Checking back into the hospital for my chemo session that fateful Monday morning (almost 2 weeks ago) was one of the toughest hurdles that I've encountered so far. Still so weak from the operation, I had to accept that treatment which I knew was going to make me feel like Hammered Dog Shit (refer to previously defined scale, if needed) . And yet, that was what was on my plate.
The next few days were pretty rough -- I felt incredibly tired and as if I had the flu. Unlike previous episodes, my appetite was only at half-mast and I was digging into my fat reserves, having lost 3 kilos (6 lbs.) since I had checked into the hospital. I can only remember just dragging myself from the bed to the couch and back again, with short interludes sitting at the table. I remember telling Mr. T that I felt as if I were vibrating with weakness. Once again I was in the position of just " riding it out", only able to concentrate on my breathing and repeating to myself "Breathing in, I feel alive. Breathing out, I smile at life." Yes, despite feeling so low I could still tap into that "glad to be alive" feeling.
Fortunately the effects of this chemo seemed to subside more quickly than the previous sessions perhaps because of the long reprieve that I had been given before the surgery. I was soon able to take advantage of the most incredible weather that we were having -- sunny, warm days usually characteristic of late May, but making a guest appearance in early April. I could sit outside in my rocking lounge chair and watch Virginie potter about the garden on my behalf. She had started a whole raft of seedlings in the greenhouse while I was in the hospital and these had just burst forth with the warm weather.
I let myself be quickly tempted away from my bland, fiber-free diet whose purpose was to allow my freshly operated colon to gently start back to work. How could I resist fresh mesclun salad with arugula ("roquette') generously seasoned with Virginie's *real* vinaigrette after having eaten dry crackers for a week? A digression on vinaigrette: It is my personal conviction that only True Frogs can make *real* vinaigrette -- that heavy consistency, with the perfect balance between oil and vinegar, and the magical touch of mustard. As a Naturalized Frog, I can attest that simple citizenship alone neither improves your accent nor confers upon you the ability to make vinaigrette.
As my good friend, Jeni, (former nurse and source of invaluable tips on the art of recovery) had warned me, "Bowels are like cats, they can seriously pout if disturbed in their habits." I was now faced with dealing with miffed bowels and a recalcitrant A-Hole who was acting like a groundhog that had seen its shadow and had elected for six more weeks of hibernation. After a particularly exhausting day, I was comforted by Alec who lovingly placed his hand on my shoulder, gazed deep into my eyes and said, "Don't forget, Mom, this poo shall pass."
At the end of every day, I managed to sit up and watch a movie with Mr. T and Virginie, which provided distraction and pushed me closer to a normal bedtime hour. Each time that I managed to sleep all through the night, I was rewarded the next day with a distinct improvement in how I felt. Each day was definitely better than the day before. Yet, I managed to maintain my passive role of watching and letting others do. I realized that I am not the Master of My Universe and that even if I were not in the heat of the action the whole theatre piece of daily life would smoothly unfold with other actors stepping in to fill my role. Alec and Virginie were manning the household tasks of laundry, shopping, cooking and gardening; Mr. T was attending to all administrative tasks, runs to the pharmacy, and, of course, the home entertainment department. I could just sit back, provided I could locate that elusive comfortable position, and concentrate on getting well.
The week was interspersed with several Skype sessions, produced and directed by Madelaine and Richard, starring Mlle Élodie, the World's Most Beautiful Baby Girl. It was hard to say what provided the most balm to my heart: seeing the glow of pure joy on Madelaine & Richard's faces or watching that gorgeous little angel with her eyes wide open already trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Not being there for her birth was a hard pill to swallow, but now I have so much to look forward to: taking her in my arms, sticking my nose in her neck and drinking in that new baby smell, and "getting all of her sugar" (an expression from my Southern background inevitably heard when being smothered with kisses from some mildly perspiring, wrinkly old relative "I'm just gonna get all of yo sugah." ).
