunteered to serve their country, they fought a battle they didn't have to fight, and, we hope, they killed some of the enemies of our country.

I did not volunteer for cancer.

I don't have a choice about whether to fight it.

When the cancer cells die, it won't be because I fought them, it'll be because I let one doctor cut them out of me and let another shoot poison into my port.

My role in this is to try to function as well as I can while my body takes hit after hit after hit. And it seems that wearing the title "warrior" lessens a term of respect we all hold in high regard for warriors in uniform.

You may not agree with me, but you can understand my discomfort, right?

***

But then came this last procedure, and I learned something about why we want to use the term "warrior" to describe a person like me.

The day before the procedure, I had to go to the pre-op offices and do labs and paperwork.

The nurse who met with me was a little Filipino woman. She started talking and I recognized her at once. When I came out of my surgery a month ago, the nurse attending me kept talking, talking, talking, asking me question after pestering question even though I had a mask on and couldn't speak well through it.

She was right in my ear. So loud and so annoying, I kept thinking, "Make this woman shut up."

When it was time to send me off to ICU, she told me where I was going and that it had been a pleasure taking care of me and she grabbed my hand. I felt so bad, having thought such mean things towards her, that I squeezed her hand back. You know, to end on a good note. And I didn't mention her in my "Etherized" post because she had meant well. No need to defame her.

Here she was, across the desk from me, telling me that I seemed familiar. Ah yes. "You have surgery one month ago!" Uh huh. I recognized her voice, I told her. And smiled.

She checked the paperwork, and my surgery came back to her. I could see it in her face. Then she started sighing, "Oh. . . Oh. . .right. How you doing now? You OK?"

I nodded. Wanted her to get on with the pre-op run-down.

"Any breast cancer in your family?" she asked. This wasn't what she needed to ask for the form. I told her, "Nope."

"You so young! 34! You take hormones?"

I shook my head. This is a no-no. Trying to find the "cause" of someone's cancer. You'd be surprised how this pisses cancer patients off.  "No," I amplified, to save her more questions, "No hormones, no drugs of any kind, no smoking, I nursed my babies and I'm not obese."

There. All the categories that would have increased my odds of developing cancer. And I beat the odds anyway.

Then she said, "No, you very thin. Very pretty. . ." and she let that trail off and that's when I realized it: This was pity. She was pitying me.

Then she said, with her pitying voice, "How old are your babies?"

Ugh! Asking about my children? Of course I started crying. Damn. It's much easier to leave my kids out of this as much as possible.

So then, having made me cry, she stepped into the compassionate nurse role and said this and that about treatment and everything would be OK and blah, blah, blah. All coated in pity.

This is when I realized that people use the warrior metaphor because we recognize that warriors are not pitied. They are admired and encouraged. But they are in a position of power, which is strength, and not powerlessness, which we pity.

Yeah, given a choice between being called a warrior and a boo-hoo-for-Amy chorus, I'll risk disrespecting real warriors and wear their title.

In the meantime, let's try to think of a title that does what "warrior" does, but is, in fact, a better description of what I'm actually doing:

I'm permitting onslaught to by body in order to save that body,

and I'm doing it in faith that God permits only His best plans for me, regardless of how good or bad they look to my eyes

and I'm trying to conduct all the things I can control in such a way that when the cancer is all gone and I remain, my life and the lives of those around me will somehow be better off for the experience.

What shall we call a person who does that?

When the Bandages Came Off

[I have editted this post somewhat from its original.  Trimmed it down a bit.  But I haven't added any content to it.]

Thursday, July 9, 2009

When the Bandages Came Off

The morning I checked out of the hospital, it was time to remove the wraps from surgery and have a look to see how the wound was healing. Mayfield had warned me the day before, saying that some women don’t look at all and that others are desperate to see it ASAP.

 

As for me, I thought of the matter as relentlessly inevitable. I had seen nothing with my own eyes, so on some level I still looked like the woman of my wedding photos. But I was in the ICU of an Army hospital. Surely something must have happened.

***
I sat at the edge of the bed. Mayfield, his nurse, the ICU nurse and Bryan were all in the room. But when the bandages came off and I looked down, there was nothing in the room.

There are very, very few times when I am not thinking something. This was one of those times. There was nothing but sadness. I realized from almost outside of myself that I was in the midst of a resigned weeping.

I vaguely heard Mayfield say that it was going to be all right, that I was a warrior. I get his metaphor, of course. He’s an Army doctor. He’s a West Pointer. He’s worked on real warriors in Iraq and Afghanistan. It makes perfect sense for him to bring a martial frame—the talk of enemies and battle plans and strategies—to the entire cancer event. But none of this feels like fighting. It feels like something to endure, and to be led through.

I also vaguely realized that Mayfield was re-fastening my gown, and then from there it was a glowing report of how "great" everything looked.

 

But I could not look away.

That First Look is burned into memory. There are a few experiences that, when I re-visit them and remember them, make me cry all over. Very likely, this one will be among them. 

