Did you know that getting a prosthetic breast and the undergarment to wear with it requires a prescription? That there are women liscenced to fit these? (At least, I hope all these practitioners are women. . .) That this isn't something you can stroll into the unmentionables department at Nordstrom's to procure?
Yep. Fake breasts are big business. The non-surgical kind are, too.
I made my appointment for Wednesday afternoon, while the kids were at Betsy's for a few days because of the port surgery. I didn't really want to go because I was feeling ambivalent about getting one. It would be a sad sort of errand, wouldn't it?
So I invited Mandy to come with me. Oh Mandy! Her personality is a thousand wat light bulb. The one person who can make any gathering into a party. A wonderful friend who makes me laugh and laugh and laugh. Absolutely my go-to girl for an errand like this. When I asked her, she was so excited about the prospect. To give evidence that she wasn't just humoring her friend, she shouted, "I love boobs!"
What, exactly, was I looking to get? Well, right now I'm trapped between two worlds. It's not an option to wear nothing under my shirt. I can wear a long ace bandage as a wrap as I did after surgery, which has quite the flattening effect. I can wear my athletic support, which does the job, and is the most comfortable, but looks ridiculous, or I can wear something fake and go back to looking like I did 8 weeks ago.
The advantage of the athletic support is the comfort factor. The disadvantage is that I go along my merry way not thinking about recent events and then I approach a glass door, or the car windows and see my reflection and it's like a slap in the face: Oh. I'd forgotten about that for a moment.
(Interestingly, I've been in public a lot lately and no one has ever looked twice or been caught up in a staring-at-the-ghastly. It's not all that noticeable at first glance. And where, as a 34 year old house wife and mother, would I be going that anyone would do more than glance? It's really about what I'm seeing, and not what others aren't noticing anyway.)
The advantage to the fake thing is that my clothes fit like they are supposed to, and I like being closer to the Hour-Glass and farther away from the Pear. The disadvantage is that it's. . .fake. I haven't been able to wrap my mind around that yet.
What was I looking for? The option to have my shirts look symetrical. The option to have my clothing fit.
Mandy and I went to my appointment. It was nice to have someone to gab with as we waited. The business sells prosthetics of all sorts, not just breasts, but still: Does it seem inappropriate to you that this place had a few children's picture books and that one of them was Dolly Parton's?
The fitter came out. Her name was Mandy, too, so I'll call her Mandy Jo for our purposes. She led us to a fitting room decorated with 2 wingback chairs, several robes hanging from hooks, fake ivy streaming all about and luxurious linens covering the table that houses her wares. Mandy Jo was very proud of this, told us how she'd decorated it herself, and while it was. . .nice, it was akin to those flower-patterned stickers from the mammogram.
We got down to business. First of all, the bras there--special because there is a pocket in the cup to hold the prosthetic--had names. Each style, known by a name. I am copying them from the booklet that accompanied my products:
Wendy's Poise
Regan's Dream
Shari's Flair
Helen's Charm
Sarah's Karma
Jennie's Pride
Linda's Glory
Lacey's Answer
There is a Facebook Quiz to be made out of this. I can feel it. But I can't quite make out all the details. . .
Mandy Jo took a look at the prosthetics. Mandy Jo pulled out the Old School number and went from there, model by model. There was a foam one. Then foam with a weight in it. Then silicone. ("This one passes the hug test. If someone hugs you, it feels just like a real one.") Then, eventually, silicone with microbeads.
The mood was light through all this. It was pretty interesting to see the technology evolve. I thought about how my insurance would be paying for everything, and what a luxury it was to just pick out what I wanted without even asking about the price.
Then I said, as I held the microbeads model, "So this is the Cadillac of fake breasts?"
And Mandy's eyes grew bright, her eyebrows shot up and she said, impishly, "Oh, no! Wait until you see this," and she reached for a purple hat-box shaped case, un-zipped it and pulled out. . .a . . .fake breast.
My jaw dropped open. It, it, it looked like some woman had died and donated her breast to science. My Mandy said, "Is that a freckle on the side?"
And Mandy Jo said, "Oh yes, look how realistic it is. It even has a vein." Oh, how proud Mandy Jo was of that vein! It snaked along the side. Blue. Thick. From the corner down to the nipple, skirting right by one of the freckles.
I burst out laughing. A deep belly laugh, and then Mandy did, too. Yes, it was funny, but it was also absurd. I said, between gasps and as I teared up from the laughter, "Who am I trying to fool????"
Mandy Jo was deer-in-the-headlights shocked and confused. So Mandy leaned towards her and said, between her own laughs, "Her husband knows she had the surgery."
Mandy Jo still didn't know what to do with us and our reaction. She continued on with her sales pitch as normally scripted. "You would glue this on, then paint over the edges, and you wouldn't need to wear a special prosthetic bra with it." Still, we were laughing a little, and I realized that I was wiping away more and more tears. She went on, "We call this a non-surgical reconstruction."
Yeah. You're constructing something all right. . .
And then, as she continued to hold it out, that realistic, positively grotesque prop, I started crying for real. I whispered, "That is so horrifying. I don't ever want to see that again."
Poor Mandy Jo. She apologized and said she'd never horrified anyone before. No, no, it's not your fault, we said, and so on. I collected myself. We proceeded. She could keep her Cadillac, I'd take the one a step lower.
Mandy agreed with me, after we left, that it was a horrifying thing to look at. I don't want my fake breast to look real. I don't want to have to look at what was cut off of me and then glue it back onto my body. And I'm having a hard time picturing the psychology of a woman who would. What does she say to the fitter? "I know anyone I'm actually intimate with will know this is a piece of rubber, but I like to expose my breast flesh to the public even though I don't have a breast there anymore."
There is a profound tragedy in that, isn't there?
I don't know. Mandy Jo swears that other women love that Cadillac. So good for them. I hope they find it helpful.
I, on the other hand, just want my shirt to look normal.
Did this kind of feel like a sucker punch to you? That I went from something kind of amusing into something pretty horrible and sad? That day felt like a sucker punch to me. Grief is like this, isn't it? Grief sneaks up on you. There's no telling what will trigger it. This is the first time I've ever experienced laughter that heads around the corner and runs into tears coming from the opposite direction. I told Bryan all about my day, and again laughed when I got to that stupid, ugly breast with a fricking vein on it, and again started crying when I pictured it in my mind's eye.
But grief isn't the enemy. Tears aren't anything to avoid. It's just another emotion that deserves its due as much as the others. And when I find myself in a "moment," I try to let it ride, and I say to myself, "This never lasts long. Joy isn't going anywhere."