Yesterday, Mr. T and I took Alec and Virginie to the train station. They are off on their own adventure right now, with plans to join up with Breck (Alec & Madelaine's dad) for a hiking trip in Corsica. I always have a tiny pinch in my heart whenever I have to say good-bye to Alec, but this time I was reassured knowing that they would be back soon. They've organized a big family celebration at our place in France in June; more details on this to follow.
Mr. T loaded up the car by himself, and I managed to catch our big black cat, Moïse, who had suspected that a trip to the country house was in the air all day long. The two hour trip to Heuchin left us both exhausted, but well worth the effort. I'm so happy to be here and check on my garden and the chickens. The fruit trees are bursting forth, both beehives made it through the winter, and the tulips, the least modest of all flowers, are showing off as they do every year. For the first time in my life, I'm able to sit and simply enjoy my garden, without hopping up to snatch at a weed or dashing off to re-pot a plant that has sprung up in the " wrong" place. Just sit and take it all in. "Be" and not "do".
Your mission, should you decide to accept it: just sit for thirty minutes in your garden or nearby park. Drink in the details, open up all of your senses, and stay away from your mental " to do" list.
Back in the days, Mr. Natural wisely told us that "Shit happens", but what I've learned since is that any unpleasant situation bears some little gem of wisdom if I'm willing to stay open.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
I'm Back! and Almost Ready to Party
Several days before I checked into the hospital, I spent time trying to tie up all of my loose ends -- paperwork, watering my plants, organizing my suitcase, etc. All of this done with an underlying sense of anxiety and apprehension -- need to get this done before since I don't know how I'm going to feel afterwards.
I even went so far as to sign a paper stating that I didn't want unnecessary medical assistance in case of irreversible problems, along the lines of "I'd rather be unplugged than an eggplant, thanks", and I even indicated that Mr. T should have the right to decide. He promised that if I were in a coma he would come to visit everyday and talk to me all day long about such enthralling topics as: geopolitics in general; the history of Belgium from its inception up to today's linguistic/community problems, with digression on its former colonial period; the history of socialism from the October revolution to its impact on the current economic situation and proposals for future improvements; the history of Citroën's "Traction Avant", enumerating all of the various models and emphasizing its role in the modernisation of the European automobile industry; an unexpurgated version of the Jewish diaspora up to and including the current Israeli/Palestinian conflict; background on the establishment of various norms and standards, including but not limited to European license plates, the American highway system (both local and interstate), international bank account number formats, the Belgian MIG (not airplanes but the electricity grid interface between suppliers and distributors); comparison of former and current audiovisual standards and their level of adoption (European vs. American) with special focus on terrestrial TV; ... We decided that this would provide me with an excellent incentive to emerge from my coma, probably with the firm intention of trying to kill him with the first available blunt object that I could get my hands on.
Sunday morning, the day that I was to check into the hospital, I awoke with an almost eerie feeling of calm and reassurance. The waiting was over, the day had come. That afternoon and the next day were dedicated to the pre-surgery Big Spring Cleaning (inside and out); drinking three litres of epsom salts was a real challenge!
Buoyed by the wisdom of Pema Chödrön (Comfortable with Uncertainty):
Early Tuesday morning, the hustle and bustle began, and before I knew it I was whisked away to the operating room where I participated in my peridural before they put me completely under. Coming to the surface many hours later, I tried to evaluate exactly what condition I was in, but it was just impossible, something akin to having been backed over by a garbage truck. All of this evaluation took place very gradually. Ah, there's something in my nose. Oh, I've got a drip in my wrist and arm. Hmm, what's this thing in my neck? About all that I really remember is that at some point I pried my eyes open enough to realize that Mr. T and Alec had come to check on me. What an incredible relief washed over me when Alec immediately announced that the old, burnt out toaster at home had been replaced with a brand spanking new one! Meanwhile, Mr. T was crawling around under the bed trying to reorganize my various tubes and wires, photographing the entire set-up. This gave me an idea for a future project: writing a handbook on "How To Survive and Even Be Happy Living with an Engineer."
