Grand Finale

The week heading into surgery, I prayed that God would do one last Big Thing. Something that'd make for a real bang-up last post. You know. End with fireworks.



But I didn't have any visions of Heaven while in the ether. And, as I've told you, my hospital stay wasn't great. I spent the weekend in a real funk, which I thought was due to the emotional expense of the surgery. Then, after posting on Sunday with those notes and updates, and signing off that night with such resignation, then God showed me that all of what had happened in the hospital and the days that followed was my last Big Story.



I used a phrase in that Sunday post: "frustration that one of my medical requests had been ignored," and left it at this because I didn't want any of you to think Mayfield was a jerk. Seriously. He has been the ultimate agent of God's grace and mercy in our lives, I didn't want one small thing from the end of this road to cloud anyone's estimation of him. I love him and so should you!



Now I see that probably the bigger reason I didn't elaborate is because I was the total jerk. And who wants to be a jerk at the end of her own blog?



Well. Without further delay, here is the story, starting at the place where Bryan, Amy, the surgical nurse, pre-op nurse, surgeon and nurse anesthetist were all huddled in the pre-op bay.



I was talking with the surgical nurse. She had the standard list of questions to ask and then I asked one myself: Will you be inserting a catheter?



Yes. It would be a longer operation because of the two procedures, so, yes.



With great forethought, I recalled my first major surgery in July, my ankle surgery from 2 years ago and my baby deliveries following the epidurals and said, "You know, I can never urinate following anesthesia, and I really hate being awake when they put a catheter in to relieve me, so can we just leave this one in until tomorrow morning?"



And she said yes. No problem.



Fade to black.



Wake up, as I've reported, way too early. Feel them holding me up so they can wrap my chest and immediately realize just what's happened up top. Do my best to scooch myself over to the bed even though the pain is screaming from two places. Recall why my abs might be hurting and feel even worse.



And then. And then. Feel a bit of pressure in my bladder. I murmured, from my haze, "Is my catheter still in?"



The recovery nurse checked. Nope.



"They said they'd leave it in."



She checked again. Nope. She said she was surprised, too.



An intense wave of anxiety swept into me. My mind raced--still foggy, of course--as I flashed back to what it's like to be post-anesthesia with no catheter to help me. It was sheer irritation to try to urinate when you know you're full and yet you just can't. And so humiliating to have to have a nurse walk you to the toilet before you're ready to walk only to sit down and not do anything while she's standing there, waiting on you. It just sucks.



Mayfield walked in at this very moment. Now. I'm going to report this conversation to the best of my recollection. But remember that I was still foggy, and what you're about to read is a blend of what was actually said mixed with heavy amounts of what I perceived about the tone.



I'm pretty sure I started it. "You took my catheter out." It was an accusation.



He said, "Yes. . ."



"I said I wanted it in. How am I supposed to urinate?" Still accusatory.



"You're allowed to get up as soon as we get you to your room." His tone seemed flippant to me. Like: no big deal. Just pee.



"I can't just walk around right after anesthesia." The pulse monitor starting beeping a bit faster.

"You should be trying to walk around as soon as you can. You're supposed to be walking around."

"You've been pumping me full of IV fluids for how many hours? And I'm not going to have to urinate before I'm ready to walk around?"

"You can use a bedpan."


Use a bedpan? Idiot man! Stupid, insensitive, idiot man who has no idea what it's like to have a woman's equipment!

I flashed back to the ankle surgery when I didn't know I could ask for a catheter and no one offered one and, given that I had a broken ankle, I wasn't allowed to try to get the toilet myself in the middle of the night. So, all night long, once the urine actually started to flow following several painful hours, I used a bedpan.


And it was disgusting. Urine doesn't actually go into the pan. It spreads out all over such that I had not only to ring the nurse every 30 minutes to ask for it to be emptied, but I had to do a big wipe-up as well, and then try to sleep in the dampness of my own urine.


I hate bedpans. Which is why I said, "Bedpans don't work."


And then he scoffed. Or laughed. Or some other non-taking-that-comment-as-truth sort of reaction. I said, "I'd have to call the nurses to ask them to empty it." This was only a shadow of the problem. But the haze of ether, alas, the haze. . .