A note on costs: The prosthetic itself was $360. Why doesn't Gloria Vanderbilt (or whoever) make a line of these and sell them at Target for 50 bucks a pop? It doesn't seem right that there is a monopoly on breast prosthetics, does it?
So it's in my drawer now. With the two special garments to hold it. (With military Tri-Care, I get 2. But Medicare pays for 8 garments a year! If you're old enough to be on Medicare, why do you need 8 bras every year????)
I'm not sure if and when I'll wear it. For hanging out with my kids in the cul de sac? Not likely. Or if Bryan says he wants to take me out to dinner, will I say, "Hold on a sec--Let me go put my boob on"? I don't know. Good to know it's there. Not great that it has a reason to be there. And I guess that's the part I'm still getting used to.
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Friday, July 24, 2009
Power Port
My Dad often brags about being "hermetically sealed." As in: never been operated on. The parts inside his body stay inside. The rest of the world stays outside.
This is an exageration, because blood has been drawn from him on occassion. But it's a life-affirming fiction for him, and one he uses to stupify others. For instance, one doctor looked at a mole on the side of his torso and recommended having it removed. Dad said, "It's holding an important part on the inside. If I take it off, something will fall out."
I am now guilty of gross violation of this "hermetically sealed" standard. It's not enough that I went bionic in October by having a plate screwed to my leg. Now, I'm sporting a Power Port.
Yes. It's really called that.
My very own valve. Stuff can be shot in. Stuff can be sucked out. I do not know what the Power Port has over a regular port, but I'm glad I got the best, baby.
And I like what having a port says to the world: "I see the coming year and the liters of fluid that will be pumped into my body and I am so OK with it, that I'm going to have a valve installed. So bring it on. It's never been easier to flood my system with drugs than it is right now."
My shoulder is still very sore from the procedure, and it's swollen, despite a lot of ice packs. But I'm betting that the discomfort now will be outweighed by the convenience and pain-savings of later when I don't have a nurse poking me with needles.
This latest episode has been very helpful in identifying something that has been a little troubling so far: this whole warrior language. Specifically, that many people refer to me (and others in my position) as warriors.
I know that people say it with the best of intentions, and my beef is not personal. I am not bothered by the people. I am just uncomfortable with the title. Why? Because most of my appointments have been in an Army hospital. The day of my surgery, I saw a guy in the waiting room wearing a prosthetic foot. And Mayfield mentioned that he was briefly assisting with an operation on a guy who'd take a round to his hip while in Afghanistan. And the soldier in the pre-op bay across from me had the following words tatooed on his forearm: EXPECT NO MERCY.
These people are warriors. These people volunteered to serve their country, they fought a battle they didn't have to fight, and, we hope, they killed some of the enemies of our country.
I did not volunteer for cancer. I don't have a choice about whether to fight it. And when the cancer cells die, it won't be because I fought them, it'll be because I let one doctor cut them out of me and let another shoot poison into my nifty port. My role in this is to try to function as well as I can while my body takes hit after hit after hit. And it seems that wearing the title "warrior" lessens a term of respect we all hold in high regard for warriors in uniform.
You may not agree with me, but you can understand my discomfort, right?
During this last procedure, I learned something about why we want to use a term like "warrior" to describe a person like me. The day before the procedure, I had to go to the pre-op offices and do labs and paperwork.
The nurse who met with me was a little Phillipino woman. She started talking and I recognized her at once. When I came out of my surgery a month ago, the nurse attending me kept talking, talking, talking, asking me question after pestering question even though I had a mask on and couldn't speak well through it. She was right in my ear. So loud and so annoying, I kept thinking, "Make this woman shut up."
When it was time to send me off to ICU, she told me where I was going and that it had been a pleasure taking care of me and she grabbed my hand. I felt so bad, having thought such mean things towards her, that I squeezed her hand back. You know, to end on a good note. And I didn't mention her in my "Etherized" post because she had meant well. No need to defame her.
Here she was, across the desk from me, telling me that I seemed familiar. Ah yes. "You have surgery one month ago!" Uh huh. I recognized her voice, I told her. And smiled.
She checked the paperwork, and my surgery came back to her. I could see it in her face. Then she started sighing, "Oh. . . Oh. . .right. How you doing now? You OK?"
I nodded. Wanted her to get on with the pre-op run-down.
"Any breast cancer in your family?" she asked. This wasn't what she needed to ask for the form. I told her, "Nope."
"You so young! 34! You take hormones?"
I shook my head. This is a no-no. Trying to find the "cause" of someone's cancer. You'd be suprised how this pisses cancer patients off. At least, it does me. "No," I amplified, to save her more questions, "No hormones, no drugs of any kind, no smoking, I nursed my babies and I'm not obese."
There. All the categories that would have increased my odds of developing cancer. And I beat the odds anyway.
Then she said, "No, you very thin. Very pretty. . ." and she let that trail off and that's when I realized it: This was pity. She was pitying me.
Then she said, with her pitying voice, "How old are your babies?"
Ugh! Asking about my children? Of course I started crying. Damn. It's much easier to leave my kids out of this as much as possible.
So then, having made me cry, she stepped into the compassionate nurse role and said this and that about treatment and everything would be OK and blah, blah, blah. All coated in pity.
This is when I realized that people use the warrior metaphor because we recognize that warriors are not pitied. They are admired and encouraged. But they are in a position of power, which is strength, and not powerlessness, which we pity.
Yeah, given a choice between being called a warrior and a boo-hoo-for-Amy chorus, I'll risk disrespecting real warriors and wear their title.
In the meantime, let's try to think of a title that does what "warrior" does, but is, in fact, a better description of what I'm actually doing:
I'm permitting onslaught to by body in order to save that body,
and I'm doing it in faith that God permits only His best plans for me, regardless of how good or bad they look to my eyes
and I'm trying to conduct all the things I can control in such a way that when the cancer is all gone and I remain, my life and the lives of those around me will somehow be better off for the experience.
What shall we call a person who does that?
This is an exageration, because blood has been drawn from him on occassion. But it's a life-affirming fiction for him, and one he uses to stupify others. For instance, one doctor looked at a mole on the side of his torso and recommended having it removed. Dad said, "It's holding an important part on the inside. If I take it off, something will fall out."
I am now guilty of gross violation of this "hermetically sealed" standard. It's not enough that I went bionic in October by having a plate screwed to my leg. Now, I'm sporting a Power Port.
Yes. It's really called that.
My very own valve. Stuff can be shot in. Stuff can be sucked out. I do not know what the Power Port has over a regular port, but I'm glad I got the best, baby.
And I like what having a port says to the world: "I see the coming year and the liters of fluid that will be pumped into my body and I am so OK with it, that I'm going to have a valve installed. So bring it on. It's never been easier to flood my system with drugs than it is right now."
