The meds make my mouth taste like metal
In the fog I stumble, blindly
Trying to find a scrap of me
I'm sick, but no one knows what that means
Because nobody sees
Why don't you drink coffee?
They ask when I say I have no energy
They don't understand as I try to explain
The pain the meds take away is replaced
With mind-numbing fog
Get some sleep! It'll help you feel better
I know that but
My body is a rebel
My mind an endless tangle of thoughts
And concerns that never stop
More medication required
Till I'm taking more pills that my grandparents
And it tastes like metal in my mouth
Recovery is really really hard.
I feel like I keep trading one problem for another.
Cancer is gone, Yay.
Cancer causes lots of stress, and so does creating an EP, and performing in two fringe shows.
I haven't recovered yet.
I'm on multiple medications for various things.
Sometimes my meds don't get along, and my mind is the field they battle upon.
I'm tired.
I leave for Rosebud in 11 days.
But I'm trying to find the off switch for the fog machine someone put in my brain.
There are rays of light, like long talks and walks in beautiful parks with wonderful people.
And I know today was especially difficult; there are good days and bad days, and I'm writing this post under extreme exhaustion. Who knows, I might read it tomorrow and delete it.
Please grant me grace in the upcoming days, as I adjust to the medications and side effects.
Much love,
Esther
Wednesday, 26 August 2015
Tuesday, 28 April 2015
The End of the Beginning
Weird. I feel weird. The last nine months have been focused on the album. Writing, editing, singing, practicing, recording, coordinating musicians, my schedule has been all about the album.
I finished recording the last song.
Frankly, it was anticlimactic. I had a good chat with my producer, and walked out the multiple soundproof doors, like I regularly have for the past four months. Except. That was it. My job in the studio is done. It seems only yesterday I was laying the scratch tracks while sick with the flu.
Now, months later, after many mugs of tea, and minus the flu, the final tracks have been mixed and mastered. Unquenchable Hope releases May 26th.
I'm waiting for the artwork to be finished, then everything will be sent off to be printed.
Weird.
It's weird to have to shift focus, and realize recording wasn't the end, it was the end of the beginning.
My time in the studio was it's own adventure, filled with laughter, tears, and learning curves.
Creating Unquenchable Hope has been full of surprises and challenges. I have no idea what to expect next. It might be a huge success, beyond the horizons of what I could dream.
Or, like a shooting star, it could blaze for a moment, then disappear.
It's already done the job I intended for it--an outlet for my emotions. The rest is up to God.
But, if I were to dream out loud, my desire is that the EP (extended play, industry speak for my project) would touch you, deeply. That you would cry with me, and come out celebrating your battle scars, emotional, physical, or both.
Unquenchable Hope.
It's an ambitious title to live up to.
The thing is, I'm not referring to myself ;)
I finished recording the last song.
Frankly, it was anticlimactic. I had a good chat with my producer, and walked out the multiple soundproof doors, like I regularly have for the past four months. Except. That was it. My job in the studio is done. It seems only yesterday I was laying the scratch tracks while sick with the flu.
Now, months later, after many mugs of tea, and minus the flu, the final tracks have been mixed and mastered. Unquenchable Hope releases May 26th.
I'm waiting for the artwork to be finished, then everything will be sent off to be printed.
Weird.
It's weird to have to shift focus, and realize recording wasn't the end, it was the end of the beginning.
My time in the studio was it's own adventure, filled with laughter, tears, and learning curves.
Creating Unquenchable Hope has been full of surprises and challenges. I have no idea what to expect next. It might be a huge success, beyond the horizons of what I could dream.
Or, like a shooting star, it could blaze for a moment, then disappear.
It's already done the job I intended for it--an outlet for my emotions. The rest is up to God.
But, if I were to dream out loud, my desire is that the EP (extended play, industry speak for my project) would touch you, deeply. That you would cry with me, and come out celebrating your battle scars, emotional, physical, or both.
Unquenchable Hope.
It's an ambitious title to live up to.
The thing is, I'm not referring to myself ;)
Tuesday, 3 March 2015
There Was No Funeral
There was no funeral
No flowersNo ceremony
No one had died
No weeping or wailing.
Just in my heart
I can’t. . .
But I did anyway,
and nobody knew I couldn’t
I don’t want to. . .
But nobody else said they didn’t
So I put down my panic
and picked up my luggage
and got on the plane.
