The End of March...at last

March 31, 2011: Maybe only my family will understand how almost giddy I feel knowing that March is almost at an end. To think that all this chaos started in the last 30 days, from the biopsy surgery on the 3rd to the devastating diagnosis on the 7th to the Big Guns Surgery on the 17th...I am ready for a calendar change. Even if that calendar is already filling up with doctor visits and treatments and consultations, it is still one more day, one more week, one more month to be alive and healing. And happily, that old calendar page has a big red heart wrapped around the 28th, the day our little Knox came to our family. Today has been a day of phone calls from the powers that be, mainly medical people. I waited all day for the Huntsman Cancer Center to call me back for my appointment with Dr. Grossman. No luck. But, don't worry - I've been up to my eyebrows keeping up with the other calls.

1. Carol from Dr. Bradley's office calls this morning. She says Dr. Bradley went before the Tumor Board yesterday, and after a review of my case, they recommend radiation treatments in my neck. She tells me she has made an appointment at LDS Hospital with Dr. Sause for Friday, April 8, at 1:30 PM. I ask, "Does this supercede the appointment I have with Dr. Abazonas on April 12?" She says that Dr. Bradley did not tell her to cancel that appointment, so maybe I am supposed to keep both. I hang up, confused and sad because I really wanted to be out of town on April 8, snuggling a new baby and putting my arms around his slowly-healing mommy and daddy. I feel like a puppet on a string, my movements entirely in the hands of my doctors.


2. I get a call from IHC's billing department and we go through two minutes of "how do you want to handle these charges?" I hang up, depressed and remembering how Dean's prescription bill tips me over the edge each month. Little did I know.


3. I get a call from Dr. Sause's office, confirming my appointment for April 8. The receptionist, Gwen, asks if I'm aware I have two appointments at two different facilities - she asks which facility and appointment would I like to keep? I am muddle-headed with all the information and choices coming at me today, so I choose to keep the appointment at LDS, thinking that it's better to go closer to home. Gwen tells me that I should cancel the other appointment, which I do. But the minute I hang up the phone, I moan aloud, "What am I doing? I have a choice! Why not choose the appointment that doesn't interfere with a date with my kids?" Arghh! I start to cry. Oh, Heavenly Father, I'm not thinking straight - You have to help me make the right choices and say the right things, especially when I'm vulnerable and alone. In mere seconds, the phone rings again. It's Dr. Abazonas's office, asking me if I'm SURE I want to cancel my appointment - that the LDS facility may not accept my insurance and I need to make sure they do before I go ahead. I could have kissed that woman on the other end of the line! I was almost too eager to tell her that I had changed my mind - I wanted to KEEP the appointment with Dr. A, no matter how far away it is from my home, and cancel the newer appointment on April 8. I bury my face in my hands and sob my thanks to a loving Father who is standing right beside me every second and nudging me with each jangle of the phone to make the right choices - or quickly help me change to the right choices! If I've ever doubted His endless tender mercies - and I haven't - today only solidifies how closely He is watching over me.

This morning, for the first time, I was able to really touch my wound. I've been overly cautious during showers, just patting it dry and avoiding it as much as possible. I'm lucky - I can't see the nasty thing, yet the world has to look at it and cringe. So, this morning, I touched it. It feels as rough and fat as a thick hemp rope. The numb spots still feel alien. My ear feels as big as a saucer. There are dents and shallow spots that weren't there before. There are mountainous overlaps of skin that will never lie down flat again. I'll never wear short hair over my ears again. I wonder how long it will be before I want to put an earring in my dead earlobe. I think I've always been a little vain about my looks. No more. I've got the ugly truth peeking out behind my ear and pulsing under my fingertips.

We will get through this rough patch. Tomorrow is another new day...ahh, April...ahh, spring.

Babies Change Everything - Part 1...and Part 2...