My shoulder is still very sore from the procedure, and it's swollen, despite a lot of ice packs. But I'm betting that the discomfort now will be outweighed by the convenience and pain-savings of later when I don't have a nurse poking me with needles.
This latest episode has been very helpful in identifying something that has been a little troubling so far: this whole warrior language. Specifically, that many people refer to me (and others in my position) as warriors.
I know that people say it with the best of intentions, and my beef is not personal. I am not bothered by the people. I am just uncomfortable with the title. Why? Because most of my appointments have been in an Army hospital. The day of my surgery, I saw a guy in the waiting room wearing a prosthetic foot. And Mayfield mentioned that he was briefly assisting with an operation on a guy who'd take a round to his hip while in Afghanistan. And the soldier in the pre-op bay across from me had the following words tatooed on his forearm: EXPECT NO MERCY.
These people are warriors. These people volunteered to serve their country, they fought a battle they didn't have to fight, and, we hope, they killed some of the enemies of our country.
I did not volunteer for cancer. I don't have a choice about whether to fight it. And when the cancer cells die, it won't be because I fought them, it'll be because I let one doctor cut them out of me and let another shoot poison into my nifty port. My role in this is to try to function as well as I can while my body takes hit after hit after hit. And it seems that wearing the title "warrior" lessens a term of respect we all hold in high regard for warriors in uniform.
You may not agree with me, but you can understand my discomfort, right?
During this last procedure, I learned something about why we want to use a term like "warrior" to describe a person like me. The day before the procedure, I had to go to the pre-op offices and do labs and paperwork.
The nurse who met with me was a little Phillipino woman. She started talking and I recognized her at once. When I came out of my surgery a month ago, the nurse attending me kept talking, talking, talking, asking me question after pestering question even though I had a mask on and couldn't speak well through it. She was right in my ear. So loud and so annoying, I kept thinking, "Make this woman shut up."
When it was time to send me off to ICU, she told me where I was going and that it had been a pleasure taking care of me and she grabbed my hand. I felt so bad, having thought such mean things towards her, that I squeezed her hand back. You know, to end on a good note. And I didn't mention her in my "Etherized" post because she had meant well. No need to defame her.
Here she was, across the desk from me, telling me that I seemed familiar. Ah yes. "You have surgery one month ago!" Uh huh. I recognized her voice, I told her. And smiled.
She checked the paperwork, and my surgery came back to her. I could see it in her face. Then she started sighing, "Oh. . . Oh. . .right. How you doing now? You OK?"
I nodded. Wanted her to get on with the pre-op run-down.
"Any breast cancer in your family?" she asked. This wasn't what she needed to ask for the form. I told her, "Nope."
"You so young! 34! You take hormones?"
I shook my head. This is a no-no. Trying to find the "cause" of someone's cancer. You'd be suprised how this pisses cancer patients off. At least, it does me. "No," I amplified, to save her more questions, "No hormones, no drugs of any kind, no smoking, I nursed my babies and I'm not obese."
There. All the categories that would have increased my odds of developing cancer. And I beat the odds anyway.
Then she said, "No, you very thin. Very pretty. . ." and she let that trail off and that's when I realized it: This was pity. She was pitying me.
Then she said, with her pitying voice, "How old are your babies?"
Ugh! Asking about my children? Of course I started crying. Damn. It's much easier to leave my kids out of this as much as possible.
So then, having made me cry, she stepped into the compassionate nurse role and said this and that about treatment and everything would be OK and blah, blah, blah. All coated in pity.
This is when I realized that people use the warrior metaphor because we recognize that warriors are not pitied. They are admired and encouraged. But they are in a position of power, which is strength, and not powerlessness, which we pity.
Yeah, given a choice between being called a warrior and a boo-hoo-for-Amy chorus, I'll risk disrespecting real warriors and wear their title.
In the meantime, let's try to think of a title that does what "warrior" does, but is, in fact, a better description of what I'm actually doing:
I'm permitting onslaught to by body in order to save that body,
and I'm doing it in faith that God permits only His best plans for me, regardless of how good or bad they look to my eyes
and I'm trying to conduct all the things I can control in such a way that when the cancer is all gone and I remain, my life and the lives of those around me will somehow be better off for the experience.
What shall we call a person who does that?
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Update for Amy
Amy asked that I post this update for her - she knew that friends and family would be waiting to hear how the port surgery went but hunger and sleep were higher priorities.
So anyway, she is 'all ported up' and ready to go. The surgery was out patient but she was still put under for it (although not as heavily as for the "removal"). Good thing too since it took 4 tries to get the port properly inserted in the vein. What was supposed to be a 30 minute procedure ended up taking 2 hours. She apparently feels fine with the exception of her right shoulder which feels like it was hit by a truck.
I asked about the glucose situation and she related that the nurse involved was somewhat snotty about the situation. As in, 'you can't have a bad reaction to glucose, you have glucose in your body'. Amy's response: ok, so I have a bad reaction to non-organic glucose. And then when the nurse's back was turned, she signaled to her that it was 11:00.
Go Amy!!
So anyway, she is 'all ported up' and ready to go. The surgery was out patient but she was still put under for it (although not as heavily as for the "removal"). Good thing too since it took 4 tries to get the port properly inserted in the vein. What was supposed to be a 30 minute procedure ended up taking 2 hours. She apparently feels fine with the exception of her right shoulder which feels like it was hit by a truck.
I asked about the glucose situation and she related that the nurse involved was somewhat snotty about the situation. As in, 'you can't have a bad reaction to glucose, you have glucose in your body'. Amy's response: ok, so I have a bad reaction to non-organic glucose. And then when the nurse's back was turned, she signaled to her that it was 11:00.
Go Amy!!
Theme Song Thursday
Introducing what may well become another regular category.
I've always been into lyrics. Before I had the Bible in my life, I used to pour over song lyrics like I believed they held the key to the universe. Suzanne can back me up on this. She was totally my partner in crime. Remember how we obsessed over "Until the End of the World" off Achtung Baby?
This was probably a pretty normal teenage thing, to mine through music looking for meaning. It made me a better thinker, a better reader. I remember the feeling that something about certain lyrics fed me. It never satisfied, I see now. But it always felt like a real treat.
The inheritance from that habit is that music still has a very powerful role in how I mark each season of life. I'm among those who experience music biographically, and I'd like to keep track of which songs are part of this season. I want Gemma and Joshua to know what kind of things helped me smile each day, and what reminded me of the hope I have.
The inaugral theme song is "Crazy Tonight" by U2. They are an Irish band of magnificent fame. Yet, despite their 22 Grammie wins (not just nominations) and their world-wide concert tours that sell out, they are, as far as rock n' roll bands go, easy to admire.