There was no funeralThis was a poem I found in a book for MKs (missionary kids. Another post for another day) I really connected with it. Moving countries is hard, especially when you have no say in the matter.
Recently, I came back to this poem because it applies on another level.
I had no say when the tumor came, made me pack my bags, and travel to the country of Cancer. The plane landed in the middle of a field, at the foot of a huge mountain. The natives wore white lab coats.
Cancer is a different culture. You learn a different language, and how to navigate new territory.
You're told that there is no way around; you have to climb. This is when the strange irony sets in. You're in a different country, but geographically speaking, nothing has changed.
Your friends cheer as you start hiking. Days go by, and the echo of their words fade. Close friends keep up with your progress, and supply you with energy bars. (In Cancer, energy bars can be visits, encouraging notes, or prayer)
You have a goal: Go through radiation, surgery, whatever it takes to ascend. Finally, the peak is in sight; hitting the mountaintop is being told you're cancer free.
The thing is, after the declaration has been made, you can't get on a plane and leave the place it brought you to.
You're still stuck in another country, on a mountain, and the only way off is to trek down.
Only you feel like you have nothing left, nothing more to give. Even your tears have been used up.
There aren't quite as many people cheering, because the worst is past, right?
The assumption is once you hit the top, a helicopter comes, life returns to normal.
It doesn't.
The natural high from reaching the peak fades quickly. You sit down, confused, engaged in a different kind of struggle. There was a wide, clear cut trail leading to the top, but now, a forest stretches ahead, and you realize you have no compass. The air is thin, forcing you to get back up, and keep going, though the destination is unclear.
You find an overgrown deer trail and start bushwhacking. It's dark, and sometimes lonely.
Again, the contradiction of Cancer washes over you. You still hang out with friends, and try to do normal stuff, but nobody can see the forest. Life has gone on normally. Yours has continued in the sense that you eat, breathe, try to sleep, and meet new people. But it also involves forging new paths, and being unable to shake a deep feeling of loss. Then guilt sets in over feeling that way. Everyone is asking when you're going back to work, telling you that this was only a small part of your life, and look to the future!
But the trees.
They can't see the trees.
As you continue hiking, your daily interactions reveal fragments of an answer.
There was no funeral.
Somewhere along the way, innocence was lost. Nightmares of intense, traumatic pain became real.
Dreams died.
The whirlwind of your experience engulfs you, ripping through your body, leaving exhaustion in it's wake.
Dazed, you look around, wondering where to go, who to talk to. How to mourn.
Fear sets in. Will anybody want, or try to understand?
There was no funeral.
Monday, 2 February 2015
To the Person Who Noticed My Feet
Yes. I am wearing two different boots, one black, the other brown.
I'll give you credit for noticing; not many people do.
I saw amusement on your face as you whispered to your neighbor, and then both of you were staring. Laughing. Judging. I could see it in the way you whispered.
I'll admit, I'd wonder too if I saw someone with odd shoes. Chalk it up to absentmindedness, quirkiness or a new form of hipster.
But I wouldn't laugh at them. I might even ask them about it.
Everyone has a story, motivation for the things they do.
You had no way of knowing I had cancer, or that surgery left my foot large and swollen, which makes normal shoe wearing impossible. The reason my shoes don't match, is that in order to find something to accommodate the skin graft, I had to buy boots three sizes bigger than normal. I hope you have enough imagination to realize where this is going. On occasion, I wear extra socks so that my right foot fits, resulting in uniformity of footwear, but sometimes I want to wear one nice shoe.
You see, you judged too quickly. Without knowing my full story, you looked at a slice of it, and I became the butt of a joke.
Honestly, I don't mind that much. If it gave you a funny anecdote, fine. I often joke about it.
So, why am I writing you?
There is a deeper issue than laughing at the unconventional.
We live in a world where tolerance is frantically being drilled into everyone's vocabulary and actions. It's a nice thing to talk about, but much harder to practice.
Our world is also full of reality TV, America's Funniest Home Videos, and endless posts on Youtube of unfortunate incidents occurring. We are trained to be spectators, forgetting that the people we mock and ridicule are precisely that: People. Skin, bones, blood, hearts, feelings, brains, souls.
I am blessed to be surrounded by a lovely community who know my story. I can laugh at the fact that you had nothing better to do than gossip about my footwear. I don't care what you think about me, I'll never see you again.
But I'm worried about the next person you'll gossip about. Maybe they will be hurt by the derisive whispers and giggles. Remember, you don't know their story.