Part 1 - March 28, 2011: After months of growing, weeks of waiting for Grammy to get better enough to travel, days of walking/jostling/eating Mexican/bending/stretching just to get some labor going, Chelsea goes to the hospital to be induced. The day has arrived! I am anxious, wanting things to go smoothly, wanting this baby to bring a sparkle to all of our eyes, wanting & praying for strength beyond my own. I think of my sweet Uncle Ray and of the funeral I am missing today. I think of the reunion there at the church - and of the reunion behind the veil. I wish I could pull out my spyglass and see the "cloud of witnesses". I shower and dress (my good hubby standing by with ointment and a steady arm) and even put on a touch of makeup. Don't want to scare anyone today. Dean drops me off at the hospital - it's almost 1:00 in the afternoon. Chelsea is resting, sleepy from the epidural. The baby's heartbeat beeps out loud in the room - the nurse has attached a monitor to his little head. Chels was checked at 12:30 and is dilated to a 6. Robby is gone, eating lunch with his mom. We turn on "Cake Boss" and settle in for the long afternoon. Rob is back about 1:20. His tummy hurts and he's not sure why. Couldn't be stress, could it? Sympathy pains for his sweetie? Chels feels a tightening, in spite of the epidural, and reaches for the button to give herself a higher dose. Already, her right leg is numb & fast asleep. She has an oxygen mask at her chin - doesn't want to pull it over her face because it bugs her and makes her itchy. About 1:45, the baby's heartbeat slows and we watch the zig-zag line dip low like a little valley. Immediately, a nurse comes in to assess. I am amazed that she noticed so quickly. She asks when Chelsea was checked last and decides to check again. Very matter of factly, she announces that Chels is at a "9.9 plus". "I'm going to get your nurse, Shar," she says, and we look at each other in disbelief. Could it be? Already? We were prepared to wait all day for this little guy - even took "wagers" on time and weight and length, and most of the guesses were for after 4 PM! The nurse squad comes bustling in. I am always impressed with their efficiency, their soothing busy-ness, the way they each have a role to perform without getting in anyone else's way. The doctor has been called. It's just a little before 2:00. Shar notices that I am gingerly turning my head to watch the whole ensemble. She asks if I have an injury. I say, no, I've had surgery recently. We laugh, as she says, "So, you really are stiff-necked!" Chels starts pushing at 2:10, and oh my goodness, we have a baby at 2:15. Five minutes of pushing! Most women would pay millions for a delivery like that. KNOX AARON arrives in a flurry of activity, as Dr. Lunt unwinds the umbilical cord wrapped around his neck once - then twice - but he's as perfect as can be. He opens his mouth to cry, but can't quite get enough air to make a sound. It takes just a few seconds of kneading his back, rubbing his head, and then, the wails begin. He sounds wonderful. He is adorable, the most beautiful newborn baby on the earth at this moment. I snap pictures with unsteady hands. My half-numb face is frozen in a grin. I have the strength of a lioness, and these are my little cubs - the mommy in the bed and the baby in her arms. Part 2 - Later on March 28, 2011: Aaron and Linds and girls have been with Chelsea's little ones all day, so we meet up to get dinner and then make a trip to the hospital. I am surrounded by five beautiful grandchildren, and I count my blessings for the hundredth time today. They are so sweet, so dear. I am grateful that Aar & Linds are here. I feel our family's strength, as we help each other, and it makes me very proud. We go to the hospital, where Rob and Chelsea wait outside the nursery window. The kind nurse behind the glass holds Knox close where his big brother and sister can see him. His little girl cousins clamor up on the window step to get a better look, too. We are noisy with excitement, oohing and ahhing at how beautiful he is. Lachlan looks confused. He asks his mommy, "Are you going to have another baby? How did you get Knox out? Why are you in a wheelchair? What are those bracelets on your wrists?" and a thousand other things he's concerned about. Olive points to Knox's nose and eyes and wants Mommy and Daddy to hold her. The novelty of Baby Brother soon wears off and she wants to run with the cousins. Soon, it's time to go, and we leave Rob and Chels and get back on the elevator. I am exhausted with excitement, emotions, and pain. I cry on the way back to Mom's villa. I know it will only get more stressful, more emotional, more difficult to adjust to this new way of life. And, I have to go home tomorrow instead of staying to help Chels. It hurts my heart. Early the next morning, the phone rings and it's Chelsea, crying. I expect her to say that it was a sleepless night, the baby wouldn't nurse, the pain was bad, etc. But I never in a million years expect her to say - "Rob had to go to Instacare last night. They sent him to the ER, where he had a CT scan, and now he's waiting for surgery to have his appendix removed." WHAT? I am shaking with disbelief. In my twisted mind, I have to wonder if our family members are the main characters in the latest reality show where the producers are just sitting home dreaming up whatever new obstacle or challenge they can dish out to make us scream and writhe! Enough already! We are done! If my own sweet daughter were not on the other end of the phone line, weeping with exhaustion and worry, I would laugh out loud and say, "Okay, where's the hidden camera? This is not real, right?" Oh boy, if only that were true. But, it is true. Rob has surgery with his dad at his side because his dear mom has stayed with Lachlan and Olive all night. All I have the strength to do is go to the hospital to help Chels cope with this latest heartache. Her sweet face is etched with pain, emotionally and physically. We keep thinking, well, Rob will take care of that. But, he's not here, and we long to be with him, too. We whisper, "Miracles and hope", over and over, and tender mercies start to arrive. Chelsea's nurse knows her Relief Society president and will make the call to get the service wheels rolling. "Mimi" Cindy and the sisters-in-law wrangle all the kids together - 7 under age 7 - and go to the park under an almost 70-degree cloudless sky. The lactation nurse brings Chels every conceivable thing she might need to help with nursing. Dr. Lunt, the OB, personally calls the other hospital to see who is operating on Rob and how things are going. Baby Knox tests "low risk" for bili and we are set for discharge. "Did we get everything?" Chels asks from the wheelchair at the door. "Rob is the one who's supposed to check." I check, teary. But, that's not the end. I know you were hoping so. Me too. Aaron calls later in the afternoon, as Chelsea is trying to nap in her own comfy bed and we're passing the cocoon-wrapped baby from one set of arms to the next. He and Linds and girls are on their way home, but he has news for me. He's had a sore throat for a couple of days and decides he needs to have it checked. He goes to the Instacare and the nurse asks him why he's in St. George. Aaron tells him his sister had a baby. When the whole story comes out, the nurse realizes this sounds all too familiar and realizes that she helped to treat Rob when he came in with his stomachache/appendicitis. She probably thinks we're the family from the Blue Lagoon - who would believe all we've had to deal with in the past month? Then Aaron's test comes back - he has strep. Of course he does! We aren't surprised at all, are we? Now, we're lathering up the hand sanitizer and popping Vitamin C like candy. We need another miracle, Father. Just in case this slipped by you when you weren't looking... This baby has changed everything, but we look at him as our Bright Little Sunbeam of Hope. I prayed to see him born, and it happened. I prayed for the strength to travel, and it happened. I prayed for healing, and it IS happening. Now, I pray for those same tender mercies to come to my children and grandchildren. I know He will bless us...again and again. Baby step by baby step, we will get through all these tests. Dr. Lunt said, "In six months, you'll look back at this day and laugh!" I believe him. But really, if anyone was wondering if we're due for some sunny days, I'm vigorously voting, YES! Enough. Let us catch our breath. Mend our hurts and soften our pains. And yes, prayer does help...