He said, "Amy, that's their job." And at this point, I didn't recognize his tone, my brain just couldn't track with it. But in the moment, I took it as sheer argument. This guy was arguing with me. I'd just had several girlie-parts removed and I felt like crap and I'd just thrown up in dry heaves from the anesthesia and he was arguing with me?


Poor customer service, people. And, like you, poor customer service has the power to enrage. The pulse monitor beeped yet faster.

He probably noticed this. He said, "Amy, I'm not the bad guy here. I'm trying to take care of you the best I can."

Such confusion here. He thought I was accusing him of being a bad guy? How could he think that I'd ever think he was the bad guy? Being a jerk about this catheter thing, yes. But it made me even angrier that he'd say this. It felt like condescension.

Yet, with the haze of ether. . . I was in no shape to explain it to him coherently. I just said, as my voice got louder, "This whole thing is just an extra layer of humiliation I don't need in my world right now!"

He said, "The catheter presents an extra layer of infection you might not want, either." Cheeky bastard!! "But if you want to buy into that risk, you can. . ."

And this felt like manipulation. The pulse monitor sounded like a bomb timer right before it explodes. "I just want to be able to urinate and it doesn't even matter if I can walk around yet!"

"Well I wouldn't want to have that thing hanging down between my legs while I was trying to walk around, either."

And that was it. That was the end. I shouted at him, and I mean,
I shouted, "Mayfield, you're not the f****ing patient!"

Oh yes I did.

The recovery nurse, witness to all thus far, stiffened. Who else was in recovery? Anyone awake and in that giant room heard me.

My pulse, I would learn later, was at 163, which is around my maximum target heart rate for a cardio workout. And yet it got there through sheer emotion.

I'm not sure what he said. I think he came towards me, from the foot of my bed where he'd been. And I screamed at him again to "Get out of my space!" Which is a total Mommy thing to say. . .

He left.

The nurse decided I was well enough to go upstairs to a room. I cried a lot. Listened to her hand-off instructions that described mostly the catheter issue. The recovery nurse said, "Amy and Dr. Mayfield. . .disagreed. . . They had a. . . disagreement. . ."

Bryan came in soon after. His face was full of pity. I told him I was so glad to see him, I had been so lonely and upset in recovery. He nodded.

Then I asked, "Did you see Mayfield?"

Uh, yeah. "Did he. . .quote me? Directly?"

Bryan kind of smirked. "Yeah. . ."

I got the full report. Mayfield told Bryan the main issue, and then quoted the final moments, said I could have a catheter if I was willing to take on the risk of infection from it, that this was my choice.

This still didn't make sense to me. We didn't have the whole risk-of-infection talk/concern last time. The nurse just put one in after it was clear I couldn't go on my own.

I asked Byran--can you believe I asked this? this is how mad I was at Mayfield--"And was he laughing when he told you? Did he think it was just hilarious?"

Bryan said, no, "He looked really sad, Amy."

Oh.

The afternoon passed. It included two trips to the bathroom that were both unsuccessful and that both happened in front of my roommate's freakish visitors. I just couldn't get past my frustration. The feeling that all this could have been avoided if he'd just listened to me.

The nurse did a bladder scan. Detected that I was nearly at capacity, and started a catheter. There was no discussion about "Mr. Wink" this time, I can be thankful to say. But it took two nurses, one of the most humiliating positions you can imagine, and 3 attempts. Seriously, they opened 3 different catheter kits before getting it.

What relief, though! Whew!

The early hours of the evening passed and as I felt better and better physically, I felt worse and worse in my heart. The whole day, I commented to every nurse who came in--and surely they all knew about the incident because gossip must surely travel quickly in a hospital--"He might have been wrong about this, but Dr. Mayfield really is terrific. I love the guy. This was just one small mistake. . ."

Each one nodded and smiled and said something like, "Yes, he's the greatest."

I told Mayfield this much later, that he was very popular with all the staff and he said, "That's because I don't steal food out of their break room."

He came into my room at about 7 PM, and he looked really terrible. I mean. . .just really down and sad and disheartened.