And, believe it or not, sometimes I actually wear shoes that match.
I'll give you credit for noticing; not many people do.
I saw amusement on your face as you whispered to your neighbor, and then both of you were staring. Laughing. Judging. I could see it in the way you whispered.
I'll admit, I'd wonder too if I saw someone with odd shoes. Chalk it up to absentmindedness, quirkiness or a new form of hipster.
But I wouldn't laugh at them. I might even ask them about it.
Everyone has a story, motivation for the things they do.
You had no way of knowing I had cancer, or that surgery left my foot large and swollen, which makes normal shoe wearing impossible. The reason my shoes don't match, is that in order to find something to accommodate the skin graft, I had to buy boots three sizes bigger than normal. I hope you have enough imagination to realize where this is going. On occasion, I wear extra socks so that my right foot fits, resulting in uniformity of footwear, but sometimes I want to wear one nice shoe.
You see, you judged too quickly. Without knowing my full story, you looked at a slice of it, and I became the butt of a joke.
Honestly, I don't mind that much. If it gave you a funny anecdote, fine. I often joke about it.
So, why am I writing you?
There is a deeper issue than laughing at the unconventional.
We live in a world where tolerance is frantically being drilled into everyone's vocabulary and actions. It's a nice thing to talk about, but much harder to practice.
Our world is also full of reality TV, America's Funniest Home Videos, and endless posts on Youtube of unfortunate incidents occurring. We are trained to be spectators, forgetting that the people we mock and ridicule are precisely that: People. Skin, bones, blood, hearts, feelings, brains, souls.
I am blessed to be surrounded by a lovely community who know my story. I can laugh at the fact that you had nothing better to do than gossip about my footwear. I don't care what you think about me, I'll never see you again.
But I'm worried about the next person you'll gossip about. Maybe they will be hurt by the derisive whispers and giggles. Remember, you don't know their story.
And, believe it or not, sometimes I actually wear shoes that match.
Wednesday, 31 December 2014
Nobody Told Me
Dear Esther, here's what nobody told you last year.
2014 is going to be one heck of a year.
Adulthood, and all the decisions that come with it.
Change is going to be the theme.
You'll be hired at your first full time job, and adjust to the 12 hour shifts.
You'll take on leadership of a small group; discovering more about what kind of leader you are.
Planning, packing, and dreaming of Rosebud will take up most of your limited spare time.
You'll write over 40 songs in the span of 12 months.
Everything goes according to plan, until June 26th, when your biopsy results come back positive.
Cancer.
Your carefully constructed world will crack, and you'll cry more than you thought was possible.
Crutches will become your mode of transportation from June till December, with a small break in September and October.
Life will become dictated by doctor's appointments.
Dreams you didn't dare give a voice will come true, when two very special people arrange for you to record a single, and put together a fundraiser to debut your music.
You'll find and form deep, meaningful relationships, old and new.
Surgery and recovery are going to take everything and more than what you've got.
Recovery is hardest.
Esther, 2014 is the toughest thing you've done so far.
I can't see what 2015 holds. I can't write a letter about what's going to happen, though I wish I could.
What I do know is that life is never going to be the same.
In one week I start recording my album, Unquenchable Hope.
I still plan on going to Rosebud.
Other that that? I have no idea.
I'm okay with not knowing, because even in uncertainty, I can trust the One who has walked beside me, carried me when strength failed, is constant, when I don't understand.
Jesus, I can walk on water when I'm with You, I can run on rolling waves
I can dance on water with I'm with You, I will not be afraid.
I never could have done it without my faith, the constant love and sacrifices of my family, or the love and support of my friends.
I couldn't have done 2014 with out you.
2014 is going to be one heck of a year.
Adulthood, and all the decisions that come with it.
Change is going to be the theme.
You'll be hired at your first full time job, and adjust to the 12 hour shifts.
You'll take on leadership of a small group; discovering more about what kind of leader you are.
Planning, packing, and dreaming of Rosebud will take up most of your limited spare time.
You'll write over 40 songs in the span of 12 months.
Everything goes according to plan, until June 26th, when your biopsy results come back positive.
Cancer.
Your carefully constructed world will crack, and you'll cry more than you thought was possible.
Crutches will become your mode of transportation from June till December, with a small break in September and October.
Life will become dictated by doctor's appointments.
Dreams you didn't dare give a voice will come true, when two very special people arrange for you to record a single, and put together a fundraiser to debut your music.
