Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Darkness Ebbs and Dawn Appears

March 18, 2011: Mom tells me that when the surgery was over, Dr. Bradley came in to give the family the news. She was alone, as Linds, Aaron, and Dean had all chosen that moment to go find something to eat or drink. He sat down in a chair beside her and said, "Well, we got it all." Mom started to cry and noticed that the doctor was tearing up, too. He was so exhausted, so weary of fighting cancer all day and night. But, he was also positive and declared me a fighter. It was just what we had prayed to hear and believe.
Linds, Aaron, and Dean leave to get some much needed sleep. It's almost 2:30 AM. Mom gets blankets and pillows from the nurse and tries to sleep in the recliner. I hear her tossing and turning, but I'm doped up and sleep intermittently. The oxygen monitor on my finger beeps when it falls below 88, and I realize that when I start to fall into a deep sleep, my breathing becomes shallow. That little beep wakes me up time and time again, so I try to breathe more deeply. I'd like to take it off, but then it beeps constantly.
Twice, I wake up nauseated. The feel of cool cloths on my forehead and cheeks are soothing. The nurse gives me meds the first time and I go back to sleep without vomiting. The second time, I throw the covers off my body in a hot flash that turns my stomach. Mom grabs my "bucket" and I put it under my chin as we wait for my nurse, Santi, and CNA, Virna. Suddenly, a spasm causes me to heave into the bucket, but this time, I feel a warm gush between my legs where my catheter should have been. I tell Santi that I think I've wet the bed and he is alarmed. "That shouldn't have happened," he says, but when he checks, sure enough, I've "coughed" the catheter out. See why I hate those things? I have to get up - I still feel full of urine. I make my way to the toilet on wobbly legs and pee like a "horse on rocks", as Mom says. No wonder I've felt nauseated. I was full to the top! I feel much better after and have no more bouts of nausea. My nurse and CNA quickly remake my bed and tell me that this is a first in their experience of removing catheters and getting patients out of bed.
The room starts to brighten. Linds comes back after five hours of sleep. She tells me Aaron wishes he had taken the day off. It will be hard for him to work today. Dean arrives about 9:00. He is tired, too. Mom leaves to shower and change clothes. I order yogurt and toast for breakfast. I have no food limitations, but my lower lip and right side of my mouth are not working well, so it's hard to chew and eat and drink, much like the numbness you feel after going to the dentist. I do everything s-l-o-w-l-y. But, I'm sitting up and I'm moving.
Linds takes a good look at my wound. She counts over 37 staples and then loses her place. There are at least five different incisions. One goes all the way around my right ear, and we later learn from Dr. B that he made a flap and pulled it over the right side of my face to work. My ear is the size of a cauliflower and I look like a boxer.
Mom comes back and tells Dean he can leave, but I think he wants to stay. Mom says that they all want to "stay in my back pocket" and not get too far away. Finally, about noon, Dean leaves to grab some lunch and be ready to pick up Janessa from school at 2:00. I am anxious to see her. When she comes, she is fascinated by the monitors and watches them intently. "You told me you wouldn't be hooked up to tubes," she says. "It's like in the TV shows." I tell her not to worry if the numbers are chaotic. Everything evens out in the end. She looks a little pale.
Dr. Bradley comes in to check on me. You'd never know he had been in surgery all day and night. He is dressed in a shirt and tie and looks very dapper and refreshed. He is amazed that I am catheter-free and oxygen-free and that I have been up to the bathroom already. Yes, well, do you want to hear that story? He takes a quick look and says all is well.
I receive phone calls and visits filled with love. My dear RS president, Ann, remarks, "I can hear that they didn't take away your cute laugh." My friend, Sylvia, brings a chocolate cupcake and an Easter bunny and kisses. My darling niece, Britnee, brings a lovely, unique flower arrangement that makes me smile. Mom's cell phone rings constantly and Lindsey is getting good use out of her added minutes and text capabilities. They are the best secretaries, ever.
For some odd reason none of us can figure out, we are told that the entire 7th floor (I'm in Room W744) will close down for the weekend, due to policy and nursing consolidation, and be moved to the 6th floor. It is a production beyond belief, and our hard-working, old-school nurse, Barb, is obeying orders, but reluctantly. We are the last bed to be moved. Barb wheels me out into the hall and leaves me there, saying that she has to stay on the floor and make sure all is "shut down". I thank her profusely for her good service to me and my family. She is like an old Sarge, all business and no fluff, but she was the one who took out my cumbersome IV if I promised to drink lots of water. She gives me a smile and says it's been a pleasure to meet me and my family. I am driven to the 6th floor, Room W607, my sweet family trailing behind me, like some caravan or parade. Who thought of this ridiculous plan? It is just so strange. Later, as I'm trying to eat my dinner of mashed potatoes and turkey, Ann appears, a little unraveled that she couldn't "find" me. She had been to the deserted 7th floor, where my room and all those around mine were empty and abandoned. I'm sure it scared her a little. It would have scared me.
When my CNA arrives for the night, I am happy to see that it is Virna again. In her cute Spanish accent, she says, "You are the other side of the coin tonight than you were this morning!" Sweet. I do feel better. She arranges to bring Mom a roll-away bed, which we are both grateful for - I am so worried for my exhausted family. In the night, I hear Mom gently snoring and I'm glad she can get some rest. I have to call for some meds about 2:00 AM, but after taking them, I get drowsy fast. I say my prayers before falling asleep, counting my many, many blessings. There is a full moon tonight - a Super Moon - bigger and brighter than normal. It seems like a gift IN the heavens for a day filled with miracles.