The next few days in intensive care could best be described as -- intense. The anesthetist came and held my hand and told me that I was going to have about three pretty rough days but that each day would get better. I accepted what he said and from that point on, I just clambered into the psychological dinghy that would just let me ride it out. I realized that I was pretty comfortable simply lying flat on my back totally relaxed and so that's what I did, drifting in and out thinking "Oh, I was asleep for a while this time", checking the clock to see that only seven minutes had gone by. "Oh well, at least that's seven minutes in the right direction."
One of the major activities in the ICU is the morning toilet, when the nurse comes to bath me, put lotion on my back, check the dressings, and change the bed. The first day was wonderful. The second day, she called the physical therapist to help put me into the chair while she changed the bed. These folks must be NUTS! Don't they realize how weak I am after that incredible operation? And the next day instead of staying in the chair for only thirty minutes, they left me there for forty-five. I'm convinced that physical therapists are a particular sub-category of sadists, yet another idea for future research.
My progress was best revealed to me by my faithful visitors who were better able to see the day to day changes. By Friday, Alec commented that I had finally managed to open two eyes at the same time and I didn't have that sort of desperate "Your life or a cup of coffee!" expression on my face. Sure enough, by the next day they had bundled me up to take me back to my regular room. I thought that they were crazy, but had no choice but to haul myself onto my regular bed to be trundled back to my room.
At that point, my main preoccupation was to have a real drink of water, which meant that the gastric tube HAD to go. Apparently, the only pre-requisite for that was: to fart. So every morning when the surgeon made her rounds, she asked how it was going and whether or not I had passed gas. Never before had I been so attentive to my stomach rumblings. When the much-awaited event arrived, at 4 o'clock in the morning, the idea actually crossed my mind to give her a call on her portable phone. I managed to hold myself back until her visit the next morning. When she gave the OK to remove that instrument of torture I made a great leap forward being able to move about more freely and above all to drink again!
After a few days on the ward, I was just exhausted with all of the comings and goings of the staff coupled with the fact that I was not really have a good night's sleep. While the nurse-in-training and her supervisor were removing one of my abdominal drains and mobilizing the other one, the physical therapist -- among others -- came by three times. That's when it became just Too Much and I really had my own emotional Fukushima -- central nervous reactor meltdown resulting in radioactive vibrations being spewed into the atmosphere -- bawling my eyes out and emphasizing that I just couldn't take it anymore.
Once the bandaging was finished, they brought me my lunch and Mr. T arrived sitting down to eat his sandwich with me. Knock, knock -- the physical therapist reappears! BOOM! "Ce n'est pas possible! It's Grand Central Station around here! I never have three minutes before someone knocks on the damned door. Merde, je n'en peux plus -- je rentre à la maison si ça continue!" To which he replied, "Would you like me to put a note on your door, requesting that you not be disturbed?" "Oh, yes, please do!" I managed to sleep the rest of the afternoon with only an occasional nurse tiptoeing in almost apologetically.
The next day the surgeon, came by to explain that they wanted to keep me over the weekend and give me my first chemo on Monday. "Why would you want to keep me here? Is there some medical reason?", I ask. " No, simply so that you can rest.", she replies, to which I reach for my mobile phone and read out the notes that I had made only that morning.
I raised my eyes and looked at her, and she told me that she would see what she could do about getting me out for the weekend. The result was that they decided to give me three units of blood since I was so anemic, to leave in one of my drains, to keep my room for me in case I needed to come by for some unexpected reason, and then to send me home for the weekend. My next chemo was planned for the following Monday morning and I was to simply show back up in my room at 8:00.
I informed Alec and Virginie that the Great Escape was on for the following day and that they were in charge of loading the ropes and hooks into their backpacks, since I was determined to go "over the wall" in case the medical staff had changed its mind. But all went uneventfully well and after my transfusion I was allowed to simply walk out with a plastic sac full of medication and hearty "See you on Monday, Mme Morgan! Bon weekend!".
