Home. Sweet. Home.
For those of you who follow Facebook. I won't belabor the subject - but just in case you hadn't heard, the surgery's completed, all went well, and I am at home. Hooray! Gotta say, the care at Easton Memorial is extraordinary - the nurses are kind and compassionate and funny - the anesthesiologist IS funny - and my surgeon is an absolute PEACH. Can't say enough good things about her!
My daughters have posted "lovely" pre-op pictures of me on Facebook looking radiantly happy. The Happy is chemical - light dose of Versed on board. Then for the surgery, they gave me "Michael Jackson Juice," that Propo-whatever-it-is - and the next thing I knew, I was waking up and HUMMING! Whew! I haven't had anything like that stuff in almost 40 years, and felt like I was waking up from a major drinking escapade. Wasn't sickening, but not particularly pleasant, either.
A couple of dear friends made food deliveries while we were gone today - so dinner was scrumptious. Son Skip has gone on his way - can't remember where he said he was overnighting. The girls have good-nighted and kissed me and are off to bed. I'm pillow-propped in my own comfy bed, and the cat is sound asleep beside me.
My only soreness, and not un-bearable, is where the lymph nodes were removed - and if I remember correctly, everything was clear in that dept., and I think someone said that means no radiation. Very wonderfulness!
I am still "floating" on your love, prayers, and caring - and I am so-oooo grateful. I could 'feel' you all with me today, and I knew, going in, that everything would be fine. Even my apprehension magically disappeared.
Thank you, Thank you. Thank you from the bottom, middle and top of my heart.
Good night, dear people and God bless you all.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
The Night Before...
By this time tomorrow night, if all goes according to plan, I should be nestled all snug in my own bed with all the surgery behind me. And from what I've been told, I shouldn't be in too much pain - nothing Tylenol can't handle.
Tonight I am surrounded by loves - all three of them - my children. As expected, my daughters are here - and surprise of surprises, my son is, too, much to everyone's delight. Can't remember the last time I had all three children to myself. It's a very comforting feeling.
Have to be at the hospital a little earlier than planned - because I learned today that my booby has to be injected with radioactive stuff to track the path of the carcinoma. When I found out that the plan called for an injection without any numbing stuff, I said unh, unh! NOT gonna do that! The Lidocaine shots for my biopsy were enough to put me through the roof, and I refuse to have another needle stuck in there while I'm awake and feeling. So-oooo, we go in early so that I can sign consent forms and talk to doctors while I'm still conscious. I'm told the anesthesiologist has a great sense of humor - which I'm looking forward to - and then he'll give me the Versed, euphemistically called "conscious sedation." Conscious, hell! It's a lovely sleep.
The lady in the hospital registration office told me the surgery is scheduled to take one hour and 40 minutes. I asked if someone stands over the surgeon with a stopwatch - and if we go overtime, do they just throw me out on the lawn? Or maybe finish the surgery out in the hallway? And if we get finished early, do I get a discount? She was laughing so hard, she nearly dropped the phone!
And now it's time for bed - the waiting is almost over, thank God. I'm going to take my last shower for awhile - a "port" will be installed in my chest, so there will be no swimming or showers until after the port comes out.
I'm going to take everyone's loving messages and prayers and hold them close - and pray God will see all of us through this. I'll get back to the keyboard as soon as humanly possible. Good night and God bless.
By this time tomorrow night, if all goes according to plan, I should be nestled all snug in my own bed with all the surgery behind me. And from what I've been told, I shouldn't be in too much pain - nothing Tylenol can't handle.
Tonight I am surrounded by loves - all three of them - my children. As expected, my daughters are here - and surprise of surprises, my son is, too, much to everyone's delight. Can't remember the last time I had all three children to myself. It's a very comforting feeling.
Have to be at the hospital a little earlier than planned - because I learned today that my booby has to be injected with radioactive stuff to track the path of the carcinoma. When I found out that the plan called for an injection without any numbing stuff, I said unh, unh! NOT gonna do that! The Lidocaine shots for my biopsy were enough to put me through the roof, and I refuse to have another needle stuck in there while I'm awake and feeling. So-oooo, we go in early so that I can sign consent forms and talk to doctors while I'm still conscious. I'm told the anesthesiologist has a great sense of humor - which I'm looking forward to - and then he'll give me the Versed, euphemistically called "conscious sedation." Conscious, hell! It's a lovely sleep.
The lady in the hospital registration office told me the surgery is scheduled to take one hour and 40 minutes. I asked if someone stands over the surgeon with a stopwatch - and if we go overtime, do they just throw me out on the lawn? Or maybe finish the surgery out in the hallway? And if we get finished early, do I get a discount? She was laughing so hard, she nearly dropped the phone!
And now it's time for bed - the waiting is almost over, thank God. I'm going to take my last shower for awhile - a "port" will be installed in my chest, so there will be no swimming or showers until after the port comes out.
I'm going to take everyone's loving messages and prayers and hold them close - and pray God will see all of us through this. I'll get back to the keyboard as soon as humanly possible. Good night and God bless.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
4 - 3 - 2 - 1
Four days to go and counting....and the pieces are all beginning to come together. First and foremost, the final figures have come in from my biopsy - and I am what the call in the medical "biz," a "triple-negative." In people-speak, this means I have a greater chance of cancer recurrence than if I weren't a triple-negative - and it also means I won't be able to duck out of either chemo or radiation. Oh, joy!
But there IS a caveat to all of this in that they really won't have all the hard evidence until surgery is completed, and pathology can be done on the entire mass and my sentinel lymph nodes. That is what will tell the WHOLE story.