The Next (sort of scary) Steps

March 25, 2011: Phone call from Carol, Dr. Bradley's very efficient nurse. She says she has a long message from Dr. Bradley with lots of information and she'll wait for me to grab a paper and pen. My heart pounds.

1. Dr. Bradley faxed over all my information to Dr. Andtbaka at the Huntsman Cancer Center. Dr. A reviewed the files and has determined that I do not need further surgical intervention. I breathe a very small sigh of relief.

2. Dr. A has referred me to Dr. Ken Grossman, also of the Huntsman Cancer Center. In the next few days, his office will call to schedule an office visit to determine medication and treatment options. Okay...

3. It has been determined (not sure by whom - I must have been listening to my pounding heart and trying to figure out how to spell "Grossman" and missed what Carol said) that I should undergo radiation therapy. From previous discussions, I know melanoma is not killed by radiation, but I trust that any other mean thing lurking in the shadows will be scared witless by this therapy. I get a little shaky, thinking about it, but I have put my trust in these people - and in God - and so far, they have given me miracles and hope.

4. Dr. Bradley has not gone before the Tumor Board yet - that meeting is next Wednesday. He will still let me know if there is any further information from them at that point.

5. Dr. B is also referring me to Dr. Abazonas (spelled phonetically and is most likely completely wrong). She is a radialogical oncologist at the Utah Cancer Center. I have an appointment with her on April 12. I am assuming that she will set up the radiation treatments and oversee that part of my life from here on out.