Being at home was such a treat! Moïse and Aïchat were glad to see me and let me know in their respective ways -- kitty-therapy. The garden was literally bursting forth and I was able to admire all of the fine work that Philou had done (whitewashing the walls and putting up the mural tiles that we had brought back from Istanbul last year) and all of the seedlings that Virginie had started either in the house or in the greenhouse. At my request, Viriginie had made chicken noodle soup, with tiny bits of carrots and celery, for supper. I had been pushing "food" around my plate for the last few days at the hospital, but when I set down in front of that bowl of soup, my appetite instantly rushed back. There's a huge difference between keeping someone alive with food and nourishing them: the essential ingredient of the latter being love.
Perhaps the best part of this adventure came when I saw the faces of the two surgeons when they came to visit me in the ICU -- they were both apparently *very* satisfied with the results after working in tandem for ten hours. Dr. Veys assured me that they had meticulously eradicated every site within the abdominal cavity. Apparently there had been a true " Grey's Anatomy" moment when she hesitated about whether or not to attempt removal of the ganglion on the back of the vena cava, the largest blood vessel in the body. But her colleague, Dr. Liberale, always up for a challenge (and probably an extra shot of adrenaline), said " We can get that; I can get that.", and he did. So although I'm not cancer free (thus the chemo session today), I am rid of the bulk of the problem.
I came away from the hospital with two powerful realizations. The first is that I am truly loved in this world by my family and friends; I never stopped being amazed by the support that just kept coming in to buoy me up and carry me through this. The second is that I have a deep conviction that I'm really going to beat this thing. Not just a puny " total remission for now but it will crop up again one day" but something more along the lines of "Mme Morgan, we can't explain this, but there is just no more trace of any cancer any where in your body".
Am I just telling myself porky-pies or is there really something to this feeling?
Only time will tell, and in the meantime, I'll keep you posted.
P.S. The new toaster is great!
I even went so far as to sign a paper stating that I didn't want unnecessary medical assistance in case of irreversible problems, along the lines of "I'd rather be unplugged than an eggplant, thanks", and I even indicated that Mr. T should have the right to decide. He promised that if I were in a coma he would come to visit everyday and talk to me all day long about such enthralling topics as: geopolitics in general; the history of Belgium from its inception up to today's linguistic/community problems, with digression on its former colonial period; the history of socialism from the October revolution to its impact on the current economic situation and proposals for future improvements; the history of Citroën's "Traction Avant", enumerating all of the various models and emphasizing its role in the modernisation of the European automobile industry; an unexpurgated version of the Jewish diaspora up to and including the current Israeli/Palestinian conflict; background on the establishment of various norms and standards, including but not limited to European license plates, the American highway system (both local and interstate), international bank account number formats, the Belgian MIG (not airplanes but the electricity grid interface between suppliers and distributors); comparison of former and current audiovisual standards and their level of adoption (European vs. American) with special focus on terrestrial TV; ... We decided that this would provide me with an excellent incentive to emerge from my coma, probably with the firm intention of trying to kill him with the first available blunt object that I could get my hands on.
Sunday morning, the day that I was to check into the hospital, I awoke with an almost eerie feeling of calm and reassurance. The waiting was over, the day had come. That afternoon and the next day were dedicated to the pre-surgery Big Spring Cleaning (inside and out); drinking three litres of epsom salts was a real challenge!
Buoyed by the wisdom of Pema Chödrön (Comfortable with Uncertainty):
We realize that connecting with our experience by meeting it feels better than resisting it by moving away. As we practice moving into the present moment this way, we become more familiar with groundlessness. A fresh state of being that is available to us on an ongoing basis. This moving away from comfort and security, this stepping out into what is unknown, uncharted, and shaky -- that's called liberation.and Alec's parting words: "Remember, Mom, don't go towards the Light -- let them know that you haven't finished knitting my socks yet.", I slept well.