You'll find and form deep, meaningful relationships, old and new.
Surgery and recovery are going to take everything and more than what you've got.
Recovery is hardest.
Esther, 2014 is the toughest thing you've done so far.
I can't see what 2015 holds. I can't write a letter about what's going to happen, though I wish I could.
What I do know is that life is never going to be the same.
In one week I start recording my album, Unquenchable Hope.
I still plan on going to Rosebud.
Other that that? I have no idea.
I'm okay with not knowing, because even in uncertainty, I can trust the One who has walked beside me, carried me when strength failed, is constant, when I don't understand.
Jesus, I can walk on water when I'm with You, I can run on rolling waves
I can dance on water with I'm with You, I will not be afraid.
I never could have done it without my faith, the constant love and sacrifices of my family, or the love and support of my friends.
I couldn't have done 2014 with out you.
Wednesday, 3 December 2014
Battle Scars: The Magnitude of a New Normal
Honestly, I wasn't ready for the fight.
I wasn't ready for the scars.
I wasn't ready for the pain.
I wasn't ready to be cancer free.
There are stretch marks along my thigh, lines whispering alongside the scar. Nobody warned me how much the scar would ache, and how diligent I need to be with massaging it, so that it doesn't form adhesions. (Scar tissue binding with the tissue underneath, causing problems like restricted movement. I had to find that out from my chiropractor.)
November was a struggle. The meds I was on were causing sleep disruption, anxiety, and depression. Fun cocktail.
In the midst of that, I'm officially cancer free, so yay?
Somewhere inside me I'm happy. Mostly I'm weary; cancer being gone doesn't mean I'm okay.
Two more surgeries are already on the horizon, the official term is de-bulking the graft. Or, as my doc puts it,
"To make your foot sexier."
In other news, the radiologist wants me to see a chemotherapist, to "have a conversation about further treatment."
Interpretation: "It would ease my mind if you had chemo."
Part of me understands his concern. We finally received the full diagnosis, now that they've had a chance to dissect the tumor.
Grade 3, Stage 3. (The highest you can go is 4)
Interpretation: The grade level correlates with how aggressive the tumor is.
The stage indicates how far the cancer has spread. In my case, they caught it right before it metastasized. The combination of a high grade tumor, and stage three cancer prompted the visit with the radiologist, and brought up the prospect of chemo.
Yeah, who cares that the tumor is gone, and the margins were good? Since there is the slight chance of dormant cancer cells in my body, you want to pump me full of toxic chemicals to be safe?
Bull. I'm not doing it.
There's enough to deal with, adjusting to the information from today. Highlights:
Two (!) more surgeries.
Bi-yearly MRIs and CT scans to make sure I continue to stay cancer free
I'll be wearing a compression garment the rest of my life. (A fancy term for a special sock that keeps my foot from swelling, because surprise, surprise, radiation killed the pumps that naturally take care of excessive blood!)
This is my new normal.
Saturday, 8 November 2014
There And Back Again
Home.
What a sweet word, and an even better place.
I was gone eleven days. An unexpected journey, to be sure.
The past six months have been layers of the unexpected; heartbreaking, devastating at times, and exhilarating, joyful, magnificent at others.
Nothing can prepare you for the process.
Sunday, October 19. I'm struggling with anxiety and fear. The hazy thing in the future called "surgery" is only a day away. I go to church, and am overwhelmed by peace, which grows throughout the day, ending in a sweet, blissful, joy filled time with my Gospel Community Group.
Monday, October 20, 5:15 am. I'm dressed, ready with my hospital bag. The sky is still dark, and the air is crisp as I walk to the car. Ha, walk. Inside my head a list of "this is the last time" plays. The last time I'll walk on my real foot. The next time I'll put weight on it, I'll have battle scars. Peace accompanies me as I walk into Admitting. Mom and I wait, and I make her laugh. The minutes tick by, and at 6:30 my name is called. I'm given a bracelet with my information on it, and directions for where to go next.
Pre-Op. A small curtained room. I change into a hospital gown, and crack more jokes. More waiting; a nurse comes and has me verify what the surgery is. My surgeon (Dr. H) comes in and draws on my leg and foot. It's funny seeing him in regular clothes; I've only ever seen him in scrubs.
He delivers the first morsel of good news.
"We've decided to take the full graft from your thigh. We won't have to touch your shoulder."