 

***

 

I’ve been wondering lately whether I would choose this course for myself.  This past Spring I did a study of Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount. It was life-changing. And Jesus says near the start of it, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

There was a real question assumed by this statement.  The question is this: 

Amy, Do you really want to see God?  

 

If seeing God work in your life, and change your heart, and touch those around you requires circumstances that include seeing your own body carved, do you really want to see Him?

 

Pontius Pilate and Herod come to mind. Those two buffoons of the Gospel accounts.

 

Pilate was simply uninterested in Jesus. Here he was, the Roman official, assigned to the backwater province of Palestine. Probably had ambitions of finishing up his tour there so he could go back to Rome to be a power broker, maybe even a senator.

He (and those before, and those after him) famously took up residence in Jerusalem once a year, at the time of Passover because that was the only time the Jewish city caused the Empire any angst. What would all those Jews do, all gathered together? Would that religious celebration of theirs ignite a rebellion one of these days?

 

So, the Prefect from Rome would show up with all his guards and a heavy presence, and discourage the feast from becoming anything more than their yearly ritual. And when, inexplicably, these people brought before him a guy who seemed innocuous, maybe a little perplexing, what did Pilate do? Did he want to do anything more than handle this sudden inconvenience?

Not so much. His own wife had had disturbing dreams the night before, and something about Jesus recommended itself to Pilate enough that he’d “wash his hands” of the whole affair—that is, Pilate had a clue there was something unique about Jesus—but when he was actually in the hot seat himself, what did Pilate ask?

 

Did he really want to see who Jesus was?

No. He gave a half-hearted effort at questioning the prisoner and when Jesus told Pilate He came to testify to the truth, do you know what Pilate said?

 

“What is truth?”

 

Kind of like, “Yeah, right.  'Truth.' How quaint."

Was Pilate alive a couple decades later, when The Way became big enough to capture the attention of the Empire?

 

Did he comment over drinks with friends that he, in fact, had been the one to crucify the guy who started the whole annoyance?

 

Who’d have thought? Of all the hundreds—maybe even thousands—of men he’d had executed, who could have guessed that this one particular, humble Jewish guy would be so slow to die away?

 

Was Jesus, for Pilate, only ever an intellectual curiosity?

And then there was Herod. “When Herod saw Jesus, he was greatly pleased, because for a long time he had been wanting to see him. From what he had heard about him, he hoped to see him perform some miracle. He plied Jesus with many questions, but Jesus gave him no answer.”

That’s one thing this last month has shown me: Sure, I’m no Pilate. But to what extent am I a Herod?

 

It’s easy to go to church and sing worship songs and pray for others and listen to other people's stories about God’s miracles in their lives—it’s easy to be religious.

 

Do I want to see the signs and wonders of God? Sure!  Who doesn't love a miracle?

But Jesus has no answer for the heart that seeks after the signs and wonders.

If seeing God work in my life means surgery and a forever-sad moment of the First Look,  do I still want to see Him?

Would you?

Nurses

Originally posted on
Wednesday, July 22, 2009

A few more notes from my stay in the ICU:

I went to Creighton University for my undergrad. This small school had a massive pre-med and nursing population. Freshman year, it was hard to meet people who weren't going to be doctors and nurses.

As a result, the whole campus had to suffer with these people as they bemoaned every Biology and Organic Chemistry exam that came down the shoot. That's the one thing I didn't like about dorm life, hearing way too often in the halls: "Oh I am so stressed. Orgo is just killing me." Yeah? Then take a nap.

I would tell these people that I was majoring in English and Philosophy and they would say first, "Oh that sounds like fun," and then, "Are you going to teach with that?"

My only comfort was found in my fellow English and Philosophy majors, and Business friends, who would snark at the pre-medders with me. (Are you reading this, Nick? Jeff??? Frazier????? I'm talkin' about you guys!) It was kind of like being in a fraternity of We Who Wish To Avoid Gross Body Things.

Flash forward several years, and here I am, very glad that there are people professionally devoted to gross body things.

There was Michelle, the day time nurse. Sweet as could be. Totally OK with the gross stuff. Like "stripping my tubes."

I'm only going to describe this because it's pretty amazing. You're about to hear of the most basic of physics principles applied ingeniously to solve a medical problem with surgery.

The problem:   What do you do with the fluid that builds up as a response to a wound when you've sewn the wound shut? How do you drain it?

I didn't know until I was staring down at my chest at a long, kind of thick, alien worm looking shape stuck under my skin. This was a drainage tube. Placed up near my armpit, and then snaking down across the length of my chest, and then out somewhere on my side, almost on my back.

Did they make the hole in my skin back there and poke the tube through and then sew the skin flaps down? I don't know. I probably don't want to know. You're probably wishing I hadn't begun this line of discussion.

Attached to the tube was a little pastic ball with a valve that pops open. They squeezed the air out of it while the valve was open, then shut the valve, and this simple mechanism of suction pulled out all the excess fluid from the wound! I had two tubes, one from the armpit and one that I wasn't as dramatic from the actual breast removal. And the two little pastic balls sucked and sucked.