I said, "Mayfield, I'm so sorry I cussed at you. I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm so sorry."

He came and squatted at the side of my bed so he'd be at head level and said, "I'm glad to hear you say that because that really hurt my feelings."

I cried at this. My pulse went back up to 130. He was teary-eyed, too. And he went on to say that he accepted my apology, and it was all OK, I'd had a really rough time, I had been through a lot, it was OK that I'd gotten so upset. He said that he'd had a really long day, too, following my surgery. And he looked like it.

Which is why I said, "We don't have to talk about it now, but. . .you said some things that were not very cool either."

He nodded at this and said he had plenty to learn and that he was open to getting better in any way that he could.

And that was the end of that part of the discussion. We went on to discuss my condition and medical needs. And then we three talked for a bit longer about general things.

But right here is where I have to put that asterisk. Right at that moment when I declared, basically, that I still held something against him. He didn't take it that way, and I didn't mean it that way, but as the weekend ensued, it became clear that this was happening.

All of Friday, Saturday and Sunday, my heart just ached. I attributed this to the loss. Right? I mean, of course I'd be feeling sad.

But it was more than this. When I wrote that post on Sunday, I wanted badly to be able to share a Good Word from God, to tell how the light was still shining in that dark moment. But throughout the whole history of The Big "C," I've never allowed myself to fake it. I've never put a braver or happier or more joyful face on the truth than what I was honestly experiencing.

So, Sunday as I wrapped up that post, I did what God asks His children to do: When we're not feeling the God-juice, so to speak, we don't pout and we don't doubt, we just need to bank on Scripture.

In those low moments--indeed, following a whole weekend of not being able to see God or sense His joy--we need to say, "That which is true is true, regardless of what I can perceive at this moment. And what I know is true is God's Word."

In this case, God's Word says that I might be pressed, but not crushed, might be persecuted, but not abandoned, might be struck down, but not destroyed. And God's Word says that I am blessed beyond a curse--even the curse of cancer and breastlessness and early menopause--because it's His promise that endures, not my circumstances.

And I thought that was the end of it, friends. I thought, "Well, no really great story. Only a horrible moment with my surgeon that I'd rather no one know about. . ."

Sunday night, I couldn't get to sleep. My heart was still aching. And it made no sense. Grief, yes. But grief that lasted over so many days? For this? This was the end of the cancer marathon! There should be at least as much relief and gladness as there was sadness. But I couldn't shake that sadness.

There's one thing you can do when you get to this point--when something is wrong, and you know it, but you can't put your finger on it.

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for the kingdom of Heaven is theirs."

That doesn't sound helpful, but that's kind of because it's in code. A helpful paraphrase of it is this: "You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you, there is more of God and His rule."

So I prayed that simple prayer. God, I'm hopeless on my own. I can't do anything right for myself apart from You. Search my heart. Show me what I'm missing.

This Scripture came to mind immediately: Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

And that was my problem, wasn't it? That after so many months of seeing God's Hand so clearly, day after day, at the very end of the trial, I just couldn't.

If you're pure in heart, you'll see God. If you're not seeing God, you must not be pure of heart. Simple modus pollens logic.

I asked God to show me what was wrong with my heart, and like a movie, the entire scene from the day of my surgery replayed. Only this time, it didn't look as I've described it to you. God somehow let me see it out of the haze of ether.

In this new version, Mayfield is the doctor who came to check on me in recovery only to find a patient mad as a hornet, and he was completely bewildered. And flummoxed. This wasn't a situation that escalated because of his presence, it was already an impossible situation when he walked in. An ambush, really.

In this new version, I saw how I hadn't had the catheter discussion with Mayfield, I'd had it with the surgical nurse, who makes no decisions in the OR. She knew of my preference, he did not.

And in this new version, I was holding something against him. "I apologize, but. . ." and it wasn't OK to walk away from that with the conclusion that he'd messed up, but in the grand scheme it didn't matter.

If he had messed up, then that would have been fine. Granted, he shouldn't suggest that a woman use a bedpan. But other than this, I saw clearly that he hadn't been wrong.