He leaves, and mom and I exchanged relived smiles. One less scar to heal. I had been nervous about the shoulder being the one of donor sites.
Time slips away, mom and I say goodbye, the nurse leads me past the point of no return.
It's time for the IV. I'm cold, making my veins small, and hard to find. The nurse tries three times, and finally finds one.
It's time. The hands on the clock have moved to 7:30. I'm wheeled into the OR.
A host of doctors and nurses greet me, verify my identity, and why I'm there. I'm transferred to the operating table, the anesthesiologist places a mask over my face and tells me to breathe.
I slip into nothingness.
4:30, Post Op Recovery room.
Two nurses are talking to me. My mind is cloudy. Hysteria sets in. I'm crying, not understanding why, not able to control my emotions or my trembling body. I'm told to take deep breaths, but it's the last thing I want to do. I don't know how, but I finally calm down. I'm given morphine for pain.
Flap checks are every 20 minutes. They press the graft to make sure it's taking, and listen with a Doppler (similar to an ultrasound) to make sure the venous and arterial veins are functioning properly.
Second flap check. Something in the nurse's face changes.
"We need someone from plastics to come." She tells her colleague.
"Is something wrong?" I ask. She doesn't answer.
Ten minutes go by. Pain blooms in my foot, and I know something is wrong. I'm given more morphine, which doesn't help.
The plastics intern walks in. He checks the flap, and listens.
"We've lost the venous." The pain is throbbing now. My foot feels tight and heavy.
"What does that mean?"
"The venous takes blood back to the heart. It looks like a vein has burst, which is causing swelling."
That would explain why it feels like my foot is going to explode.
He turns to my nurse. "We need to get her back to the OR."
"How soon?"
"Not longer than 30 minutes."
He leaves, and I watch the clock. Pain is rising, and panic bubbling up as well. Ten agonizing minutes crawl by. More morphine. No relief. All I want is to get back to the OR and be put to sleep. Anything to escape. I question the nurse about how much longer.
"Soon," she assures me. I'm trying not to scream, but moan instead.
I don't know how I get through the next fifteen minutes, but at last, at 5:30, I'm wheeled to the OR. There are no jokes this time. It takes longer for the anesthetic to work, because of my anxiety. For the second time, the world goes dark. There is no more pain.
7:30. I feel heavy, sluggish, dull. I don't want to wake up. Slowly, the tendrils of fog in my brain begin clearing. I hold my breath during the first flap check. The nurse smiles at me. All good.
20 minutes later, another successful check. They let my family in. After the third check, I'm declared stable, and ready to be moved to a room.
The hospital bed is rolled down corridors, and through a set of heavy doors into GH5; my home for the next week.
That's the second piece of good news: The surgery went so well, that they've cut my initial two week stay down to seven days.
I'm too groggy to care. My voice is low and scratchy, my throat sore from having breathing tubes in for ten hours.
I'm not allowed water yet, and I discover the wonder of ice chips melting on my tongue.
Thinking is as hard as walking waist deep through molasses. R brings flowers, and jokes that I sound like a bass. My family assures me the surgery was a success.
Flap checks are every hour, and continue to be positive. I can't stay awake anymore.
Tuesday, the 21st. Rough night, after being woken up every hour. The doctors make their rounds between 6 and 6:30 am, and I am a special case, so everyone comes to examine me. (the most I had at one time was ten)
My body is full of morphine and anesthetic. All I want to do is sleep. I'm aware of visitors throughout the day, but it takes all I have to keep my eyes open. When I do, I see more flowers, brightening up the stark room. I have no appetite.
I am totally tubular. An oxygen line to my nose, two IV lines, two drains coming out of my leg, a catheter. This isn't me. I barely feel human. I surrender to sleep.
Third blessing: I am alone. Having a room to yourself is rare, and I enjoy the semi-peace.
Wednesday, the 22nd. I'm off morphine, but the haze, everything is a haze. It's hard to form thoughts. The doctors are getting worried that I still haven't eaten anything.
My first big shock comes today; they change my thigh bandage for the first time. The nurse starts at my hip, and slowly peels the bandage off. The stitches keep going, and going, and going, ending at my knee. That would explain why it feels so tight and sore. It's going to be a beast of a battle scar.
S and L visit, bringing more flowers. No more oxygen tube.
Thursday, the 23rd. Breakthrough. It's amazing how having your hair washed can make you feel human. It's the first time I've felt human since the surgery, and glimmers of myself are appearing.