Disgusting.

And this nurse--and the others, whom I'll get to--came in with their gloves and emptied the balls out, measuring the fluid. Michelle was the first to "strip" the tubes, meaning she pulled on them to move along the little clots and make sure there was enough flow to do the job. I kept saying, "This is so gross. I'm so sorry you have to do this." As I actually felt the suction in the wound--weird.

And she'd say, "This is no problem at all. This is not gross. Don't worry about it."

And I wanted to say, "I'm so sorry I didn't really like your kind way back in college," but I didn't.

(Six days after surgery, I went into the clinic and a different nurse pulled the tubes out. OOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!! At one point, I was saying to myself, "I will not drop an f-bomb. I will NOT drop an f-bomb."

She said, "You're body is healing so quickly, this is amazing," and I said, "Half the country is praying for me. Of course I'm healing quickly.)

Then there was Desiree, the night nurse. She was also very nice. Maybe a little more liberal than Michelle. For instance, when it was time for her to run a catheter for me, she referred to my urethra as "Mr. Wink."

"Mr. Wink?" I asked, as I lay in a compromising position.

"Yeah, I call him that because he kinds of winks at you when you look for him."

Keep that helpful tip in mind, friends, for next time you go looking for someone's urethra.

I wanted to tell her, "See? If you'd majored in either English or Philosophy as well as nursing, you might have come across the notion that it's not right to refer to female anatomy as anything male. How about Mrs. Wink? Wouldn't that work?" but I didn't.

My last night there, Matthew was on duty instead of Desiree. Laurie and Bryan were visiting the whole evening, and the three of us were having a great time, laughing a lot, talking up a storm. This nurse would manufacture reasons to come in and he'd join in the conversation where he could. It's like he wanted to be part of the party. A real chatty Cathy, that Matthew.

My company left, I found myself embroiled in some kind of conversation with this nurse as the hour drew late. I finally said, "Well, I think I should get to sleep now"--and he took the hint and went back to his lonely desk in the hallway.

But he still had to come in for vitals, and at 3 AM, when he was there, I asked for a blanket. This launched him into chit chat about the weather, and then humidity, and then somehow the Midwest, and I think--because this is how insanely compulsive I am about conversation--I asked in my sleepy haze whether he'd spent much time in the Midwest. There was more talking, but I do not remember it, what with the drugs and the sleep and the hour. . .

But the next morning, right before his shift change, he came in again and I asked, "Was I hallucinating last night, or did you say you went to Creighton University?"

"No, that was real. I said I was a nursing student there. And you majored in English and Philosophy."

Dang. Really? I mean: seriously? And yet I am not making any of this up. When you read the next part, you're going to think I am fabricating, just for dramatic effect, but I'm not.

He said, "So did you end up teaching with that?"

The Surgery Part II

I was tired as I sat in the waiting room.  Sad.  Filled with dread.  But not at all thinking of walking out, or even wanting to.  It had to be done. 

***

They called me back and gave Bryan, Helen and David each a hug, not knowing that they'd be permitted back to see me soon.

The first stop was the pre-pre-op room.  Blood pressure.  Temperature.  They asked for my weight, which I assumed would affect the anesthesiologist's work, so I didn't lie. 

***

The creepy part of the pre-op room is that it is full of bays, separated by curtains hanging from the ceiling. One bed per bay, each bed with a person in it and we were all there for one reason:  someone was going to cut us open soon. 

By the nurse's station hung a giant white board with the day's line-up of surgeries. 
There I was:  Ponce - Mayfield - mastectomy.
I hate that word.

And they left of "sub-clavian port installation," we were doing that, too.  All in one shot.

***

I've since been asked by medical people why we were not removing the left breast as well.  It's fairly standard procedure to take both when it's this type of cancer in a woman so young. 

Believe me: it is not as though I had any plans to hang on to my other one.  I could see the medical road stretch out before me in the best case scenario--conquer this cancer, and then do a mammogram every year for the next 50 years with the hope that nothing shows up?  Whatever.

The answer is that this was not to be a simple breast removal.
This was to be a radical removal. 

Like back in the old days when surgeons didn't catch the cancer early, and didn't know much about margins and wanted to be on the safe side.  They'd carve out the whole pectoralis--the muscle below the breast--too.

That would be enough trauma for one body.  The other breast could wait.

***

In my case, we weren't being "old school."  The MRI showed the cancer already in the muscle wall. 

My oncologist, whom we'd been to see right after the first surgical consult with Mayfield, pleaded with me not to do this surgery.

It was on my cell phone.  We were driving South on Powers when he called, and he was emphatic.

"I'm looking at the pathology report and we have an excellent medicine for this particular cancer.  We can shrink it back from the muscle.  One of my colleagues was just telling me that she hasn't even seen a radical mastectomy in the last ten years, they're so uncommon.  Don't do this.   It's a morbid, morbid surgery and you don't need to do this."