But their music! Album after album of mysteriously and wonderfully searching songs.
Here's the chorus from "Crazy Tonight" that strikes me as for this season. I know it had nothing to do with me as Bono wrote it, but it feels every time like it's just for me in this moment:
It's not a hill it's a mountain
As you start out the climb
Do you believe me or are you doubtin?
We're gonna make it all the way to the light
Here's their performance on Letterman's show:
I've always been into lyrics. Before I had the Bible in my life, I used to pour over song lyrics like I believed they held the key to the universe. Suzanne can back me up on this. She was totally my partner in crime. Remember how we obsessed over "Until the End of the World" off Achtung Baby?
This was probably a pretty normal teenage thing, to mine through music looking for meaning. It made me a better thinker, a better reader. I remember the feeling that something about certain lyrics fed me. It never satisfied, I see now. But it always felt like a real treat.
The inheritance from that habit is that music still has a very powerful role in how I mark each season of life. I'm among those who experience music biographically, and I'd like to keep track of which songs are part of this season. I want Gemma and Joshua to know what kind of things helped me smile each day, and what reminded me of the hope I have.
The inaugral theme song is "Crazy Tonight" by U2. They are an Irish band of magnificent fame. Yet, despite their 22 Grammie wins (not just nominations) and their world-wide concert tours that sell out, they are, as far as rock n' roll bands go, easy to admire.
But their music! Album after album of mysteriously and wonderfully searching songs.
Here's the chorus from "Crazy Tonight" that strikes me as for this season. I know it had nothing to do with me as Bono wrote it, but it feels every time like it's just for me in this moment:
It's not a hill it's a mountain
As you start out the climb
Do you believe me or are you doubtin?
We're gonna make it all the way to the light
Here's their performance on Letterman's show:
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Nurses
A few more notes from my stay in the ICU:
I went to Creighton University for my undergrad. This small school had a massive pre-med and nursing population. Freshman year, it was hard to meet people who weren't going to be doctors and nurses. And as a result, the whole campus had to suffer with these people as they bemoaned every Biology and Organic Chemistry exam that came down the shoot. That's the one thing I didn't like about dorm life, hearing way too often in the halls: "Oh I am so stressed. Orgo is just killing me." Yeah? Then take a nap.
I would tell these people that I was majoring in English and Philosophy and they would say first, "Oh that sounds like fun," and then, "Are you going to teach with that?"
My only comfort was found in my fellow English and Philosophy majors, and Business friends, who would snark at the pre-medders with me. (Are you reading this, Nick? Jeff??? Frazier????? I'm talkin' about you guys!) It was kind of like being in a fraternity of We Who Wish To Avoid Gross Body Things.
Flash forward several years, and here I am, very glad that there are people professionally devoted to gross body things.
There was Michelle, the day time nurse. Sweet as could be. Totally OK with the gross stuff. Like "stripping my tubes."
I'm only going to describe this because it's pretty amazing. You're about to hear of the most basic of physics principles applied ingeniously to solve a medical problem with surgery. The problem? What do you do with the fluid that builds up as a response to a wound when you've sewn the wound shut? How do you drain it?
I didn't know until I was staring down at my chest at a long, kind of thick, alien worm looking shape stuck under my skin. This was a drainage tube. Placed up near my armpit, and then snaking down across the length of my chest, and then out somewhere on my side, almost on my back. Did they make the hole in my skin back there and poke the tube through and then sew the skin flaps down? I don't know. I probably don't want to know. You're probably wishing I hadn't begun this line of discussion.
Attached to the tube was a little pastic ball with a valve that pops open. They squeezed the air out of it while the valve was open, then shut the valve, and this simple mechanism of suction pulled out all the excess fluid from the wound! I had two tubes, one from the armpit and one that I wasn't as dramatic from the actual breast removal. And the two little pastic balls sucked and sucked.
Disgusting.
And this nurse--and the others, whom I'll get to--came in with their gloves and emptied the balls out, measuring the fluid. Michelle was the first to "strip" the tubes, meaning she pulled on them to move along the little clots and make sure there was enough flow to do the job. I kept saying, "This is so gross. I'm so sorry you have to do this." As I actually felt the suction in the wound--weird.
And she'd say, "This is no problem at all. This is not gross. Don't worry about it."
And I wanted to say, "I'm so sorry I didn't really like your kind way back in college," but I didn't.
(Six days after surgery, I went into the clinic and a different nurse pulled the tubes out. OOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!! At one point, I was saying to myself, "I will not drop an f-bomb. I will NOT drop an f-bomb."
She said, "You're body is healing so quickly, this is amazing," and I said, "Half the country is praying for me. Of course I'm healing quickly.)
Then there was Desiree, the night nurse. She was also very nice. Maybe a little more liberal than Michelle. For instance, when it was time for her to run a catheter for me, she referred to my urethra as "Mr. Wink."
"Mr. Wink?" I asked, as I lay in about as compromising position as is possible.
"Yeah, I call him that because he kinds of winks at you when you look for him."
Keep that helpful tip in mind, friends, for next time you go looking for someone's urethra.
I wanted to tell her, "See? If you'd majored in either English or Philosophy as well as nursing, you might have come across the notion that it's not right to refer to female anatomy as anything male. How about Mrs. Wink? Wouldn't that work?" but I didn't.
My last night there, Matthew was on duty instead of Desiree. Laurie and Bryan were visiting the whole evening, and the three of us were having a great time, laughing a lot, talking up a storm. This nurse would manufacture reasons to come in and he'd join in the conversation where he could. It's like he wanted to be part of the party. A real chatty Cathy, that Matthew.
My company left, I found myself embroiled in some kind of conversation with this nurse as the hour drew late. I finally said, "Well, I think I should get to sleep now"--and he took the hint and went back to his lonely desk in the hallway.
But he still had to come in for vitals, and at 3 AM, when he was there, I asked for a blanket. This launched him into chit chat about the weather, and then humidity, and then somehow the Midwest, and I think--because this is how insanely compulsive I am about conversation--I asked in my sleepy haze whether he'd spent much time in the Midwest. There was more talking, but I do not remember it, what with the drugs and the sleep and the hour. . .
But the next morning, right before his shift change, he came in again and I asked, "Was I hallucinating last night, or did you say you went to Creighton University?"
"No, that was real. I said I was a nursing student there. And you majored in English and Philosophy."
Dang. Really? I mean: seriously? And yet I am not making any of this up. When you read the next part, you're going to think I am fabricating, just for dramatic effect, but I'm not.
He said, "So did you end up teaching with that?"
