Happy Memorial Day

We had a cookout yesterday afternoon with Daddy and Virginia, and my sister Jenny and her family. Don grilled his famous burgers, and he and I even made homemade hamburger buns. It was delicious, and my appetite cooperated very well.

Yesterday evening, we went down to the neighborhood pool, and I got in! (And yes, I was also able to get out safely this time, unlike last summer's 4th of July fiasco.) I spent a little over an hour in the water, and even walked back and forth across the pool with my NIL (new, improved leg). It was so relaxing, and it gave me a chance to have some fun with the kids.

Tomorrow is my last scheduled radiation treatment, followed by a visit with Dr. M (the radiation oncologist). Hopefully we will get good news from last week's x-rays.

Overall, I am feeling pretty well right now, in spite of the radiation treatments. I have learned to rest when I am tired, and to enjoy myself when I feel like it. With so many ups and downs in my health, it is the only way to manage things.

I love summer; I love the pool; I am extremely grateful for every good day that I have.

Pain, Hope, Fear -- and other four-letter words

As I was reading over old blog entries tonight, I realized that my attempt to make it less moody and more informative has actually succeeded only in making it boring.

Tonight I want to talk about my hopes and fears, like I did in the early days of my blog.

Actually, my greatest hope is that this radiation will work and then the cancer will leave me alone and let me enjoy my summer. I want to swim and play in the water; I want to dream of (and work toward) walking. I want to have picnics and cookouts, and to just sit out in the sunshine (okay, shade) and soak up the beautiful peacefulness of summer.

Fears? These are the things that I think about when I can't sleep at night: Where is the cancer growing now? What suffering lies ahead for me? Am I going to die? When? How will I ever say good-bye to Don, the kids, my family, my friends, and everyone else in my beautifully-crazy life?

I guess the bottom line is the same for all cancer patients. I don't want to die. I don't want to suffer. I don't want to give up everything that makes me "me". Cancer is a cruel and terrible way to die. It rips so many things from you, yet leaves with the often-false hope that the painful, horrific treatments will somehow cure it and you'll go right back to living your life. (Yeah, I've lost my hair, dropped 60 pounds, can't walk anymore, and have vomited until my stomach is inside-out, but, hey, when this is all over, I'll be good as new! Better actually, because suffering brings out the best in a person - right?)

And haven't I beat this dead horse on the blog before now? Of course I have, because that's what is on my mind. Just for the record -- OH WHAT I WOULD GIVE TO HAVE SOMETHING ELSE ON MY MIND!!!!! The problem is that this is my life right now, my life with cancer. I have to somehow weave the ordinary joys and aggravations and tasks of being a wife and mother and friend and human with the unthinkable realization of the monster that lives inside of me.

No matter how hard I try, it's impossible to completely quell the fear. It hangs over my head all of the time, a menacing cloud, ready to burst open and soak me in its hard, cold downpour.

One Month Since Surgery

It's hard to believe, isn't it? It feels like it's only been a few days since I was counting down the hours until surgery, and now a whole month has passed.

The great irony, of course, is that the surgery is no longer "the big thing" that I am facing/enduring. That torch has been passed to those pesky, enlarging lung tumors. It makes the whole NIL-major-surgery thing seem small and insignificant.

There's actually a small amount of good news on the lung-tumor-radiation front, from Friday. I wasn't able to have my treatment Friday morning because I had been spiking a high fever (102.7), vomiting, coughing, and just generally feeling miserable overnight Thursday. I saw Dr. D. instead of going in for rad (they are in the same area of the hospital, and share a waiting room). Concerned about pneumonia, he sent me for chest x-rays. Late Friday afternoon, the nurse called. The verdict? NO pneumonia -- AND -- the two lungs tumors being radiated are already showing some shrinkage! Hallelujah!

I'm feeling a little better now. I can tell because I have swung on the pendulum from lying around like a slug to busying around the house and overdoing it. Yesterday morning, we cleaned and decluttered the family room so that Don could clean the carpet (in advance of returning the couch to the room now that the hospital bed is no longer needed). Later, at Autumn's insistence, he and I went out to dinner. While taking a leisurely drive after dinner to enjoy the sunset over the water, Don drove over something sharp in the road and it cut our tire.

Luckily, we discovered it when we stopped at Daddy's construction site for his new house, so we weren't stuck on the side of the road or any other dangerous place. I rolled my wheelchair through the gravel and held the flashlight for him as darkness descended. He wrestled with our spare tire and flimsy (thanks, Ford!) jack to change the tire and get us home safely.

So, you see, the ups and downs of life continue one month after the NIL was installed. Lung mets, radiation treatments, sinus infection (again), shrinking tumors, house cleaning, quiet dinner, peaceful sunset, flat tire, strong husband (my hero!), home-sweet-home.

I'm so glad that I'm still here for the ride!

R, R, Radiation

I'll warn you ahead of time that my mind is jumbled and my thoughts are not very clear. Radiation has that affect on me.

On Monday, I had the first of 10 radiation treatments.

With a little assistance for my NIL, I got onto the table. They placed a wedge beneath my knees (good thing, because NIL was NOT loving the hard surface and supine position) and a giant blue unshapen mold under my head and arms. I had to raise my arms completely over my head and grasp what felt like bicycle handles. After this, the rad tech (RT, from now on) inflated the mold so that it created a crater for my head and arms. This is done to maintain consistent positioning.