Early Tuesday morning, the hustle and bustle began, and before I knew it I was whisked away to the operating room where I participated in my peridural before they put me completely under. Coming to the surface many hours later, I tried to evaluate exactly what condition I was in, but it was just impossible, something akin to having been backed over by a garbage truck. All of this evaluation took place very gradually. Ah, there's something in my nose. Oh, I've got a drip in my wrist and arm. Hmm, what's this thing in my neck? About all that I really remember is that at some point I pried my eyes open enough to realize that Mr. T and Alec had come to check on me. What an incredible relief washed over me when Alec immediately announced that the old, burnt out toaster at home had been replaced with a brand spanking new one! Meanwhile, Mr. T was crawling around under the bed trying to reorganize my various tubes and wires, photographing the entire set-up. This gave me an idea for a future project: writing a handbook on "How To Survive and Even Be Happy Living with an Engineer."
The next few days in intensive care could best be described as -- intense. The anesthetist came and held my hand and told me that I was going to have about three pretty rough days but that each day would get better. I accepted what he said and from that point on, I just clambered into the psychological dinghy that would just let me ride it out. I realized that I was pretty comfortable simply lying flat on my back totally relaxed and so that's what I did, drifting in and out thinking "Oh, I was asleep for a while this time", checking the clock to see that only seven minutes had gone by. "Oh well, at least that's seven minutes in the right direction."
One of the major activities in the ICU is the morning toilet, when the nurse comes to bath me, put lotion on my back, check the dressings, and change the bed. The first day was wonderful. The second day, she called the physical therapist to help put me into the chair while she changed the bed. These folks must be NUTS! Don't they realize how weak I am after that incredible operation? And the next day instead of staying in the chair for only thirty minutes, they left me there for forty-five. I'm convinced that physical therapists are a particular sub-category of sadists, yet another idea for future research.
My progress was best revealed to me by my faithful visitors who were better able to see the day to day changes. By Friday, Alec commented that I had finally managed to open two eyes at the same time and I didn't have that sort of desperate "Your life or a cup of coffee!" expression on my face. Sure enough, by the next day they had bundled me up to take me back to my regular room. I thought that they were crazy, but had no choice but to haul myself onto my regular bed to be trundled back to my room.
At that point, my main preoccupation was to have a real drink of water, which meant that the gastric tube HAD to go. Apparently, the only pre-requisite for that was: to fart. So every morning when the surgeon made her rounds, she asked how it was going and whether or not I had passed gas. Never before had I been so attentive to my stomach rumblings. When the much-awaited event arrived, at 4 o'clock in the morning, the idea actually crossed my mind to give her a call on her portable phone. I managed to hold myself back until her visit the next morning. When she gave the OK to remove that instrument of torture I made a great leap forward being able to move about more freely and above all to drink again!
After a few days on the ward, I was just exhausted with all of the comings and goings of the staff coupled with the fact that I was not really have a good night's sleep. While the nurse-in-training and her supervisor were removing one of my abdominal drains and mobilizing the other one, the physical therapist -- among others -- came by three times. That's when it became just Too Much and I really had my own emotional Fukushima -- central nervous reactor meltdown resulting in radioactive vibrations being spewed into the atmosphere -- bawling my eyes out and emphasizing that I just couldn't take it anymore.
Once the bandaging was finished, they brought me my lunch and Mr. T arrived sitting down to eat his sandwich with me. Knock, knock -- the physical therapist reappears! BOOM! "Ce n'est pas possible! It's Grand Central Station around here! I never have three minutes before someone knocks on the damned door. Merde, je n'en peux plus -- je rentre à la maison si ça continue!" To which he replied, "Would you like me to put a note on your door, requesting that you not be disturbed?" "Oh, yes, please do!" I managed to sleep the rest of the afternoon with only an occasional nurse tiptoeing in almost apologetically.