I went to Creighton University for my undergrad. This small school had a massive pre-med and nursing population. Freshman year, it was hard to meet people who weren't going to be doctors and nurses. And as a result, the whole campus had to suffer with these people as they bemoaned every Biology and Organic Chemistry exam that came down the shoot. That's the one thing I didn't like about dorm life, hearing way too often in the halls: "Oh I am so stressed. Orgo is just killing me." Yeah? Then take a nap.
I would tell these people that I was majoring in English and Philosophy and they would say first, "Oh that sounds like fun," and then, "Are you going to teach with that?"
My only comfort was found in my fellow English and Philosophy majors, and Business friends, who would snark at the pre-medders with me. (Are you reading this, Nick? Jeff??? Frazier????? I'm talkin' about you guys!) It was kind of like being in a fraternity of We Who Wish To Avoid Gross Body Things.
Flash forward several years, and here I am, very glad that there are people professionally devoted to gross body things.
There was Michelle, the day time nurse. Sweet as could be. Totally OK with the gross stuff. Like "stripping my tubes."
I'm only going to describe this because it's pretty amazing. You're about to hear of the most basic of physics principles applied ingeniously to solve a medical problem with surgery. The problem? What do you do with the fluid that builds up as a response to a wound when you've sewn the wound shut? How do you drain it?
I didn't know until I was staring down at my chest at a long, kind of thick, alien worm looking shape stuck under my skin. This was a drainage tube. Placed up near my armpit, and then snaking down across the length of my chest, and then out somewhere on my side, almost on my back. Did they make the hole in my skin back there and poke the tube through and then sew the skin flaps down? I don't know. I probably don't want to know. You're probably wishing I hadn't begun this line of discussion.
Attached to the tube was a little pastic ball with a valve that pops open. They squeezed the air out of it while the valve was open, then shut the valve, and this simple mechanism of suction pulled out all the excess fluid from the wound! I had two tubes, one from the armpit and one that I wasn't as dramatic from the actual breast removal. And the two little pastic balls sucked and sucked.
Disgusting.
And this nurse--and the others, whom I'll get to--came in with their gloves and emptied the balls out, measuring the fluid. Michelle was the first to "strip" the tubes, meaning she pulled on them to move along the little clots and make sure there was enough flow to do the job. I kept saying, "This is so gross. I'm so sorry you have to do this." As I actually felt the suction in the wound--weird.
And she'd say, "This is no problem at all. This is not gross. Don't worry about it."
And I wanted to say, "I'm so sorry I didn't really like your kind way back in college," but I didn't.
(Six days after surgery, I went into the clinic and a different nurse pulled the tubes out. OOOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUUUUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!! At one point, I was saying to myself, "I will not drop an f-bomb. I will NOT drop an f-bomb."
She said, "You're body is healing so quickly, this is amazing," and I said, "Half the country is praying for me. Of course I'm healing quickly.)
Then there was Desiree, the night nurse. She was also very nice. Maybe a little more liberal than Michelle. For instance, when it was time for her to run a catheter for me, she referred to my urethra as "Mr. Wink."
"Mr. Wink?" I asked, as I lay in about as compromising position as is possible.
"Yeah, I call him that because he kinds of winks at you when you look for him."
Keep that helpful tip in mind, friends, for next time you go looking for someone's urethra.
I wanted to tell her, "See? If you'd majored in either English or Philosophy as well as nursing, you might have come across the notion that it's not right to refer to female anatomy as anything male. How about Mrs. Wink? Wouldn't that work?" but I didn't.
My last night there, Matthew was on duty instead of Desiree. Laurie and Bryan were visiting the whole evening, and the three of us were having a great time, laughing a lot, talking up a storm. This nurse would manufacture reasons to come in and he'd join in the conversation where he could. It's like he wanted to be part of the party. A real chatty Cathy, that Matthew.
My company left, I found myself embroiled in some kind of conversation with this nurse as the hour drew late. I finally said, "Well, I think I should get to sleep now"--and he took the hint and went back to his lonely desk in the hallway.
But he still had to come in for vitals, and at 3 AM, when he was there, I asked for a blanket. This launched him into chit chat about the weather, and then humidity, and then somehow the Midwest, and I think--because this is how insanely compulsive I am about conversation--I asked in my sleepy haze whether he'd spent much time in the Midwest. There was more talking, but I do not remember it, what with the drugs and the sleep and the hour. . .
But the next morning, right before his shift change, he came in again and I asked, "Was I hallucinating last night, or did you say you went to Creighton University?"
"No, that was real. I said I was a nursing student there. And you majored in English and Philosophy."
Dang. Really? I mean: seriously? And yet I am not making any of this up. When you read the next part, you're going to think I am fabricating, just for dramatic effect, but I'm not.
He said, "So did you end up teaching with that?"
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Wellness Update
Some basic facts about how I'm doing 3 1/2 weeks after the surgery:
1. I'm mostly off the pain meds. I have a whole bottle of Vicadin that I avoided altogether, as I can't stand how foggy it makes me. Check my e-bay listing for the price per pill.
(I'm KIDDING, I'm KIDDING! What did she just say?? You got nothing!!!)
(That last part was a toss-out to Uncle Joe.)
Mayfield also prescribed a wonderful drug called Tramodil. It has a narcotic stength that's big enough to do the job, but soldiers, for instance, are still permitted to use their weapons when on it.
I've been assuming this means I can drive while taking it.
But no matter now, because now I take just one a day, at night, by which time, my whole top right quarter feels pretty sore.
2. The major effects of the anesthesia have worn off. They say it takes a whole year to get that stuff out of the system. If this is true, then I'm really digging out of a whole because the ankle surgery was in October.
So far as I can tell, though, it's worn off. I don't fall asleep in the middle of the day anymore. Or in church. (Which actually happened for the first time 1 week ago!)
3. I am working out at about 90% of what I was doing before surgery. And I can do plenty of arm exercises. The area where he cut a tad of muscle feels like it's working through a lactic acid burn and not an injury. I can't do real push-ups, but I can do them from a standing position against a counter-top. ("Mommy? Why are you doing that?" "So I'll be strong enough to spank you when the time comes!" What did she say??? You got nothing!!!)
4. My range of motion on the right side is still hampered, but it's coming a bit more each day. The tightness and soreness limiting me there is probably more from the lymph node removal than anything else. At least, this is what I figure, given that the pain shoots down my arm when I go too far.
And, no offense to my brother-in-law who does this for a living, but, no, I'm not seeing a PT. Do I NEED more medical appointments in my life? And for what? So he can give me a bunch of impractical exercises that I have no intention of doing?
I did the PT thing during the ankle saga and learned that I'm not a very good PT patient.