I played a hypothetical situation out. Suppose I had told him about the catheter thing instead of the nurse. He would have said, "I see your point, but catheters present an additional risk of infection. So it might be better to go without, try to urinate on your own. And then if that doesn't work again, we can always put one back in."

I'd have accepted that. That sounds completely reasonable. And following this realization, as I lie awake not able to sleep, God showed me that the core offense is that I did not trust this doctor's motives for me. I should have. Instead of insisting on how right I was, I should have just asked, "Why?" with a belief that he'd had a good reason.

This isn't advice I'd give to many other patients. I think we're all better off being our own best advocates. But after this guy had done so much for us, had gone so far beyond the call of duty and even beyond the call of excellence. Really. That deserves a measure of trust.

I fell asleep soon after figuring all this out.

We saw Mayfield the next morning, and I shared it all with him. That I was sorry for more than just the yelling and the cussing, but for not trusting him when he'd more than earned it.

He said I didn't have to apologize, and it was all OK, that, yes, he'd only been concerned about infection. That this is the kind of thing surgeons have to answer for if something does go wrong. That having a port in made the possibility that much more risky, because the bacteria would have circulated through it and built up there into a real poison. That--and he kind of let this slip--one of his colleagues (not from this hospital) had just lost a patient to port infection resulting from a catheter infection. And that he'd been "petrified" of any infection in me.

At this point, we were both teary-eyed again and Bryan was looking at us with his little smile. He said later, "I think it's cute how you both find something to cry about at every appointment." Cry-babies, we are. Absolutely.

He also mentioned that he'd love to take a class where they teach him how to talk to patients as they come out of anesthesia. But I'm pretty sure that class doesn't exist because there's as many ways to do it as there are patients. And in my instance, there's probably not a single thing he could have said that would have penetrated the frenzy I'd worked myself into.

And all of this makes for a grand Grand Finale, why?

Because this whole cancer journey has born a lot of fruit. It's been good and big for Bryan, for our children, for our friends and family. It's been the Hand of God reaching down to Earth in ways that we can see and enjoy, and I've been glad to share openly what that all looks like.

But chiefly, it has not been about other people. It's been about me. It's been for me. This cancer and the treatment of it has been a gift meant to bless me. And at the last moment, when I was looking for one last great God moment to wrap it all up, He gave me one.

He used Scripture to show me the sin in my own heart and the cure for it and how to love someone better having learned the lesson. It was a microcosm of God's bigger project in my life. An example of what it means to have a relationship with Him, what it means to live with the Holy Spirit alive within me. And that's what this whole cancer thing has been mostly about: The God of the Universe is bigger than whatever circumstances come my way.

Thank you for being used by Him to encourage me. You have been His instruments of blessing.


There's a lingering question from The Big "C," isn't there? The question: What shall we call people like me if we don't call them "warriors"?

And the end of the marathon, as we left Mayfield's office following the post-op check-up and tube withdrawal, he said, simply, "You're a champion."

Yes. That's it, isn't it?

Penultimate

Tomorrow is the last post for The Big "C." The Grand Finale. The End.

In about a month, I'll re-archive the whole thing so that a newcomer can read the first post and scroll straight down to get the whole story. This won't be the end of Amy Ponce!, blogger. I have started a new one, http://www.poncefamilysuperheroes.blogspot.com/, to chronicle our new life.

Because we're done with cancer, baby. And that whole marvelous, blessed, beautiful, exciting, love-fill, joy-beggetting story had a beginning and middle. Tomorrow, I'll tell you about its end.

Preview: At one point, I screamed at Mayfield and may or may not have dropped an f-bomb on him. You'll definitely want to tune in.

Until then, many notes to offer:

I mentioned making a whole post on the reconstruction decision. But, eh, it's not worth a whole post. The point is that there are 3 options for reconstruction of "breasts."

But you're not really reconstructing breasts. You are creating appendages of flesh that are shaped and tattooed like breasts, sure. But you can't feel anything in them. So there goes a substantial portion of their function, no?

None of the 3 options were too attractive to me once I looked into them. The "cadillac" option, the one that yields the best cosmetic results, requires taking ab muscles out from one place and rolling them up into the new construction.

Um. Riiiiight. . . I just really want as much of my body to be as God made it.