I am able to consume some rice. Small victories.
Friday, 24th. Zombie land again. I guess being human has worn me out. I sleep, and am pleased to discover I have minimal pain.
Saturday, the 25th. Eventful day. The morning nurse greets me with the news I'm changing rooms. I feel lucid, and eat breakfast! The IV and catheter are taken out. Today I feel like Esther. I'm moved to a wheelchair for the first time. M visits, and we watch a movie. L and S come again. It's nice to joke with them, and things are returning to normal.
Sunday, the 26th. New room. Now I have a roommate. I'm sensing a pattern; after the events of yesterday I am exhausted. B comes in the morning, C comes in the afternoon, and A comes in the evening. She catches me just as I'm about to have a good cry, and makes me laugh instead. Friends are wonderful.
Monday, the 27th. I'm excited. I get to go home today! I didn't sleep well, and am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, and eating real food. I still don't have much of an appetite, and am existing on fruit juice and rice. Dr H and his team come to take down the foot dressing.
I was warned, all week, that my foot wouldn't look like a foot.
The dressing comes off without problem, and I see flap for the first time. The graft site is a tear drop shape, outlined with stiches and staples. The round part of the teardrop is where my arch used to be, tapering up the side of my ankle. Now I understand why the donor site is so big; the graft is two pieces of skin sewn together. It looks like someone took an air pump and inflated the right side of the foot. I feel like Frankenstien, with a Frankenfoot. It's a shock.
Nothing can prepare me for the next half hour; the equivalent of hell breaking loose.
I still have two drains, one for the donor site, and for the graft. Dr H removes the flap drain, and I scream. Pain tingles up my leg. The drain site has become infected.
I don't clearly remember what happens next. A team assembles, and I'm told to breathe. I haven't needed painkillers all week, so I'm unprepared for the procedure. In order to clean out the infection, they have to open the flap in two places, and three staples have to come out. Mom is at my side, breathing with me. My ipod is playing, I try to focus on the distraction, but I have to scream again. I feel tears fighting to be free. I'm scared that if I start crying, I'll lose control. They're irrigating the infected area with saline. I can't hold back any longer, I start sobbing. The pain is too intense to handle silently. I'm past caring what anyone thinks, and start praying in tongues. I couldn't tell you how long it goes on.
Finally, they are done. I'm still crying, from pain, shock, relief that the ordeal is over.
Every time I think I'm done, I start again. Mid afternoon I am able to rest. I'm emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted, so when supper comes I eat without nausea.
Four people from GCG walk in as I'm finishing up. B, L, D, and S (you know who you are :)
I've missed them, missed GCG, and the community. It's the refreshing I need. We laugh, talk, and they pray for me. Inklings of peace begin to stir up in me.
After they leave, my new roommate are I chat a bit. We've both faced cancer, so we share parts of our stories. I have a bandage change, which drives me to tears again. I've never experienced so much pain in one day.
Tuesday, the 28th. Slow day. A soon as the doctors walk in to change the dressing, I start crying, dreading the pain ahead. I'm lucid today, and manage to eat all three meals. M has brought me books, so I dive into one. R comes to visit that night, filling me in on details about how rehearsals are going for Fiddler on the Roof, the musical I'm performing in at the end of November.
Wednesday, the 29th. L and S visit, bringing me Boon Burger ice cream. They take me for a small outing down to the lobby. It's nice to get out, and I can't wait to go home tomorrow.
Thursday, the 30th. The infection is gone! But the dressing changes still drive me to tears. Because they opened the flap, they have to pack the open sites with a special gauze. After a few false starts, I'm home. Sleep overwhelms me for a few hours. I have visitors throughout the day.
There truly is no place like home.
What a sweet word, and an even better place.
I was gone eleven days. An unexpected journey, to be sure.
The past six months have been layers of the unexpected; heartbreaking, devastating at times, and exhilarating, joyful, magnificent at others.
Nothing can prepare you for the process.
Sunday, October 19. I'm struggling with anxiety and fear. The hazy thing in the future called "surgery" is only a day away. I go to church, and am overwhelmed by peace, which grows throughout the day, ending in a sweet, blissful, joy filled time with my Gospel Community Group.