The whole time, I was thinking of my dear Gramma who, at a very old age, was struck by a moving vehicle that broke her arm. At one point, PT was recommended to her and the report is that if she had been a cussing woman, she'd have told him to, well, to buzz off. Then she went home, knitted a whole afghan, and announced that she had recovered just fine.
Sorry, Air Force Academy PT. I'm not coming to see you again. I think I can figure out how to get my arm moving again.
(And the AFA PT responds, "Good. Because you were wasting my time, too.")
5. We had another big weekend. Went downtown to a festival on Friday night and then to the County Fair on Saturday. Despite all the action, I felt great and full of energy. This should put Mom's worries to rest: I'm past the point of "over-doing it" while doing the things I'd normally have been doing.
Bryan and I are not really get-out-and-go kind of people, usually. We try to do something special like this about once a month, which is just enough to enjoy a break from the routine without actually ruining our routine and throwing the whole family out of whack.
But we figure that there will be plenty of opportunities in the coming months to stay home because Mommy feels like mud, so carpe diem, right?
6. Speaking of coming physical stress, this is the medical calendar we're looking at:
Thursday, 23 July -- port placement surgery; it's an out-patient thing with local anesthesia, enough to make me loopy for a day and feeling knocked out for a day after that, but otherwise a minor thing
Monday, 27 July -- a nurse exam of the port, which I was planning to blow off--I can tell if a surgery sight is infected, can't I? But then my neighbor pointed out that she'll likely test it to make sure it works before they, you know, start pumping poison into it. Good point. I'll keep the appointment.
Monday, 3 August -- First chemo infusion, to be followed by more poison every 4th Monday for a total of 6 infusions (e.g. 18 weeks). Yes, this will make my hair fall out. Mayfield has repeatedly asked Bryan if he plans to shave his head in solidarity, and my beloved has repeatedly grimaced and then half-smiled without actually saying, "No way, Doc."
Then, after we leave, Bryan asks me, "Do you want me to shave my head?" What a sweetheart.
AND, starting that Monday and every Monday after for a whole year, a protein infusion. I'm told this feels to the body just like saline, so no side effects to consider. Let's pray that there are no side effects for me. There's no glucose in there, is there???
All the basic questions are answered, right?
1. I'm mostly off the pain meds. I have a whole bottle of Vicadin that I avoided altogether, as I can't stand how foggy it makes me. Check my e-bay listing for the price per pill.
(I'm KIDDING, I'm KIDDING! What did she just say?? You got nothing!!!)
(That last part was a toss-out to Uncle Joe.)
Mayfield also prescribed a wonderful drug called Tramodil. It has a narcotic stength that's big enough to do the job, but soldiers, for instance, are still permitted to use their weapons when on it.
I've been assuming this means I can drive while taking it.
But no matter now, because now I take just one a day, at night, by which time, my whole top right quarter feels pretty sore.
2. The major effects of the anesthesia have worn off. They say it takes a whole year to get that stuff out of the system. If this is true, then I'm really digging out of a whole because the ankle surgery was in October.
So far as I can tell, though, it's worn off. I don't fall asleep in the middle of the day anymore. Or in church. (Which actually happened for the first time 1 week ago!)
3. I am working out at about 90% of what I was doing before surgery. And I can do plenty of arm exercises. The area where he cut a tad of muscle feels like it's working through a lactic acid burn and not an injury. I can't do real push-ups, but I can do them from a standing position against a counter-top. ("Mommy? Why are you doing that?" "So I'll be strong enough to spank you when the time comes!" What did she say??? You got nothing!!!)
4. My range of motion on the right side is still hampered, but it's coming a bit more each day. The tightness and soreness limiting me there is probably more from the lymph node removal than anything else. At least, this is what I figure, given that the pain shoots down my arm when I go too far.
And, no offense to my brother-in-law who does this for a living, but, no, I'm not seeing a PT. Do I NEED more medical appointments in my life? And for what? So he can give me a bunch of impractical exercises that I have no intention of doing?
I did the PT thing during the ankle saga and learned that I'm not a very good PT patient.
The whole time, I was thinking of my dear Gramma who, at a very old age, was struck by a moving vehicle that broke her arm. At one point, PT was recommended to her and the report is that if she had been a cussing woman, she'd have told him to, well, to buzz off. Then she went home, knitted a whole afghan, and announced that she had recovered just fine.
Sorry, Air Force Academy PT. I'm not coming to see you again. I think I can figure out how to get my arm moving again.
(And the AFA PT responds, "Good. Because you were wasting my time, too.")
5. We had another big weekend. Went downtown to a festival on Friday night and then to the County Fair on Saturday. Despite all the action, I felt great and full of energy. This should put Mom's worries to rest: I'm past the point of "over-doing it" while doing the things I'd normally have been doing.
Bryan and I are not really get-out-and-go kind of people, usually. We try to do something special like this about once a month, which is just enough to enjoy a break from the routine without actually ruining our routine and throwing the whole family out of whack.
But we figure that there will be plenty of opportunities in the coming months to stay home because Mommy feels like mud, so carpe diem, right?
6. Speaking of coming physical stress, this is the medical calendar we're looking at:
Thursday, 23 July -- port placement surgery; it's an out-patient thing with local anesthesia, enough to make me loopy for a day and feeling knocked out for a day after that, but otherwise a minor thing
Monday, 27 July -- a nurse exam of the port, which I was planning to blow off--I can tell if a surgery sight is infected, can't I? But then my neighbor pointed out that she'll likely test it to make sure it works before they, you know, start pumping poison into it. Good point. I'll keep the appointment.
Monday, 3 August -- First chemo infusion, to be followed by more poison every 4th Monday for a total of 6 infusions (e.g. 18 weeks). Yes, this will make my hair fall out. Mayfield has repeatedly asked Bryan if he plans to shave his head in solidarity, and my beloved has repeatedly grimaced and then half-smiled without actually saying, "No way, Doc."
Then, after we leave, Bryan asks me, "Do you want me to shave my head?" What a sweetheart.
AND, starting that Monday and every Monday after for a whole year, a protein infusion. I'm told this feels to the body just like saline, so no side effects to consider. Let's pray that there are no side effects for me. There's no glucose in there, is there???
All the basic questions are answered, right?
Monday, July 20, 2009
Larry's E-mail About "Ventricular" Cancer
Below is an e-mail my old buddy, Larry, sent. You can read the post "Cancer of the Heart" to learn more about his story. I'm posting it because it won that day's "Make Me Laugh" contest, and because I thought it was very insightful. I don't think any two patients have the same experiences, but surely they can be similar, and I definitely appreciate his sharing his version with me. Maybe it will win your day's Laugh contest, too.