I hang up the phone, trembling. I'm not sure how to feel. I guess I'm still a little fragile from having my neck sliced open just eight days ago. I guess I'm also in a bit of denial, wishing all the bugs were gone forever and I didn't have to think about radiation (isn't that what's floating around in Japan right now that people are RUNNING from - and I'm going to purposely and voluntarily give it permission to touch me??). I guess in a way, I'm not ready for "next steps". I'm barely putting one foot in front of the other some days. But thank heaven for doctors who keep the wheels moving, who call and tell you about appointments that are already made, who know people who know people who know people, all in the extremely positive approach to keeping you alive and well and with your family. After all, that's what I'm praying for. That's what my hope is.

So, I'll do what they say. I'll climb to that next rung, however shaky, and keep looking heavenward.

Dean, Janessa, and I leave soon to (hopefully) welcome a baby to earth in the next few days! It will be the first time in 10 days that my mommy isn't right by my side to dab my incision with ointment, rub lotion into my feet, warm up my lunch, and tuck me into bed for naps & night. It will be good to lean on my hubby for a few days. I'm off to pack up my troubles...and smile into the face of a newborn baby.

Life is not a straight line

March 24, 2011: I heard somewhere in the past month that once you've had tragedy strike in your own life, you either turn completely inward - or you turn to look at others around you. Suddenly, you learn about ten people who have gone through something similar, or you learn about ten people who have a much harder battle to fight that makes your own Goliath look puny. I certainly haven't been at this long enough to tower above my giant, but every day I am amazed at the resiliency of the human spirit. I learn of loved ones who have suffered in silence and never lifted their megaphone to shout to the world of their pain. I am not that strong. I told Mom yesterday that I need to stop and think before I tell my story to the world - I found myself confiding in the waitress at the local Mexican restaurant that the reason I'm wearing the pretty scarf she complimented me on was because I had just gone through cancer surgery on my neck. She looked stunned, like she couldn't believe I had just blurted out that kind of news. I'm not seeking pity or charity - it's that I feel I have to elaborate on that sign around my neck that says, "I've got cancer." So, I'm learning to be a little more discreet. "Life is not a straight line," my friend says tonight. We are zig-zagging all the way through our days.
No baby today. He's content to stay nuzzled inside his mommy's warm, cozy guest room. Funeral arrangements are made for Uncle Ray. Monday. The same day baby will be forced to appear, if he doesn't decide to make his own entrance before then. This means I'm momentarily thinking of cloning myself so I can be in two places at once. But, I know Uncle Ray would understand my choice to be with my daughter and her new baby. It's a hard choice. Just like life and the mountains and valleys we tread every day.

And the World Goes 'Round...

March 23, 2011: One thing about life...it never stays the same. In the past 24 hours, I've had news of life and death, both hard and exciting, sad and eventful. My sweet uncle gently passed away last night after years of illness. We are sad for us, joyful for him. He has gone home, where he longed to be. We laugh, remembering his great life - and we cry, remembering his great suffering. Now, life for his family involves waiting and planning and decisions, not easily made when you're grieving. I also heard today of the heart-breaking death of a 16-week fetus who was part of a dream and a hope and a longing unrealized. I mourn with family and friends and know just an inkling of how that loss feels. On the other hand, I received news from my beautiful daughter that she is days...maybe even hours...away from bringing new life into this world. Together, we shared our excitement, our anxiety, our prayers for his safe arrival and her safe delivery. I try to be brave and strong for her, but I am not brave and strong right now. I am weak and easily blown over like a feather. I will hitch up my boots, though, and plead for more blessings. For my Chels, for my precious new grandson, for all our wonderful wounded family, for myself. I ask God to take away my worry. I ask Him to calm the storms. I ask Him to pave the way and make the arrangements. I ask Him to hold us all in His arms and lead us, guide us, walk beside us. Because it's not just about me today...it's about Raymond and Marilyn and Amy and Chelsea and a baby straight from heaven. As it should be. Family. The most important word ever formed, the most important unit ever created - and always at the helm, Our Father and Our Beloved Elder Brother.