So in the meantime, I've been making a bazillion phone calls to other survivors - and have lined up appointments with various doctors. I'll see the cardiologist on Monday, just for an update and an EKG. (Chemo carries the possibility of causing congestive heart failure.) At least we'll be prepared with a baseline.
I've saved my second-opinion option for the oncologists. One a female doc, and the other a male - both specialists in breast cancer - just to be sure everybody's on the same page. And once the dosages for chemo are agreed-upon, we'll be off to the races, so to speak.
One of my friends who went through the exact same procedure as mine exactly one year ago (with the same doctors) gave me great encouragement. She said she never suffered a flicker of nausea, and despite being very tired and having a "funny" taste in her mouth, things couldn't have gone more smoothly. She and everyone else have predicted that I will lose my hair, but that's no big deal as far as I'm concerned.
I've been shopping on-line for various hats, scarves and hair pieces. I'd really prefer not to go the wig route, because everyone says they're hot and itchy. I've located a company that makes hair pieces that can be affixed to the insides of hats - and I kind of like that idea. Just put on your hat, and you have hair. Voila!
Also on the advice of a friend currently treating for far more serious cancer than I, I've located an acupuncturist, which many people are using as an addition to healing these days. Although I've never used it before, I AM a believer - and so many of my trusted friends absolutely swear by it.
And so it goes...ooh-blah-dee, ooh-blah-dah. I still don't know how I feel. I am trying very hard to be positive and pro-active. I see no point in becoming a huddled mass of terror and fear - and I'm working very hard on staying in the here and now. I certainly can't roll the calendar backward, and it's absolutely impossible to leap into the future. The hardest part is thinking about anything ELSE. It's amazing how one word - cancer - can absolutely dominate your life, your thinking, your planning.
I've purposely put myself into a self-imposed quarantine for now - at least until I get through surgery. This damnable flu bug is epidemic around here right now, so I am making every effort to stay out of crowds, supermarkets, even church. I wear gloves when I'm out anywhere - and I pull my neck scarf sort of up over my mouth - and I've got little bottles of Purell stashed in every corner of my life.
And I write - purely for therapy. It feels good to get all these thoughts out of my jumbled brain and onto a page. If it helps anyone, I'll be grateful - but I'm really doing this for me.
I've had lovely messages and promises of prayers from so many people - and for now, I'm just letting myself float on this cushion of love and concern. It's a nice feeling. Makes me feel braver than I think I am.
On that note, it's time for bed, perchance to dream, and tomorrow will be another day.
Good-night, all - and may God's angels watch over all of us.
Four days to go and counting....and the pieces are all beginning to come together. First and foremost, the final figures have come in from my biopsy - and I am what the call in the medical "biz," a "triple-negative." In people-speak, this means I have a greater chance of cancer recurrence than if I weren't a triple-negative - and it also means I won't be able to duck out of either chemo or radiation. Oh, joy!
But there IS a caveat to all of this in that they really won't have all the hard evidence until surgery is completed, and pathology can be done on the entire mass and my sentinel lymph nodes. That is what will tell the WHOLE story.
So in the meantime, I've been making a bazillion phone calls to other survivors - and have lined up appointments with various doctors. I'll see the cardiologist on Monday, just for an update and an EKG. (Chemo carries the possibility of causing congestive heart failure.) At least we'll be prepared with a baseline.
I've saved my second-opinion option for the oncologists. One a female doc, and the other a male - both specialists in breast cancer - just to be sure everybody's on the same page. And once the dosages for chemo are agreed-upon, we'll be off to the races, so to speak.
One of my friends who went through the exact same procedure as mine exactly one year ago (with the same doctors) gave me great encouragement. She said she never suffered a flicker of nausea, and despite being very tired and having a "funny" taste in her mouth, things couldn't have gone more smoothly. She and everyone else have predicted that I will lose my hair, but that's no big deal as far as I'm concerned.
I've been shopping on-line for various hats, scarves and hair pieces. I'd really prefer not to go the wig route, because everyone says they're hot and itchy. I've located a company that makes hair pieces that can be affixed to the insides of hats - and I kind of like that idea. Just put on your hat, and you have hair. Voila!
Also on the advice of a friend currently treating for far more serious cancer than I, I've located an acupuncturist, which many people are using as an addition to healing these days. Although I've never used it before, I AM a believer - and so many of my trusted friends absolutely swear by it.
And so it goes...ooh-blah-dee, ooh-blah-dah. I still don't know how I feel. I am trying very hard to be positive and pro-active. I see no point in becoming a huddled mass of terror and fear - and I'm working very hard on staying in the here and now. I certainly can't roll the calendar backward, and it's absolutely impossible to leap into the future. The hardest part is thinking about anything ELSE. It's amazing how one word - cancer - can absolutely dominate your life, your thinking, your planning.
I've purposely put myself into a self-imposed quarantine for now - at least until I get through surgery. This damnable flu bug is epidemic around here right now, so I am making every effort to stay out of crowds, supermarkets, even church. I wear gloves when I'm out anywhere - and I pull my neck scarf sort of up over my mouth - and I've got little bottles of Purell stashed in every corner of my life.
And I write - purely for therapy. It feels good to get all these thoughts out of my jumbled brain and onto a page. If it helps anyone, I'll be grateful - but I'm really doing this for me.
I've had lovely messages and promises of prayers from so many people - and for now, I'm just letting myself float on this cushion of love and concern. It's a nice feeling. Makes me feel braver than I think I am.
On that note, it's time for bed, perchance to dream, and tomorrow will be another day.
Good-night, all - and may God's angels watch over all of us.
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