This is probably rated PG-13, so don't read it if you offend easily. And don't write to me about how you're offended if you go ahead and read it anyway.
Amy,
So sorry to hear your news. I'm guessing you were aware of your situation at the reunion. [AP: We had our 20th reunion of our 8th grade class in April. Who has 8th grade reunions? The Visitation Vikings, that's who!!! And, no, I didn't know about the cancer at the time.]
It does seem like you have the right attitude and with that I say, "Welcome to the fraternity, or I guess sorority." Holy shit, Amy Ferrone is in a sorority!?!??.
I can tell you that humor, honesty and sincerity is what got me through my bout with cancer...I know you'll be able to summon those traits when you need them.
Now, I've always considered testicular cancer the "pussy of all cancers" b/c it's so treatable (I should interject here and let you know this won't be a most mature, G-rated email you'll receive). A little snip, snip and summer full of drugs and I was off on my way, drinking my weight at UW. But it's still my proudest moment. I beat it...I rose to the challenge, put a smile on my face and took it head on.
That's the interesting thing about cancer survivors...we don't pick our challenges it picks us. Some people can say, "Hmmm, I like to run so I'll do a marathon, or I like the outdoors so I'm going to climb the Himalayas, or I like to write so I'll write a novel"...but no one says, "I love needles and hospitals so i'm gonna go get me some cancer." One day you feel something weird, and there you have it...your challenge.
I go back to the mindset of it all. I remember I felt obligated to keep everyone's spirits up. I'm sure your noticing that sometimes it's harder for the family and friends of a cancer patient then the patient himself. I could handle it all, I knew my threshhold and to a certain extent: What are my options but to roll up my sleeve and let the nurse load me up? But my parents and family struggled.
Don't get me wrong, they were amazing but they had to deal with the guilt and uncertainty. So my smile and jokes("one ball, no strikes," "ol' oney," "twice the man but have the genitalia") were my way of picking up everyone around me.
I love this blog...It's incredible...I wish this were at my disposal when I was going through it...I have forgotten so much of my battle(which is a good thing)...I'm sure it's very cathartic for you so keep it up and I'll try and keep up with you...you will be in our prayers(gwen is thinking of you too) and please feel free to use me as a resourse and bitching soundboard.
And one more thing....if you're going through chemo and you want to feel normal, and you convince yourself that a meal deal at taco bell of a beef meximelt will fill that void...don't do it...you're just not ready....I wasn't and I barfed all over the parking lot at Butterfield and York.
Thinking of you,
your old buddy,
Larry
This is probably rated PG-13, so don't read it if you offend easily. And don't write to me about how you're offended if you go ahead and read it anyway.
Amy,
So sorry to hear your news. I'm guessing you were aware of your situation at the reunion. [AP: We had our 20th reunion of our 8th grade class in April. Who has 8th grade reunions? The Visitation Vikings, that's who!!! And, no, I didn't know about the cancer at the time.]
It does seem like you have the right attitude and with that I say, "Welcome to the fraternity, or I guess sorority." Holy shit, Amy Ferrone is in a sorority!?!??.
I can tell you that humor, honesty and sincerity is what got me through my bout with cancer...I know you'll be able to summon those traits when you need them.
Now, I've always considered testicular cancer the "pussy of all cancers" b/c it's so treatable (I should interject here and let you know this won't be a most mature, G-rated email you'll receive). A little snip, snip and summer full of drugs and I was off on my way, drinking my weight at UW. But it's still my proudest moment. I beat it...I rose to the challenge, put a smile on my face and took it head on.
That's the interesting thing about cancer survivors...we don't pick our challenges it picks us. Some people can say, "Hmmm, I like to run so I'll do a marathon, or I like the outdoors so I'm going to climb the Himalayas, or I like to write so I'll write a novel"...but no one says, "I love needles and hospitals so i'm gonna go get me some cancer." One day you feel something weird, and there you have it...your challenge.
I go back to the mindset of it all. I remember I felt obligated to keep everyone's spirits up. I'm sure your noticing that sometimes it's harder for the family and friends of a cancer patient then the patient himself. I could handle it all, I knew my threshhold and to a certain extent: What are my options but to roll up my sleeve and let the nurse load me up? But my parents and family struggled.
Don't get me wrong, they were amazing but they had to deal with the guilt and uncertainty. So my smile and jokes("one ball, no strikes," "ol' oney," "twice the man but have the genitalia") were my way of picking up everyone around me.
I love this blog...It's incredible...I wish this were at my disposal when I was going through it...I have forgotten so much of my battle(which is a good thing)...I'm sure it's very cathartic for you so keep it up and I'll try and keep up with you...you will be in our prayers(gwen is thinking of you too) and please feel free to use me as a resourse and bitching soundboard.
And one more thing....if you're going through chemo and you want to feel normal, and you convince yourself that a meal deal at taco bell of a beef meximelt will fill that void...don't do it...you're just not ready....I wasn't and I barfed all over the parking lot at Butterfield and York.
Thinking of you,
your old buddy,
Larry
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Cancer of the Heart
It's Sunday Storytime.
I don't know that I have enough stories to tell one for every Sunday of The Big "C"'s life span, but I know I have one for today.
It involves my old school buddy, Larry. I met him in sixth grade, when I transferred into the Catholic school in town. We lived in the same neighborhood, so for three years, every day after school, we walked home with a group of about 8 kids. Larry was one of the stars of that show, had us laughing all the way home. Those walks constitute one of my favorite sets of memories. I hear people bemoan Junior High as a wretched time. I've only ever thought of my Junior High days as a great time.
Of course, high school sucked. But Larry was there, too.
(Necessary aside: We went to IC high school. This stands for Immaculate Conception. Everyone who went there was from the area, obviously. So we'd all grown up knowing about IC high school. We never thought twice about the name. My 4 older sisters went there, so the name "IC" had been in my venacular since I was born. Then I went to college.
Help me out here, fellow IC grads. Did anyone else give a moment's pause to telling someone the name of your high school? I'd be talking to people--OK, it was really just when I was talking with guys--and the subject would come up, and I'd say, "Yeah, my high school was called Immaculate Conception."
I couldn't say it with a straight face.
Are you kidding me? Who names a high school--by definition, a place chock full of teenagers--something like Immaculate Conception?)
So, yes, Larry and I went to high school together, too. He was one of the good guys. He treated people well. Wasn't beholden to one particular group. Larry had a knack for really appreciating the unique thing about each person and somehow communicating that value. I don't know anyone else in high school who did that or does that as well as he did, and that certainly includes myself.
The summer after our first year of college, his Dad came into the shop where I was working. He asked if I'd talked with Larry yet. I hadn't. Then Mr. Reedy told me that Larry had come home from school early. That he'd had "some problems."