March 19, 2011: Mom and I both wake more refreshed. I order a pancake with mixed berries for breakfast. It tastes delicious. Dr. Bradley appears again and I ask him about showering today. I am so stinky, I can't stand myself! He says, of course, go right ahead. What about the staples? Will I rust? He laughs. My drain has worked well and there is barely anything in the measuring cup. He proceeds to take it out. "This will hurt and burn," he warns two seconds before he pulls the 12-in. long tube from just above my collarbone. Owwee, yes, you are right! Mom and I giggle a little, thinking of how they get that thing in there. Do they push it in like a straw? Dr. B gives us the go-ahead to be discharged as soon as I shower and feel ready. We call for a nurse, but apparently, everyone is also calling to go home and she is slow to answer. I am emotional today. Tears come quickly. It is all to be expected, but it still rocks me. I feel like a baby. I'm so dependent on everyone else. My bum hurts from being in bed so much. Mom and I walk up and down the hall, and though it's not true, I feel that everyone we pass stares at my wounds. Finally, my nurse appears and gets the bathroom ready. She takes out my IV port that has hung from my hand for the past two days. What a relief. She looks at the hole my drain port has left and says we should keep that dry for at least 24 hours. She proceeds to tape a little "tent" over it, but the tape won't stick because of the ointment on my wound. Frustrated, she tries a second time. It works a little better, but it will be tricky keeping it dry. She leaves the room for something...and Mom and I are left sitting there, waiting again. Minutes crawl by. Other patients in my little corner on the sixth floor are leaving, trailing Get Well balloons and flower arrangements. I feel a bit abandoned. Mom thinks she can handle the shower, so I say, "Let's just do it, you and me." It's mostly her, of course. I'm weak and shaky as a newborn kitten. She nearly climbs in with me and I'm worried about her being soaking wet and catching cold. It's a nightmare - I can't feel the right side of my head, especially my huge, bruised ear, so it's hard to maneuver. It's an alien thing, stitched to my head, ready to snap off if we aren't careful. It's not true, but it seems that way. I'm soaped and lathered and the water feels good running down my back. When it comes to my hair, I almost wish I was bald. It would be so much easier. Mom gently towels me off and rubs lotion into my skin. She helps me into clean undies and a fresh top and my jeans. Oh, so much better. But, now I'm shaky again and I have to climb into that blasted bed that makes my bottom ache to warm up and calm down. I am amazed that Mom is barely wet. Thank you, Heavenly Father. The nurse arrives with my discharge papers, Dean and Janessa are here with the car, and I am finally wheeled out of the hospital. Home - I can't wait. My own bed, my own blankies, my own pajamas.
While I nap, Dean goes for my prescription and a bowl of Cutler's chicken and wild rice soup. Oh, it tastes heavenly! Dean does a load or two of laundry and I'm so proud of him. Mom is a blessing beyond words - she takes care of all the little and big details of daily life so I don't have to worry about a thing. I watch TV...or not. I read...or not. I nap...or not. I am so thankful for the blessings in my life.