The next day the surgeon, came by to explain that they wanted to keep me over the weekend and give me my first chemo on Monday. "Why would you want to keep me here? Is there some medical reason?", I ask. " No, simply so that you can rest.", she replies, to which I reach for my mobile phone and read out the notes that I had made only that morning.
- 5:35 night nurse empties drain pouches
- 6:58 cleaning lady empties trash can
- 7:03 nurse delivers clean sheets
- 7:13 assistant nurse delivers morning pills
- 7:13 nurse arrives to announce that I'm about to have blood drawn
- 7:15 assistant nurse comes back with another pill she had forgotten, 2 more nurses change the bed while the 3rd nurse draws the blood and a fourth delivers my breakfast tray -- I count 5 people in the room besides myself
- 7:27 assistant nurse come to check my vital signs -- temperature, blood pressure, oxygen level and insulin levels in the blood
- 7:29 assistant nurse drops off towels and washcloth
- 7:33 I bathe myself and put on a clean gown
- 7:47 cleaning lady returns to clean the room
- 8:12 surgeon's visit
- 8:54 psychologist's visit
- 9:18 special "well-being" nurse come to set up an appt. for pedicure (!)
- 9:25 someone picks up the breakfast tray
- 9:46 nurse arrives to change my dressings
- 11:10 someone drops off the lunch tray
I raised my eyes and looked at her, and she told me that she would see what she could do about getting me out for the weekend. The result was that they decided to give me three units of blood since I was so anemic, to leave in one of my drains, to keep my room for me in case I needed to come by for some unexpected reason, and then to send me home for the weekend. My next chemo was planned for the following Monday morning and I was to simply show back up in my room at 8:00.
I informed Alec and Virginie that the Great Escape was on for the following day and that they were in charge of loading the ropes and hooks into their backpacks, since I was determined to go "over the wall" in case the medical staff had changed its mind. But all went uneventfully well and after my transfusion I was allowed to simply walk out with a plastic sac full of medication and hearty "See you on Monday, Mme Morgan! Bon weekend!".
Being at home was such a treat! Moïse and Aïchat were glad to see me and let me know in their respective ways -- kitty-therapy. The garden was literally bursting forth and I was able to admire all of the fine work that Philou had done (whitewashing the walls and putting up the mural tiles that we had brought back from Istanbul last year) and all of the seedlings that Virginie had started either in the house or in the greenhouse. At my request, Viriginie had made chicken noodle soup, with tiny bits of carrots and celery, for supper. I had been pushing "food" around my plate for the last few days at the hospital, but when I set down in front of that bowl of soup, my appetite instantly rushed back. There's a huge difference between keeping someone alive with food and nourishing them: the essential ingredient of the latter being love.
Perhaps the best part of this adventure came when I saw the faces of the two surgeons when they came to visit me in the ICU -- they were both apparently *very* satisfied with the results after working in tandem for ten hours. Dr. Veys assured me that they had meticulously eradicated every site within the abdominal cavity. Apparently there had been a true " Grey's Anatomy" moment when she hesitated about whether or not to attempt removal of the ganglion on the back of the vena cava, the largest blood vessel in the body. But her colleague, Dr. Liberale, always up for a challenge (and probably an extra shot of adrenaline), said " We can get that; I can get that.", and he did. So although I'm not cancer free (thus the chemo session today), I am rid of the bulk of the problem.
I came away from the hospital with two powerful realizations. The first is that I am truly loved in this world by my family and friends; I never stopped being amazed by the support that just kept coming in to buoy me up and carry me through this. The second is that I have a deep conviction that I'm really going to beat this thing. Not just a puny " total remission for now but it will crop up again one day" but something more along the lines of "Mme Morgan, we can't explain this, but there is just no more trace of any cancer any where in your body".
Am I just telling myself porky-pies or is there really something to this feeling?
Only time will tell, and in the meantime, I'll keep you posted.
P.S. The new toaster is great!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)