So why was I sitting in the pre-op bay, ready to do this?  Long story.  For a different post.

Suffice it to say: I was going to do this.

***

I dressed in a hospital gown.  All my personal items in a bag.  (Another heavy-duty plastic one with handles. Nice.)

Bryan came back to join me.  Helen and her service dog, too.  I was crying.  A weepy sort of cry.  A my-heart-is-being-pressed-through-a-grist-mill.

I don't think I knew this about faith before that moment.  That even 100% faith cannot protect you from grief. 

I kept thinking of Jesus in the Garden before one of His friends betray Him, before the rest deserted Him, as He thought of the torture about to befall Him.  He knew grief. 

***

Mayfield appeared, Helen and the dog left.

He did something I never thought I would experience from another human being. 
He signed my breast.

"Weird, I know," he said.  "It's a requirement.  You wouldn't believe how many things can go wrong if we don't take the most basic precautions."

Fine.  It's just that I expected to look up and see a NASCAR track in front of me.

***

Mayfield asked if we wanted to pray.

Bryan did the speaking.

I did the crying as I watched Mayfield, sitting down my be feet, his head bowed to the bed, his arms outstretched.  A humble man.

***

The surgical nurse came by after he left. 

She told me Mayfield had briefed her on the surgery.  She told me he had teared up telling her how important it was that "we get this one right."  She told me that Mayfield was her "favorite person in the whole hospital." 

***

Then the anesthetist came and I don't even remember what we were talking about before I suddenly felt very relaxed.  And then suddenly woke up with an oxygen mask on my face and my throat so, so, so dry.

I heard Mayfield's voice, close to my ear, "How are you doing, Amy?"

I groaned.

He said, "Don't worry, I got the license plate of the truck that hit you."

Seconds later, I was more awake, and you know what was really hurting me?  My ankle.

He confirmed this later, that I had indeed issued, as my first complaint, "My ankle hurts."

It felt exactly like the times when I sit cross-legged and the plate on my ankle is resting on the ground.  As soon as I move, that little area burns.  It was that pain.  Exactly.

By the time I was wheeled to the recovery room, it was my neck that hurt.  I sleep with a cervical support pillow and now cannot sleep without it.  Yet I'd just spent 7 hours in a bed without one.

***

I learned things soon, as I sat up just a bit in my hospital room.

The port installation had not gone well.  A port is a small chunk of titanium with a soft "belly" that is inserted into the body.  It has a plastic tube that goes from below the "belly" of the chunk out into the body.  The tube is threaded into one of my blood vessels and the body--amazingly--doesn't bleed around this tube, it just kind of. . .seals up around it quickly.

When the time for chemotherapy arrived, I did not roll up my sleeves and take intravenous needles.  I pulled down my shirt collar and the nurse poked a needle through my shoulder, into the "belly" of the port. 

This is easier on one's arm vessels. 

But I didn't get one that day.  Mayfield couldn't get the tube to thread into the vessel.

And in his efforts, he thought he may have poked too far with the tube and collapsed my left lung. 

At which point he said, "That it, sew up this side.  We're here to cure cancer," and he moved to the more pressing task at hand. 

***

(Turns out the lung wasn't collapsed.  Didn't feel like it, anyway.  But he inserted a chest catheter anyway--which hurt--and ordered me into an ICU room which was, therefore, private and under the watch of a nurse devoted to my care.  So that was nice.)

***

Something else happened in the surgery.

After he removed my breast, he prepared to carve into the muscle, but noticed that. . .it seemed to be healthy tissue. 

He sent a tiny slice off to pathology and heard back that there was no cancer there. 

So I'm not caved in, as I'd expected to be. 

What of the discrepancy between the MRI images that showed a glowing chest wall and the actual health of that tissue?  There's no medical explanation.

***

Something else happened in the surgery.

As I've noted before, scans also showed my lymph nodes on the upper right side aglow and full of cancer.  He removed all those in my armpit that he could get to.

But, as he'd told us earlier, the one cancerous node that was higher up in the shoulder, "surgery cannot address."  It would still be in my body even after a surgery as radical as this.

I'm going to quote him:

"Right before sewing up, I thought, 'I wonder if I could get to that,' so I stuck my hand up under your collar bone and was able to pluck it out?'"

"Pluck it out?"

"Kind of like a grape."

"But you said you wouldn't be able to get to it. . ."

"I've got to give glory to God for that one, Amy.  This is not something that's supposed to happen." 

***
During this whole time, updates came out to Bryan and Helen and David.  I asked Bryan what they did as they waited and he didn't know.

He really didn't know. 

He said he thought they ate lunch at some point in the hospital, they must have. 

This is just weeks afterwards that I asked him, not yesterday, 2 1/2 years later. . .  I was--am!--very touched that he had no idea.

***

But he did call Mom with updates.  She called my family.  Sister #1 sent out e-mails.  My friend Laurie picked up the torch post-surgery and all through that ICU weekend and gave a play-by-play. 