Option 2 involves cutting a "flap" of skin from one part of your body and sewing it to your chest, only to later implant saline--or whatnot--into it.

I just can't wrap my mind around this one either.

Option 3 involves inserting tissue expanders in your chest. They are kind of like spring-loaded clamps that constantly push out and your body--for 6 months--constantly makes more and more tissue to accommodate them until you are stretched out enough to hold saline implants.

I talked to a woman who was at the end of her tissue-expanding period and she said she'd been in a state of grimace the whole time. On painkillers the whole time. And yet still in pain.

My tissue had to expand just a little to accommodate my port and I tell you, for the week it took to adjust, I couldn't sleep, could hardly move. . . It was a mess.

All 3 of these options require at least 3 surgeries, the last one at least 5, and none of this is considering the risk of complications through infections which are very, very common.

It's a lot to go through and right now, I feel really done going through stuff.

Bryan is part of the equation, of course. If this were something he could snap his fingers to make happen, he'd do it. We both would. But the reality is an idea he hates. He'd be supportive if I wanted to, but beyond this, he has said, "Don't do it for my sake. . ."

I think he's pretty much done going through stuff, too.

***

Physically, I'm feeling really great. I'm not taking any drugs for the pain. I have started taking Arimidex, and I will continue--daily--for 5 years. Good thing I bought that weekly pill box. . .

This is the medicine I can take instead of Tomaxifin because I am now officially menopausal and will stay this way. Studies show that Arimidex is a great deal more effective again recurrence than the other. I'm not sure how they can argue this, though. Probably the difference is not the drug, but the fact that women taking Tomaxifin probably still have estrogen coursing through their bodies whereas those of us on Arimidex do not.

Whatever the case, I'm glad to be among those who have a lower rate of recurrence.

***

The kids are doing so well. We picked them up yesterday afternoon and heard all about their fun adventures with the Burches.

I'll tell you something: They have always been precious to me. But this time when I saw them again, knowing that there will not be more babies, I wanted to press the slow-motion button on their lives. And they seemed about 7 times more precious than ever before.

How ridiculous not to have felt all of that before. But there's the truth, and this is one more thing to be thankful for--a renewed perspective of my children.

***

Related to this, Gemma, Josh and Bryan left for Florida for 10 days this morning.

New perspective notwithstanding: wooo hoooo.

***

I plan to use this time to work on and finish up my book about our time in Korea. So if I come to mind and you are wondering how to pray for the woman who has everything, pray that I would be diligent and productive and skilled in my work.

***

I had the drainage tube taken out yesterday at the post-op appointment. It hurt just a smidgeon because this one didn't have to wind all the way up to my armpit. That hole plus the various incisions on my body look great, I'm healing well.

Bryan and I then went to lunch and then to my appointment with Dr. Markus before a dose of herceptin. It was good to see Dr. Science, as always. I brought him a can of kosher macaroons for Passover, which he found very thoughtful.

I told him I had wanted to make him a kosher cake--I have a really great recipe--but then realized that I don't have a kosher kitchen nor a kosher plate to bring it to him.

He poo-pooed all that, said he doesn't keep kosher at anytime, and that his wife wanted to eat a French baguette at their seder but he thought "that might be pushing it."

All of this, he says, made him feel "even more guilty" that he'd completely forgotten about Passover until just the day before.

I've been to a seder before and I loved it. What a beautiful way to eat a meal and celebrate a year of the Lord's work in your life. And we didn't even have canned macaroons at that one!

Who knows? Maybe next year the Ponce!'s will host a seder. . .

***

I'll see you here tomorrow for the final installment. I've got to say: The ending tastes pretty sweet and not bitter at all.

From the Horse Herself

Thank you, Sister #1, for providing updates. Here are a few details to fill in:



My "showtime" was 6:30 AM, and we walked in at about 6:15 to find 4 other patients already there, with no one yet at the desk.



At 6:35, a nurse came out to this waiting room and called my name. As I walked towards her, one of the other patients there said, "Why does she get to go first?"