In fact, positioning is EVERYTHING when it comes to radiation. I was "tatooed" (a pin-prick-sized blue dot, and yes it's permanent), marked with black magic marker X'es, and red marker was used to draw the perimeter of the fields that will be radiated.

It is very important not to move once they have pulled, pushed, and nudged you into the perfect position, and I desperately needed to cough. I tried to moisten my throat to suppress it by counting down my favorite foods (especially sour ones). By the time I got down to 64, I decided that I don't even like food all that much.

NOTE: I will finish this post soon. Brain fry has set in! :-)

Mother's Day (with cancer)

I woke up in pain on Mother's Day, the same excruciating ache over my right shoulder blade that landed me in the ER and hospital last week.

All nine of our children were planning to go to church with me that day, and then we had planned a picnic in the park with my mother, my sisters, and their families. I was determined not to let the pain ruin my day, so I moved to my chair and tried to stay calm and breathe slowly. The misery finally subsided.

As I got ready for church, a wave of sadness engulfed me, and I wondered aloud to Don if this will be my last Mother's Day. I really don't spend much time mulling those possibilities, except when I am scared and in pain. Will this be my last year? My last summer? Is the cancer gaining the upper hand? You can see why I try not to dwell on these thoughts.

I did go to church, and I really enjoyed being there. Our picnic was great, too. The weather was absolutely perfect. It was great to spend time with everyone.

Fortunately, the pain did not return, and we retreated to the house at 4:30. Dad and Virginia came for a visit, then it was time for supper and the children's baths and preparations for the final week of school.

Overall, I had a really nice Mother's Day. Here's hoping for many, many more!

When Sorrows Come ...

"When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions." - Shakespeare

I actually feel bad about posting the latest news, after everything went so well following my surgery three weeks ago.

I am experiencing another setback.

On Monday, we traveled to Nashville for my followup appointment with Dr. H. It went extremely well. My staples were removed, I asked a few questions, and we set up a followup appointment in three months. Dr. H encouraged me to make progress on the NIL, adding some weight on a regular basis until I reach full weight-bearing on it.

We were almost home when the pain hit, a terrible, piercing pain over my right shoulder blade. It was excruciating, worse with every breath. I tried everything from placing my arm over my shoulder to ibuprofen and a pain pill to ice packs and a heat pad. I was so desperate that I even called the home health agency's night nurse to ask for advice. She said that I sounded "anxious" and to alternate ice and heat while trying to relax.

I finally fell asleep. By Tuesday morning, the pain came and went with each breath -- especially a deep one. My regular hh nurse called, and I explained the situation to her. She called Dr. D, who suspected a pulmonary embolism and sent me to the hospital for a battery of tests.

I spent all of Tuesday and Wednesday (got home at 10 p.m.) in the hospital for tests: x-rays, CT scan, EKG, PE study, etc. Thankfully, there is no blood clot and no signs of a heart attack. Unfortunately, they did find the probable cause of my pain. There are two lung tumors that have grown substantially; one is pressing on my heart and the other is blocking the main pulmonary artery in my right lung.

I won't bore you with the details right now, but I will begin radiation treatments on those two tumors on Monday, May 14th. The treatment will be risky, due to their location. Accidental radiation to my already-damaged spinal cord could cause permanent paralysis, and there could be damage to the blood vessels in the area or to my esophagus (which would probably rectify itself after the treatments are completed.)

I will have 10 - 15 treatments over the next several weeks.

As if all of this is not enough, I am a little concerned about my healing leg. I can feel a movement in the lower part of the femur (where the prosthesis meets the bone), as if it is shifting up and down as I walk. I called the surgeon's office, and I was told that as long as there is no pain, everything should be okay, and to call back if it starts hurting or my leg falls off. (Okay, okay, but you get the picture!) I'm still very nervous about that leg.

I'd like to "sign off" with a catchy, happy, upbeat comment, but I just can't think of one right now. It seems like the crises are piling on top of each other quickly, with little time to recover from one before the next one hits. I'm tired, overwhelmed, and scared.

Please pray for me as I face this latest battle.

Thanks for caring!

Life Goes On ...

Hello again!

I have been meaning to post for several days, but time just gets out from under me. Things are going well so far. I LOVE being home, and I am walking better already than I could for months before the surgery. I am dreaming of the day that I can ditch the walker for a cane, and then the cane for normal walking.

The pain has been modest, worse at night and after therapy. I have been able to control it with ice packs and ibuprofen. I slept in my own bed one night, then wimped again last night due to the pain. I am going to try it again tonight, because the leg muscles are finally strong enough to hold my foot upright again.

Kelly (my PT) came again this morning. She showed us several more exercises that will help strengthen my muscles as they heal.

My first post-op followup appointment is scheduled for Monday, May 7th. I'm not really looking forward to another trip to Nashville, but I am curious to hear what the doctor has to say and to ask her some questions about bone density and other things.

Other than that, life has been strangely (and serenely) ordinary. It's nice to live with a little less drama for a change.

Thanks for thinking of me!