I didn't know all that was going on.  But it was a beautiful, beautiful thing to learn about when I got home a few days later. 

That's the thing to know, really, when you are the one trying to be helpful for someone else who is walking a valley. 

You feel helpless.  You feel like an e-mail, or a card, or a phone call, or a prayer, or a blog-page-view couldn't possibly help at all.


And yet all those little things are thunderous voices in the valley shouting:

You are not alone. 
We are in your corner.

They are the wind one spreads her wings upon.

***

(And, hey, "In your corner" belongs on our List of boxing phrases. . . )

Surgery Part I

This is a new post, written about a day I have so far managed not to write about.  These are memories I have and am glad to have.  I don't try to push them away when they surface.  Some of them are kind of funny, even. 

I think I haven't written them down yet because that day, that event, was so big.  I felt as though I couldn't do a competent job of it. 

I've decided just to go for it, incompetently. 

***

The day before the surgery was dreadful.  Both hard in itself and full of dread for what was coming. 

I was still recovering from the sugar reaction the night before.  I was so dehydrated and my stomach was a knot that didn't want to re-hydrate.

We went to the hospital for the pre-op appointment that included talking to doctors and nurses at 4 different desks (or so) and answer health questions, one of which was, "How would you rate your health today?" 

Well, aside from the 8cm tumor in my chest. . . 

***

One was a male nurse who gave the pre-op instructions.  No eating or drinking after midnight, and so forth.  He gave me a heavy-duty plastic bag with built-in handles pre-loaded with supplies I'd need.

Specifically, it included 2 sponges and 2 iodine packets, which I was to use that night and the morning of to "wash the surgical area." 

I showered twice, just hours apart, and did my home-bound duty.

Boy, did that feel like a creepy ceremony.

***

Those bags, by the way, are still in use, as liners in two of our waste baskets.

What?  It's hard to come by a nice, heavy, small plastic bag like that.

***

There was a lady there for her own pre-op appointment who came over to talk with me.  Maybe she guessed--woman as young as I, no apparent broken bones, could be breast cancer.  Maybe she'd been eavesdropping.

She was in her 40's, and she launched into her story about being diagnosed and then under-going double-breast-removal at age 18. 

And "There's life after mastectomy"--I hate that word--and "I married my best friend who helped me through it all" and "my brother shaved his head to be bald along with me" and on and on, including comments on her reconstruction and current physique.

She was grotesque.  She was haggard, and her teeth were bad, and her hair was long and stringy, and she was very overweight and she sounded like a chain-smoker with a constant hackle in the back of her throat. 

I just smiled the whole time she was talking and then thanked her when she was done.

It was all I could do not to start crying, thereby incurring more of her comfort.

***

David and Helen arrived into town by the early evening.  They had been through their own harrowing surgery a few months before as Helen's life was saved by a double-organ transfer.

They came to be here for me.  They came to sit with Bryan in the hospital.  I can imagine that theirs was a crappy drive across Kansas.

***

They told me to call Dr. Mayfield and ask for "something to help me sleep." 

You can do that?  Ask your surgeon for drugs?

They saw how agitated I was, and having had experience with drugs themselves. . .  

Mayfield obliged, of course.  I fell asleep by midnight with the Ambien.  And woke at 3:00.  Guess it helped a little.

***

I talked to my family that night on the phone, as I'm fairly certain my Dad had kind of sent out a, "Call Amy, this is a hard moment after all" kind of siren. 

I was glad to talk with them.

But they knew and I knew that it didn't help.  Some valleys are just lonesome.  Some things just can't be helped and that's why they suck.  They just suck, and that's that.

***

A certain person I shall not name called at 5:30 AM, having not calculated the time change. 

Bryan ended up talking with this person, who had called mainly to give the council, "Don't do this surgery."

So.  While I don't think it would have been possible to be helpful, I realized that it is possible to be unhelpful.

***

I was so thirsty.  So thirsty.  Hungry, too. 

Couldn't do anything about that. 

(I learned from a later surgery that, actually, it is OK to drink a glass of plain water, but that they declare a ban on everything because they can't trust patients to take only plain water.

Sheesh.

Again: unhelpful.)

***

Mom was staying with us then, to help with the kids, to be my Mommy. 

She was up early, too.  I told her I just hated thinking about it. 

It was so much dread. 

She said, "Well, let's not think about it, then.  Let's watch an episode of Seinfeld!"

(Bryan had bought be the complete box set a week earlier.)

So that's what we did.  A few episodes, in fact.  Very helpful.

***

And then it was time to leave for the hospital.  David and Helen came to our house first so they could come through the gate with us on base. 

And we left. 

By the time I was in the car, I felt an odd sense of relief.  In less than 12 hours, the deed will be done.  And the only thing I know for certain is that God has brought me to these next 12 hours.

***

I didn't have any kind of concern that I wouldn't survive the surgery.  I wasn't at all nervous about that. 

But I did have a sinus infection at that time.  I had forgotten tissue and so resorted to blowing my nose into a spare diaper we had in the glove compartment.