***



I asked Mayfield about the early start time as it co-ordinated to his rock star morphology. He said by the time it was actually "his turn" to operate, it'd be 9:30. That is, we'd do the oopherectomy first, and it would be in the hands of Dr. Stickley, the OBGYN, as he supervised.



Dr. Stickley. Very nice, very professional. Very young. She can't be a day over 26. I'm glad Mayfield was there.



And "oopherectomy"? Surely I'm making that up, right?



No. That's what the ovary-removal is called. Because the tubes were snipped off, too, it is called a "Salinga oopherectomy." But the best part is the pronunciation of this word:



ooh-ooh-fer-ect-o-my



Yes. Both "o's"--given a long "o" pronunciation.



Said together, "salinga ooh-ooh-pherectomy" sounds like a drink that comes with a little umbrella.



Yet this is how Dr. Stickley and most of the nurses pronounced it.



Ridiculous. We don't say "Look at the animals in the zooh-ooh," do we?



***



The wake-up out of surgery this time was really, really rotten. I think the nurse anesthetist, Chuck, while a very nice man, woke me up too soon.



I was awake for when they wrapped me up. This not only hurt. It was also horrifying.



I was awake when they switched me back to a bed. This both hurt, and it was annoying as they asked me to do the moving. (e.g. "Shift your weight from hips to shoulders as you move across.") Folks! My ab muscles now have incisions in them!



By the time I got the recovery room, my stomach was on fire, my chest wound was on fire, and I was coughing and throwing up (with dry heaves, as I was empty) which made everything hurt that much more.



And, whereas for the first surgery, I had awoken to very good news--that I hadn't lost my muscle, that the cancerous lymph node was gone, too--and to Bryan in the recovery room with me, this time I woke up and was immediately conscious of the sheer sadness of the loss. Bryan wasn't permitted in this time, and I was so lonely, in so much pain, was so frustrated because one of my medical requests had been ignored.



It just all sucked. That whole day was crappy. Possibly the nadir of this entire cancer experience.

So, while on one hand "all went well," and we can be glad about that, on the other hand, what had to happen is not a great thing. The farther I can get from that day, the gladder I will be.

***

I was put upstairs this time, not in the ICU. This meant that I shared a room. I don't know what her condition was, but she complained a lot, all through the night about how nauseous she was. And she kept calling her kids on her cell phone and cussing them out. Something about their having taken her car out when she told them they couldn't. Her husband was in Iraq, and was not equipped with "side plates," which made her cuss a lot more because this endangered him.

All of which I learned by listening to her. But it's not eavesdropping when the other person's head is about 5 feet from yours with only a curtain separating you.

Her kids visited both days. A bunch of teenage boys, one of whom had a mohawk spiked about two feet high. These are people I had to parade past on my way to use the bathroom.

Hmm. Yeah. Well. If I were a more compassionate person, I might have done something--anything--to offer some comfort to her. But I really just wanted to check out as soon as possible.

***

Speaking of Iraq. This time, as I awaited surgery in the pre-op bay, the guy next to me was loud as he briefed his nurse. Bryan and I learned that he was 24 years old, and was having an operation on his shoulder because he'd thrown it out while steering his vehicle wildly to get out of a kill zone while on tour.

Just a little reminder not to refer to me as any kind of warrior.

***

I remembered to bring my own pillow this time. My own super-wonderful Tempurpedic servical-support foam pillow. And I used my bright pink survivor-ribbon pillow case my friend, Kathy, made for me, just to be festive. This made a huge difference. I was very comfortable.

***

What was uncomfortable for several days was the carbon dioxide left in my abdominal cavity from the laperoscopy. They infulated (Mayfield swears this is a word) me so they'd have room to look around and go to work. Then they let the gas out. But it doesn't all leave right away.

Instead, it escaped into my shoulders and made stabbing pains in my muscles. No drugs can help this. It's just a lot of owie owie owie until it finally goes away. Which, for me, was this morning.

***

Speaking of drugs, I'm already off the big ones. I take extra-strength tylenol and antibiotics to ward against any infection, as an infection would be particularly serious for my port to process. As of this morning, I was feeling pretty comfortable all the way around.

***

Met about a dozen nurses this time. It's a busy floor. They were busy men and women. All of them nice. None of them with time to chat with me. No fun stories there.