"What's wrong?" I asked.
His face was so grief-stricken. All he said was, "Give your buddy a call."
What could this mean? I quickly narrowed it down to 2 plausible options:
1) Larry was on drugs or
2) Larry had been drinking too much.
I was betting on #2. And before I called, I mentally rehearsed all the supportive things I would say--like, good for him for seeking treatment.
I called. We made very small talk. Then he told me, "Ferrone, I have ventricular cancer."
Oh my gosh. Ventricular cancer? Mental wheels race. I quickly figure out that this must be cancer of the heart, of the ventricles.
Larry filled the silence. "But it's very treatable. They say if you're going to get cancer, this is the kind to get."
What I said was, "Wow. Well. . .I mean, I guess that's a good thing."
But what I thought was, Dude. They are lying to you. Cancer of the heart??? That must be a really horrible thing and they've told you it's treatable just to give you hope in a hopeless situation. Fricking cancer of the heart, Larry! How is this "the kind you want"?
I must have mumbled through the rest of the conversation. We eventually hung up.
A few weeks later, Sarah and I went to visit him the day after his operation. I didn't know what they had done. Where he was in his treatment. What we would find. And I didn't ask Sarah either, because I remember feeling, at the time, that cancer was "The Thng that shall not be discussed."
We got to his room, and he looked pretty good for someone who'd just, presumably, had his heart operated on. There were a few other friends already there. No one had anything to say.
And you know me. Even in a situation like that, I was compelled to fill the silence.
I asked the one burning question I'd had since that first phone call with Larry:
"How did you know you had this cancer?"
And he said, "I was playing with myself."
Silence. Mental wheels churning. And not coming up with anything. Still silence. Heads swivel to me. I register this look in their eyes that there's something they get that I am not getting. Smoke is coming off my brain, it's working so hard. And still: nothing.
"Ferrone," Larry said, "I have testiticular cancer. They just cut my ball off."
OH! Riiight.
I burst into a huge grin, and clapped my hands once and shouted, "You don't have cancer of the heart!!"
I would have started up a round of high fives, but the others were not in the same state of relief and euphoria that I was. So then I had to explain why I was talking about heart cancer.
Turns out Larry's cancer was very treatable. He's now 15 years down the road, and he and Gwen have a beautiful baby girl named Lily. Tomorrow I'll post an e-mail he wrote me that has some pretty great insight from someone on the other side of the cancer walk.
God bless Larry and Gwen, and their pursuit of Baby #2. :)
I don't know that I have enough stories to tell one for every Sunday of The Big "C"'s life span, but I know I have one for today.
It involves my old school buddy, Larry. I met him in sixth grade, when I transferred into the Catholic school in town. We lived in the same neighborhood, so for three years, every day after school, we walked home with a group of about 8 kids. Larry was one of the stars of that show, had us laughing all the way home. Those walks constitute one of my favorite sets of memories. I hear people bemoan Junior High as a wretched time. I've only ever thought of my Junior High days as a great time.
Of course, high school sucked. But Larry was there, too.
(Necessary aside: We went to IC high school. This stands for Immaculate Conception. Everyone who went there was from the area, obviously. So we'd all grown up knowing about IC high school. We never thought twice about the name. My 4 older sisters went there, so the name "IC" had been in my venacular since I was born. Then I went to college.
Help me out here, fellow IC grads. Did anyone else give a moment's pause to telling someone the name of your high school? I'd be talking to people--OK, it was really just when I was talking with guys--and the subject would come up, and I'd say, "Yeah, my high school was called Immaculate Conception."
I couldn't say it with a straight face.
Are you kidding me? Who names a high school--by definition, a place chock full of teenagers--something like Immaculate Conception?)
So, yes, Larry and I went to high school together, too. He was one of the good guys. He treated people well. Wasn't beholden to one particular group. Larry had a knack for really appreciating the unique thing about each person and somehow communicating that value. I don't know anyone else in high school who did that or does that as well as he did, and that certainly includes myself.
The summer after our first year of college, his Dad came into the shop where I was working. He asked if I'd talked with Larry yet. I hadn't. Then Mr. Reedy told me that Larry had come home from school early. That he'd had "some problems."
"What's wrong?" I asked.
His face was so grief-stricken. All he said was, "Give your buddy a call."
What could this mean? I quickly narrowed it down to 2 plausible options:
1) Larry was on drugs or
2) Larry had been drinking too much.
I was betting on #2. And before I called, I mentally rehearsed all the supportive things I would say--like, good for him for seeking treatment.
I called. We made very small talk. Then he told me, "Ferrone, I have ventricular cancer."
Oh my gosh. Ventricular cancer? Mental wheels race. I quickly figure out that this must be cancer of the heart, of the ventricles.
Larry filled the silence. "But it's very treatable. They say if you're going to get cancer, this is the kind to get."
What I said was, "Wow. Well. . .I mean, I guess that's a good thing."
But what I thought was, Dude. They are lying to you. Cancer of the heart??? That must be a really horrible thing and they've told you it's treatable just to give you hope in a hopeless situation. Fricking cancer of the heart, Larry! How is this "the kind you want"?
I must have mumbled through the rest of the conversation. We eventually hung up.
A few weeks later, Sarah and I went to visit him the day after his operation. I didn't know what they had done. Where he was in his treatment. What we would find. And I didn't ask Sarah either, because I remember feeling, at the time, that cancer was "The Thng that shall not be discussed."
We got to his room, and he looked pretty good for someone who'd just, presumably, had his heart operated on. There were a few other friends already there. No one had anything to say.
And you know me. Even in a situation like that, I was compelled to fill the silence.
I asked the one burning question I'd had since that first phone call with Larry:
"How did you know you had this cancer?"
And he said, "I was playing with myself."
Silence. Mental wheels churning. And not coming up with anything. Still silence. Heads swivel to me. I register this look in their eyes that there's something they get that I am not getting. Smoke is coming off my brain, it's working so hard. And still: nothing.
"Ferrone," Larry said, "I have testiticular cancer. They just cut my ball off."
OH! Riiight.
I burst into a huge grin, and clapped my hands once and shouted, "You don't have cancer of the heart!!"
I would have started up a round of high fives, but the others were not in the same state of relief and euphoria that I was. So then I had to explain why I was talking about heart cancer.
Turns out Larry's cancer was very treatable. He's now 15 years down the road, and he and Gwen have a beautiful baby girl named Lily. Tomorrow I'll post an e-mail he wrote me that has some pretty great insight from someone on the other side of the cancer walk.
God bless Larry and Gwen, and their pursuit of Baby #2. :)
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