The infection had been around for a week or so.  I had asked Mayfield about it a few days earlier--e.g. should we delay the surgery because of this infection?

"Because of a sinus infection?  No, Amy, we're curing cancer here. . ."

But they pumped me full of antibiotics--standard course for serious surgery--and I woke up with clear sinuses!

***

David, Helen, her service dog, BroJean and I got to the drab waiting room and found the TV's on, blaring about the death of Michael Jackson. 

This news overshadowed the other national story of the cap n' trade vote, which, at the time, felt like a big deal to a lot of people who had not just been diagnosed with breast cancer.

Bryan pulled out some reading material, his summer issue of Backyard Poultry.  David thought this was hysterical. 

It hadn't occurred to me until he started laughing that Bryan reading a chicken husbandry magazine as he sat in the waiting room during his wife's breast removal surgery was kind of funny.

***

I think this is about half of the story.  I'm calling a time out.  Maybe you need it, too.

PET Scan Results

(On Fridays, I am re-posting the core entries I wrote for the blog of our cancer journey.  I don't know if this is interesting for anyone else, but I am amazed and fascinated to re-read them.  I am cutting and pasting with no other edits, except as marked.)


25 June 09

My surgery is tomorrow.

The good news from yesterday is that the PET scan came back negative. That is, the cancer is not elsewhere in my body at a size bigger than 1/2 a centimeter. (It might be somewhere smaller than that, I suppose. . .)

It is "locally spread," meaning the tumor in my right breast, the lymph nodes in the right arm pit, and a few lymph nodes up under the collar bone that the surgeon will not be able to remove. [AP: This is what the surgeon himself told us after reading the PET scan.  Stay tuned next week to learn what happened to those lymph nodes.]

I am thankful for this. The reality of the surgery--a radical mastectomy, which means a big portion of my pectoral muscle too--is kind of hanging over my head and overshadowing the sense of relief I should be feeling. But it's OK for all of you to feel relieved.

The PET scan began with an injection of radioactive glucose. Many of you know that I have a bizarre allergy to refined sugar--even a little bit of it gives me the effects of severe food poisoning. About 6 hours after the injection, I had a "sugar reaction" and spent the entire night in the bathroom with vomitting and toilet problems. It is very hard to recover from a night like that under normal circumstances, but with the added stress of the surgery, today has been a very, very difficult day indeed.

I'll have to ask next time if they can use organic radioactive glucose.

I keep thinking of the part of Christ's passion where He prayed in the garden. Knowing what was coming ahead of Him. Not really wanting to go there. And yet He did, and He did it for love.

I feel like I'm tasting a small sip of that cup--there is so much sadness and grief in this. And yet I will do this for my children and for Bryan.

Romans 8 has also been a real comfort to me. It happens sometimes that you read a verse that you've read before many times only this time it shines in a different way. This is what has ministered to me:

"Those who live in the Spirit set their minds on things of the Spirit. Those who live in the flesh set their minds on things of the flesh."

I live in the Spirit. And what is true about the spiritual world is that my Redeemer lives, and He reigns, and He walks ahead of me in this. So, grief. . .yes. But there is comfort for those who mourn.

And His joy comes in the morning.

(On Fridays, I am re-posting the core of the blog I wrote during our cancer journey.  I am copying and pasting, with no edits unless I've marked them as such.)



25 June 09

My surgery is tomorrow.

The good news from yesterday is that the PET scan came back negative. That is, the cancer is not elsewhere in my body at a size bigger than 1/2 a centimeter. (It might be somewhere smaller than that, I suppose. . .)

It is "locally spread," meaning the tumor in my right breast, the lymph nodes in the right arm pit, and a few lymph nodes up under the collar bone that the surgeon will not be able to remove.

I am thankful for this. The reality of the surgery--a radical mastectomy, which means a big portion of my pectoral muscle too--is kind of hanging over my head and overshadowing the sense of relief I should be feeling. But it's OK for all of you to feel relieved.

The PET scan began with an injection of radioactive glucose. Many of you know that I have a bizarre allergy to refined sugar--even a little bit of it gives me the effects of severe food poisoning. About 6 hours after the injection, I had a "sugar reaction" and spent the entire night in the bathroom with vomitting and toilet problems. It is very hard to recover from a night like that under normal circumstances, but with the added stress of the surgery, today has been a very, very difficult day indeed.

I'll have to ask next time if they can use organic radioactive glucose.

I keep thinking of the part of Christ's passion where He prayed in the garden. Knowing what was coming ahead of Him. Not really wanting to go there. And yet He did, and He did it for love. I feel like I'm tasting a small sip of that cup--there is so much sadness and grief in this. And yet I will do this for my children and for Bryan.

Romans 8 has also been a real comfort to me. It happens sometimes that you read a verse that you've read before many times only this time it shines in a different way. This is what has ministered to me:

"Those who live in the Spirit set their minds on things of the Spirit. Those who live in the flesh set their minds on things of the flesh."