March 20, 2011: The Sabbath. Day of rest. Day of thanksgiving. My heart is full. I am proud of Dean and Janessa for getting up early and going to church. I watch "The Music and the Spoken Word" and see my friends, Sylvia and Jen, as they perform. The theme is "You'll never walk alone" and I bow my head and say, Amen, over and over. I have never felt alone through this whole ordeal. The "armies" and "legions" of angels have been my companions and helpers through it all. I have never felt more loved or supported by those on earth and beyond the veil. I can "hold my head up high" and not "be afraid of the storm" because of all the fasting and prayers of my faithful brothers and sisters. I am so blessed and so in debt to my Lord and Savior.
Lachlan calls me. "My baby brother is coming after church," he says confidently. My heart lurches. I hear Chelsea say, "Oh, really?" Luckily, thankfully, that sweet little soul is still content to stay cocooned inside his mommy.
It's a sweet day, topped off with a delicious meal from my Relief Society presidency friends. Mom asks if they want to see my wound, and I cringe. If the tables were turned, I'm not sure I would be up to looking at such a thing. But they look, and though I can't see their eyes, I know they are shocked at the severity, the horrible ladder of staples, the criss-cross of incisions. It's a doozy, and even I am not fully aware of just how bad it really is. That's a blessing, too, I think. I feel sorry for those who have to see it.
Night comes. Aaron and Linds bring the girls to see that Grammy is really okay. My neck is wrapped in a colorful scarf, and though I am laying on the couch under my mound of blankets, they still run to me for a hug. Jane even lifts her arms to have me hold her. I feel blessed that my arms and hands are still strong, that I can lift these babies for a kiss, and smother them with loves and hugs. They make me smile and laugh and I am grateful for the visit. They are my heart and joy.
Before Mom leaves to go to sleep at Aaron's, she tucks me into bed like when I was a little girl. It is so comforting. She worries that she is hovering, nagging. No. I am eternally grateful to have her near me. I feel like her baby and I love her gentle touch. It breaks my heart that she has to go through this ordeal, too, but I feel her strength and her love in every fiber of my wounded body. Good-night, Mommy. I love you.

March 21, 2011: No school today. Hooray. Janessa and I both sleep until almost ten o'clock. Mom is already here again, starting laundry, straightening the house from last night, emptying the dishwasher. She helps me shower again - the third time is the charm. It is easier. We are getting this down to a fine art. She applies the ointment delicately and tenderly, even though I am still so numb that I don't feel the Q-tip against my skin. I can hear the scritch-scritch from my ear, but can't feel a thing. It is so weird, still. She worries that Dr. B will scold her at the one or two spots that show a little infection, but I will stand up for her. She has been a terrific nurse. I couldn't ask for better.
It is a quiet day. I nap. I write thank-you notes for all the wonderful meals and gifts that have come to me and my family. I watch my latest Netflix movie, called "School of Life." It is a wonderful little movie, but when I realize the main character is dying from leukemia, it makes it all too real. Cancer is evil. I hate it. I wonder if I will always cringe when I hear about the suffering of others from this horrid disease. I hope so.
Lindsey and Aaron and the girls bring "Hawaiian Haystacks" for our dinner and then we have Family Home Evening. Dinner is delicious, and I love watching Ally, Avery, and Jane scoop up the good food their mama prepares and devour it. I love how they mind their mama and daddy and do as they are told (well, Janie is still learning!). I love how they sing, "If you're happy and you know it..." and how they fold their arms and bow their heads to pray, even little Janie. I love how their little testimonies are growing, and how Ally says the Holy Ghost can "keep you safe and make you feel good inside." I love how we bear testimony to each other of the goodness and mercy of the Lord and how prayers are answered and how families are blessed through the temple ordinances. I love that we are a forever family. I love to read the scripture to "Be of good cheer" and the comfort it brings to all of us. I love to hear my family laugh. I love when they cry tears of joy. I love getting hugs and kisses. I am so blessed.
Tomorrow, we go to the doctor to get my staples out. I am nervous. I'm sure it will hurt. I'm not so sure that they will all be ready to come out...how can something so extensive be healed in just five days? It seems unreal. But I will trust in Dr. B. He knows much better than any of us what the body can and can't do.
I fall asleep again, counting my blessings and thanking God for His Everlasting Kindness to me, His imperfect, but eternally grateful, child.

1 comment:

  1. My brave precious daughter!
    I read how fragile your feelings are; I am so proud of your brave spiritual soul.
    You are teaching the rest of us
    how to live.
    God bless you! Mumsy

    ReplyDelete