Monday, October 20, 5:15 am. I'm dressed, ready with my hospital bag. The sky is still dark, and the air is crisp as I walk to the car. Ha, walk. Inside my head a list of "this is the last time" plays. The last time I'll walk on my real foot. The next time I'll put weight on it, I'll have battle scars. Peace accompanies me as I walk into Admitting. Mom and I wait, and I make her laugh. The minutes tick by, and at 6:30 my name is called. I'm given a bracelet with my information on it, and directions for where to go next.
Pre-Op. A small curtained room. I change into a hospital gown, and crack more jokes. More waiting; a nurse comes and has me verify what the surgery is. My surgeon (Dr. H) comes in and draws on my leg and foot. It's funny seeing him in regular clothes; I've only ever seen him in scrubs.
He delivers the first morsel of good news.
"We've decided to take the full graft from your thigh. We won't have to touch your shoulder."
He leaves, and mom and I exchanged relived smiles. One less scar to heal. I had been nervous about the shoulder being the one of donor sites.
Time slips away, mom and I say goodbye, the nurse leads me past the point of no return.
It's time for the IV. I'm cold, making my veins small, and hard to find. The nurse tries three times, and finally finds one.
It's time. The hands on the clock have moved to 7:30. I'm wheeled into the OR.
A host of doctors and nurses greet me, verify my identity, and why I'm there. I'm transferred to the operating table, the anesthesiologist places a mask over my face and tells me to breathe.
I slip into nothingness.
4:30, Post Op Recovery room.
Two nurses are talking to me. My mind is cloudy. Hysteria sets in. I'm crying, not understanding why, not able to control my emotions or my trembling body. I'm told to take deep breaths, but it's the last thing I want to do. I don't know how, but I finally calm down. I'm given morphine for pain.
Flap checks are every 20 minutes. They press the graft to make sure it's taking, and listen with a Doppler (similar to an ultrasound) to make sure the venous and arterial veins are functioning properly.
Second flap check. Something in the nurse's face changes.
"We need someone from plastics to come." She tells her colleague.
"Is something wrong?" I ask. She doesn't answer.
Ten minutes go by. Pain blooms in my foot, and I know something is wrong. I'm given more morphine, which doesn't help.
The plastics intern walks in. He checks the flap, and listens.
"We've lost the venous." The pain is throbbing now. My foot feels tight and heavy.
"What does that mean?"
"The venous takes blood back to the heart. It looks like a vein has burst, which is causing swelling."
That would explain why it feels like my foot is going to explode.
He turns to my nurse. "We need to get her back to the OR."
"How soon?"
"Not longer than 30 minutes."
He leaves, and I watch the clock. Pain is rising, and panic bubbling up as well. Ten agonizing minutes crawl by. More morphine. No relief. All I want is to get back to the OR and be put to sleep. Anything to escape. I question the nurse about how much longer.
"Soon," she assures me. I'm trying not to scream, but moan instead.
I don't know how I get through the next fifteen minutes, but at last, at 5:30, I'm wheeled to the OR. There are no jokes this time. It takes longer for the anesthetic to work, because of my anxiety. For the second time, the world goes dark. There is no more pain.
7:30. I feel heavy, sluggish, dull. I don't want to wake up. Slowly, the tendrils of fog in my brain begin clearing. I hold my breath during the first flap check. The nurse smiles at me. All good.
20 minutes later, another successful check. They let my family in. After the third check, I'm declared stable, and ready to be moved to a room.
The hospital bed is rolled down corridors, and through a set of heavy doors into GH5; my home for the next week.
That's the second piece of good news: The surgery went so well, that they've cut my initial two week stay down to seven days.
I'm too groggy to care. My voice is low and scratchy, my throat sore from having breathing tubes in for ten hours.
I'm not allowed water yet, and I discover the wonder of ice chips melting on my tongue.
Thinking is as hard as walking waist deep through molasses. R brings flowers, and jokes that I sound like a bass. My family assures me the surgery was a success.
Flap checks are every hour, and continue to be positive. I can't stay awake anymore.
Tuesday, the 21st. Rough night, after being woken up every hour. The doctors make their rounds between 6 and 6:30 am, and I am a special case, so everyone comes to examine me. (the most I had at one time was ten)
My body is full of morphine and anesthetic. All I want to do is sleep. I'm aware of visitors throughout the day, but it takes all I have to keep my eyes open. When I do, I see more flowers, brightening up the stark room. I have no appetite.
I am totally tubular. An oxygen line to my nose, two IV lines, two drains coming out of my leg, a catheter. This isn't me. I barely feel human. I surrender to sleep.