I live in the Spirit. And what is true about the spiritual world is that my Redeemer lives, and He reigns, and He walks ahead of me in this. So, grief. . .yes. But there is comfort for those who mourn. And His joy comes in the morning.

Surgical Consult Kicks Off Marathon

(On Fridays, I am re-posting some of the key entries from our journey with breast cancer.  I am editing them a bit to make them leaner, but am not adding anything unless I mark it as an editor's comment.)

Surgical Consult

17 June 09

Bryan and I went to my consult today. Our biggest prayer was that we'd either have an extreme peace with the Army surgeon, or that serious red flags would go up such that we'd seek medicine out in town with civilians.

By way of bias, we were already gunning to get out into town. But it turns out that Dr. Mayfield is awesome. We love him already! Our concerns were all laid to rest and we're completely confident in entrusting my care to him. Praise God. Truly. He has made the path ahead of us very clear and we're both glad to have no ambiguity about it.

There is only one course to pursue and though it looks rough, at least it is plainly evident. Mine is a common kind of cancer, the sort that grows in the ducts.

 

The tumor is a whopping 8 cm big. 8 centimeters. That's pretty freaking huge, and Mayfield guesses that it has been growing for several years now.

 

And it's aggressive, too, as it is already pushing into my muscle. It's rare to find this kind of cancer in someone 34 years old--I'm in an elite 0.5%. So how about that.

Surgery is scheduled for next Friday, the 26th. It will be a radical mastectomy, which means he'll carve into my muscle as well.

 

On the one hand, it's a bummer to lose a breast. On the other hand, I really see today how life threatening this cancer is. As Mayfield said--with tears in his eyes, which I thought was great--I really only have one shot at getting this right.

 

So there's no holding back. There is a lot of grief in this. But there's no point in being in a coffin with 2 breasts. That are getting a little saggy anyway. And frankly, once I'm re-constructed, I'll be even more smoking hot than I am now.

Before the surgery, I'll undergo some sort of glucose imaging procedure where they'll determine if the cancer has spread into any other organs. They are nearly certain it's in the lymph nodes of the right armpit. The left lymph nodes and the left breast, at this point using the MRI, look clean. So all the right lymph nodes will come out during surgery as well.

 

Before the operation, I'll also see an oncologist and radiation guy to consult with them. Then they'll confer with the surgeon and tell him if and where to place the valves that they'll use to shoot the chemicals through.

 

Mayfield is 95% certain that both therapy doctors will recommend giving me everything in their armory. Because I'm young and healthy, I'll be able to tolerate anything. And so they'll want to hit me with "The steak, the potato, the green bean, and then the tray itself." Because, again, my first shot is my best shot. As unpleasant as this sounds, I'd rather they be aggressive than having them tenderfoot around, hoping for the best.

Again, I cannot tell you how pleased we are with this guy. It really feels like God hand-picked him for us.

 

We also happened to discover that he is a Christian who first submitted to the Lord in 2006, and that he had prayed before our appointment. . .   Needless to say, it'd be hard to imagine a better match for ourselves.

 

***

 

Marathon

21 June 09

As we've prayed about this whole cancer thing, what we've been hearing back from God is that we are heading down a long road that will end well. God has told us several times: "This is a marathon, not a sprint."

Go back 5 years to our time in Korea. The movie theater there showed movies for free, so we went all the time. They always showed the same refreshment movie where candy wrappers balled themselves up and jumped into the trash can and tubs of popcorn gathered into a kickline.

 

The music to this movie was so wonderful! It was fast and catchy and I'd always kind of dance in my seat and tell Bryan how badly I wanted a copy of this song. This was music that could get me out of bed in the morning!

But there are no credits for that kind of thing. I had nothing to go on. No artist. No title. Nothin'! I left Korea and said goodbye to that refreshment music.

Fast forward to this past weekend. We had promised Josh that we'd take him to the "North Pole" (a kiddie-ride amusement park nestled into the mountains) for his 3rd birthday. Figuring that I might not be feeling to well come late July, we went last Sunday. Had a great time. Perfect weather. Not crowded. So much fun. We took a break to watch the magic show and the magician took the stage and began performing to. . . that refreshment song!!!!!! I couldn't believe it! Bryan! That's the song!

After the show, I approached the magician and said, "Great show, great show--now what was that one song called?"

"Oh, this one?" he asked, and re-played a snippet of it. "This is called 'Marathon.'"


Well. How about that.

People, what can I say? If Jesus Christ did not resurrect from the dead, if He stayed dead as all other people do, then I am imagining things. I'm imagining God's peace. I'm fabricating this joy. And the 15 years since I chose to believe that Jesus Christ is the resurrected Savior have not been full of God's Hand working in my life. They've been full of coincidence and wishful thinking.

But if He did resurrect from the dead, then I am right to put my hope and trust in Him, and the belief that He is mighty to save.

I am thankful that this tough road before me comes only after I spent 5 years working for a New Testament historian specializing in debates with atheists and Muslims. In those 5 years, I came across every objection to God, to Jesus, to the Bible. And I've seen each objection fail.