The Blessings of Give & Take

March 22, 2011: I wake up early to get Janessa ready for school. I decide that I'm better at writing about this ordeal in the morning...nighttime is harder (though that's when I'm writing this post). I was actually able to sleep on my left side last night, which is my favorite sleeping position; and though the incision felt taut and stretched at times, I think just knowing I could do it made me happy. The right side of my head is starting to "wake up" and I feel pressure and a dull ache. At least it's not a sharp pain. It's nothing I can't stand. Miracle of miracles. I eat oatmeal for breakfast. It's soft, easy to chew, and is giving me some much needed fiber. Mom helps me into the shower again. We're a great tag team, though she gets more than her share of splashing and "flashing" of flesh. I'm really getting dressed today - not just lounge wear - and I decide I want to use the blow dryer on my hair. The flat-to-the-head look is wearing thin - I feel like an old lady. I'm so thankful I can use my right arm normally because that was one of the nerves and muscles Dr. Bradley was worried about damaging in the surgery. Another miracle. We head to the Salt Lake Clinic for our 11:00 AM appointment. Mom tries out the brand-new valet parking - what a breeze! Lindsey arrives soon after I check in. We eat Jolly Rancher jelly beans and giggle.
I am called into an exam room. It's a tiny room, but Dr. Bradley brings in another stool for Linds. He jokes about looking for the staple remover - we joke they may have to run to Home Depot for another one. The actual device is ingenious. Who thinks up these things? Someone who had a horrible experience getting the staples removed? Since my upper neck and the wound around my ear is still numb, I don't feel a thing - no pinch or sting as Dr. B warns. The rest is not painful either - just a little tug and one more is gone. I feel so relieved. (I had taken half a pain pill for insurance sake.) As he works on the railroad track of my incisions, Dr. B explains updates and new details.
He says that of the lymph nodes that were removed, seven tested positive for cancer. The remaining 37-40 nodes tested negative - no cancer. I must look stunned. How many nodes are there in the neck? More than that, I like those odds. A lot.
He says that the gland he removed also tested positive for a malignant tumor, so we're grateful for the decision to remove it. He sent it in two pieces to the lab and one test showed it had "outlying" cancer cells. Dr. B is positive that this result related to the gland being cut in half and still feels that he got it all. However, in his no-nonsense way, he says, "But if a tumor should grow there again, we'll remove it."
He explains that he consults with a Tumor Board every few weeks and will do so again tomorrow. He says he'll bring up my case and give them all the information related to my particular melanoma. At that point, they will consider options and treatments and confer one with one another. If the Board feels that I would benefit from radiation treatments, he will let me know. Otherwise, my next course of action is to meet with Dr. Robert Andtbacka at the Huntsman Cancer Center and get an evaluation from him. From there, I could be introduced into a trial or study.
I tell Dr. B that my ear is completely numb. He calmly tells me that the earlobe will be permanently "dead" - that was one of the nerves they had to sever during the surgery. I joke that it's a shame I'm not one to wear 100 pierced earrings in one ear - this would be the time to do it. He's pretty sure the top part of my ear will "wake up", but if I have to have one part of my body paralyzed, I'd choose the earlobe any day. He thinks my lip nerve will also repair itself (my bottom lip has lost its "depressor" - like a tongue depressor, this nerve helps your bottom lip move down over your teeth to make it easier to talk or eat, and mine is now damaged) sometime in the next three months. But, already in the past five days, it has come back a bit and seems to improve each day.
Linds asks the hard questions about melanoma - why it seems to be immune to chemo or radiation, why I will always and forevermore be listed at Stage 3C, why we will never know what may be lurking in those microscopic hiding places, why chances for survival have not improved with this battle but will statistically the longer I fight, and why oh why isn't cancer more picky? All I can think is what dear Elder Neal A. Maxwell said about his own fight with cancer: "I never thought to say, Why me? - but always said, Why not me?"
The last thing we talked to Dr. B about was the new baby coming any day now to our family. His response was, "Oh, great! Well, you are free to go any time." I felt such relief and strength in those few words of comfort.
This may have been a day of "removal", but it was also a day of information. I heard hard-to-swallow news, but I also heard healing. I heard scary news, but I also heard hope. I heard what I didn't really want to hear, but I also heard words like "fighter", "do", "act", "ongoing", "miracles", and "support". I heard "love". I heard "thank you". I heard "help".
Tonight, I feel less like Frankenstein and more like a cancer fighter. I have survived this first bout. I am healing. My body is amazing. My Lord is awesome. I feel extremely blessed to be going to bed with food in my belly, a warm blanket around me, my sweetheart next to me, in a house on stable ground in a safe & loving neighborhood in a free, democratic country in a world full of people who generally love one another and pray for each other. Thank you, God. Bless those who mourn, those who hurt, those who hate, and those who need Thy Spirit in their lives. We all need Thee, every hour.

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.