***

The tube is still in. This is the one Sister #1 mentioned. She should probably stop reading now, because she's easy-queasy. . . This is a drainage tube, left in while the skin is sewn around it. Bryan tends to it every morning and evening for me, and we are on track to have it taken out tomorrow morning at my follow-up.

Other than this tube, I've got ACE bandages wrapped around me a tightly as I can tolerate them. I can tolerate considerably more this time, as I'm no longer also wrapping a breast. Now it's just chest wall, the nerves to which have been cut. So. Wrap away.

***

Betsy tells me the kids are doing well, having lots of fun with the recent snowfall. The other night, Gemma scooched down into her sleeping bag so no one would hear her and started crying and crying because she missed me.

That's one of the saddest images of the past year.

She sounded very happy when I talked with her. Youth bounces back.

***

My right arm did swell up again from the fluid intake. It is also reducing again. I can only hope I can get it reversed in short order, and not over the course of a few months.

***

And here I sit: upright for longer periods of time, awake for most of the day, appetite restoring to normal. I'd be lying if I said I was in a very good place emotionally. Mostly, this is just a very sad time and I don't feel great. I feel absolutely laid low.

But. To paraphrase: I'm afflicted, not crushed; persecuted, not abandoned; struck down but not destroyed; I'm blessed beyond a curse for His promise endures.

And one of His promises is that things won't always be like this.

She's Home..

And trying to get some rest.

She's walking a little slow and the only comfortable position right now is flat on her back so there won't be much communication from Amy on the blog or via email until next week.

The follow up is scheduled for Monday, hopefully the tube will be removed (I have no idea what the tube is for and forgot to ask) and she will be a little more mobile.

Bryan is taking Gemma and Josh down to Florida for a week on Tuesday so Amy can get some serious quiet / recovery time.

It's been a tough 9 months. But the scary part is over - let's celebrate the cancer free years to come!

Just heard from Amy

She's on track for heading home this afternoon - easier to get some rest in a quiet house than a noisy hospital. She did, however, decide to stick around for lunch since hospital food is so tasty...

Amy sounded good although disappointed at the return of her lymphodema - hopefully this is due to having fluids pumped into her during surgery and she'll be able to process it out like before.

I'm guessing that there will be a lot of napping over the next couple days and I don't know when she'll feel like getting back to the blog but feel free to continue leaving comments - she'll enjoy reading them when she gets here and I know that she really appreciates all the support and love coming her way!

Sister #1

Update

As noted in Amy's post below, Sister #1 here to relay the update from Bryan.

All is well! The surgeries were completed with no troubles and Amy will be up in her room resting within the hour.

Things got started on time and they finished up in about 4 hours - no complications or unexpected blips so Amy should be home on Friday afternoon.

btw, Dr. Mayfield is a rockstar.

Game Day!

As I write, it's about 9:40 at night. I have to get up tomorrow at 5:00 AM. The "show" time is 6:30 and the surgery is at 7:30.

I'll have to ask Mayfield about this when I see him tomorrow. I distinctly remember his saying that he turns into a "rock star" by 9:30 AM. . .

Judging from some e-mails, there's some unclarity regarding tomorrow's procedure. This is my fault. I'd alluded before to the idea of doing a reconstruction in the same surgery as the removal. We looked into this. And it's definitely not what's going to happen tomorrow.

In fact, right now, we have no intention to pursue reconstruction. That's a post all in itself, though. Maybe one I'll get around during my recovery.

Speaking of which, I'm told I'll likely be allowed home by Friday afternoon. The kids are with Miss Betsy and her family all weekend, so it should be a very peaceful few days.

Bryan will call Sister #1 with an update after he hears from Mayfield post-surgery, and Sister #1 will post said update on this blog when she gets it. This should be up by early afternoon. If it's not, start praying with wild enthusiasm.

Before my first surgery, I remember having to take an ambien just to fall asleep, and it only worked for a few hours. I really feel like I can go drug-free tonight, so it must be better this time around, no?

Well.

Those alive in the Spirit set their minds on things of the Spirit. All flesh will pass away one day anyway. . .

Thank you for your prayers.