 

(I could even make a bar game out of it: If you can come up with an objection I've never heard of, I'll buy you a drink. And if I can't come up with a good and reasonable answer to it, I'll start drinking with you.) I can gladly say that my faith is strengthened by experience and rational inquiry.

So if you're reading this and thinking that you are glad that I'm walking in peace even though it's from some sort of placebo effect, please consider beginning or resuming or re-visiting your own inquiry.

 

And I'm not asking you to do it because I've got cancer and can therefore ask anything of anybody. I'm asking because you are all going to die at some point. And if now isn't an OK time to bring up that fact and sincerely share my deep hope that all will know the riches of Christ along with me, then there will never be an OK time.

Friday's Flashback

The Friday Feature on my humble blog will be a re-posting of the key entries to my blog called "The Big C,"  where I chronicled our whole experience with breast cancer.

I'm re-posting because

a) I have wanted for some time to make a leaner version of that material for the sake of someone else who might profit from the journey.  After enough Friday's, I'll have one.

b) I have made many new friends since the whole cancer thing, and they ask questions about it, having not read the blog or walked that journey with me.  So now's their chance.

c) It's a pretty great story.  No reason not to re-tell it.



Where it began in print:  An e-mail to my family members, which I dreaded having to write, but which had to be written.


June 11, 2009
Subject: Important News



Hello Everyone



The following is not good news, and I'm sharing it over e-mail so as not to repeat the same conversation 6 times (though I did just talk with Mom and Dad on the phone).

I have breast cancer.

I found a lump on the right side, near the arm pit. Went in to have it checked last Thursday. That nurse practitioner ordered an ultra sound and mammogram right away, which I did that same morning.

The radiologist read it right there and ordered a biopsy and MRI, which I just did this morning at the Air Force Academy. All of which is a very good start to my next hilarious book, the working title of which is "The Cancer Chronicles."

(Featuring the following story from this morning's biopsy:

The doctor was about to stick the needle in to give me the numbing lydocain when he stopped and said, "You know, I don't think you do, but I have to ask. Do you have implants?"

You don't think I do?  What was the give-away, doc?)
They are expediting the biopsy results so that we'll get them tomorrow. I should say here that it's not official yet. But the nurse practitioner is right now setting up a surgical consult for me so that when the results arrive, I can meet with the surgeon immediately.

The radiologist and biopsy guy both did things that indicated how concerned they were--e.g. ordering an MRI along with the biopsy instead of waiting for biopsy results first, which is the usual, and taking 8 samples instead of 6--so I asked the nurse what the warning bells were that were causing so much concern. The lump is irregular in shape, it casts a shadow and calcification spots showed up on the mammo. And it's on a lymph node.

I feel confident that I'm in good hands, and am very thankful they are all working so quickly on my behalf. I haven't said anything to you all this week because I didn't see the need to cause needless concern. But now I might well go into surgery by Friday night/sometime this weekend, and with the kids at Betsy's (she took them for the whole day), now is a good time to write this e-mail.

I will surely keep you all posted on the results tomorrow and the surgeon's consult.

Most importantly, I have to tell you about the amazing week between last Thursday--when I thought they'd tell me this was just a swollen lymph node--to today.

It has been the most joyful week of my life. Truly. The first day or so, I was fraught with all the typical emotions we'd expect. But starting with the church service we went to on Saturday night and continuing on without interruption, God has been pouring joy and peace on me.

Not coincidentally, this is our Vacation Bible School week--for Gemma and Josh, and for me as I've been leading games for the little ones. Every morning I've been surrounded by dear friends, and worship songs that remind me of God's power and His faithfulness.

And as I've prayed, and as Bryan has, and Betsy, too, the answer back has been repeatedly that there are trials ahead, but that this isn't going to kill me, and that God will bring mighty blessings out of it.

So, in this way, it's a pretty exciting time for us.

I know that not all of you can relate to what I've described. But I tell you about it in the hope that it will lessen your concern for me. I am in Good and Loving Hands.  :)


I'm cutting and pasting a prayer that my dear friend, Mandy, offered for me because
a) it made me laugh and
b) it reminds me of the wonderfully supportive place I'm in right now. I hope it helps you, too.

love

Amella!


Dear God,

Lord, this really sucks!! Praise You for being Sovereign over all things.

Amy is your most precious daughter, the Apple of Your eye! Her life is an act of worship to you and her Love for you is contagious.

God You are always good and we are asking You, in Your Most Holy Name, to give Amy an abundant and joyfilled and Long life!!! Jesus thank you for Amy and what you have already done in her life. We praise You Yaweh for the Wife and Mother and Friend she is and the pure Joy and fun she exudes!!

My prayer for Amy is long life and long boobs... meaning she will see the day when those big girls can be tied around her waist. Thank you Lord. Bless Amy and her family tomorrow and in the coming weeks, and we trust you God. Asking You for Complete healing in Your Name. Amen.