Third blessing: I am alone. Having a room to yourself is rare, and I enjoy the semi-peace.
Wednesday, the 22nd. I'm off morphine, but the haze, everything is a haze. It's hard to form thoughts. The doctors are getting worried that I still haven't eaten anything.
My first big shock comes today; they change my thigh bandage for the first time. The nurse starts at my hip, and slowly peels the bandage off. The stitches keep going, and going, and going, ending at my knee. That would explain why it feels so tight and sore. It's going to be a beast of a battle scar.
S and L visit, bringing more flowers. No more oxygen tube.
Thursday, the 23rd. Breakthrough. It's amazing how having your hair washed can make you feel human. It's the first time I've felt human since the surgery, and glimmers of myself are appearing.
I am able to consume some rice. Small victories.
Friday, 24th. Zombie land again. I guess being human has worn me out. I sleep, and am pleased to discover I have minimal pain.
Saturday, the 25th. Eventful day. The morning nurse greets me with the news I'm changing rooms. I feel lucid, and eat breakfast! The IV and catheter are taken out. Today I feel like Esther. I'm moved to a wheelchair for the first time. M visits, and we watch a movie. L and S come again. It's nice to joke with them, and things are returning to normal.
Sunday, the 26th. New room. Now I have a roommate. I'm sensing a pattern; after the events of yesterday I am exhausted. B comes in the morning, C comes in the afternoon, and A comes in the evening. She catches me just as I'm about to have a good cry, and makes me laugh instead. Friends are wonderful.
Monday, the 27th. I'm excited. I get to go home today! I didn't sleep well, and am looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, and eating real food. I still don't have much of an appetite, and am existing on fruit juice and rice. Dr H and his team come to take down the foot dressing.
I was warned, all week, that my foot wouldn't look like a foot.
The dressing comes off without problem, and I see flap for the first time. The graft site is a tear drop shape, outlined with stiches and staples. The round part of the teardrop is where my arch used to be, tapering up the side of my ankle. Now I understand why the donor site is so big; the graft is two pieces of skin sewn together. It looks like someone took an air pump and inflated the right side of the foot. I feel like Frankenstien, with a Frankenfoot. It's a shock.
Nothing can prepare me for the next half hour; the equivalent of hell breaking loose.
I still have two drains, one for the donor site, and for the graft. Dr H removes the flap drain, and I scream. Pain tingles up my leg. The drain site has become infected.
I don't clearly remember what happens next. A team assembles, and I'm told to breathe. I haven't needed painkillers all week, so I'm unprepared for the procedure. In order to clean out the infection, they have to open the flap in two places, and three staples have to come out. Mom is at my side, breathing with me. My ipod is playing, I try to focus on the distraction, but I have to scream again. I feel tears fighting to be free. I'm scared that if I start crying, I'll lose control. They're irrigating the infected area with saline. I can't hold back any longer, I start sobbing. The pain is too intense to handle silently. I'm past caring what anyone thinks, and start praying in tongues. I couldn't tell you how long it goes on.
Finally, they are done. I'm still crying, from pain, shock, relief that the ordeal is over.
Every time I think I'm done, I start again. Mid afternoon I am able to rest. I'm emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted, so when supper comes I eat without nausea.
Four people from GCG walk in as I'm finishing up. B, L, D, and S (you know who you are :)
I've missed them, missed GCG, and the community. It's the refreshing I need. We laugh, talk, and they pray for me. Inklings of peace begin to stir up in me.
After they leave, my new roommate are I chat a bit. We've both faced cancer, so we share parts of our stories. I have a bandage change, which drives me to tears again. I've never experienced so much pain in one day.
Tuesday, the 28th. Slow day. A soon as the doctors walk in to change the dressing, I start crying, dreading the pain ahead. I'm lucid today, and manage to eat all three meals. M has brought me books, so I dive into one. R comes to visit that night, filling me in on details about how rehearsals are going for Fiddler on the Roof, the musical I'm performing in at the end of November.
Wednesday, the 29th. L and S visit, bringing me Boon Burger ice cream. They take me for a small outing down to the lobby. It's nice to get out, and I can't wait to go home tomorrow.
Thursday, the 30th. The infection is gone! But the dressing changes still drive me to tears. Because they opened the flap, they have to pack the open sites with a special gauze. After a few false starts, I'm home. Sleep overwhelms me for a few hours. I have visitors throughout the day.
There truly is no place like home.
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