One last simple procedure was required to remove my port. So on Thursday November 14th, just before noon, I returned to the Hospital from where my journey began. Feeling neither anxious nor worried, I took a seat in the Admitting area and waited for my turn to be registered.
Perhaps because it's a procedure that's done in Radiology, the registration clerk had a difficult time finding the classification for my surgery. For the record, this particular institution charts the procedure under 'CT', even though a Cat Scanner is not used for either the insertion or removal process. The registration is complete when the clerk wraps a plastic ID bracelet around my wrist. Paperwork in hand, I was instructed to proceed to the fifth floor, the day surgery floor for Hotel Dieu Hospital. I've made this journey many times over the past few years, each time it seems there's a slightly different emotion attached. For the early visits when I was being diagnosed there was anxiety and fear; now there was a feeling of calmness a satisfaction that asserts within me and states that I am no longer afraid of Cancer.
Stepping off the elevator, the dedicated volunteers assist in getting me oriented so that my admitting paperwork is dropped off at the correct nursing station. From there I am directed to a small waiting room opposite the same elevators from which I had just exited. The waiting process begins.
Time goes by slowly in a Hospital waiting room. It goes slower when their public wifi isn't working. Still I had a backpack full of stuff to entertain me, but lets face it, I can't concentrate: the anticipation is building and I just can't sit still. I'm like a five year old with the attention span of, well, a five year old. I pace just outside the waiting room, too afraid to stray very far lest I miss my turn. My name is called, but it's just the initial preparation: I get to change into the formal attire of the Day Surgery floor: little booties for my feet and a standard-issue Hospital Gown. A robe is also provided. At least I get to keep my pants on. My significant others sister works as a nurse on that floor, and is noted for having a sadistic streak that's dryly referred to as 'humour'. I worry that my clothes will disappear. Fortunately that would not pass. Unfortunately there was something else waiting for me.
While lounging in my new sartorial splendour another nurse inquires at the waiting area for me. I identify myself and am pleasantly surprised: she was the same nurse who helped prepare me for colon surgery, on that cold morning of April 8th in 2010. She remembers my condition, she's happy I've come so far. It's hard to describe the feeling when you make someone happy, simply by being alive. She checks my arm band and tells me there's an additional band that I'm required to wear. I accept this as normal when she fastens the purple band on my other wrist. It is unadorned, no markings of any sort. Simply purple. I study the other patients in the waiting room, and none of them have any bands other than their ID. I wander down to the nursing station where I had dropped off my paperwork an hour beforehand (or was it two...it felt like a day by then..). My practical-joking nurse saw me and in mock-horror advised her coworkers to make sure I wasn't made angry. It wold seem that a purple band means "violent patient". Ha. Ha. Funny. Not. OK it WAS a little humourous and did lighten the mood somewhat.
I wait, somewhat impatiently. I pace some more. I wait some more. Eventually a bed was ready for me. For this procedure I would only receive a localized numbing around the port site, so no IV. I would remain awake during the entire process.
Day surgery transportation is a cross between a Formula 1 car race and a video game obstacle course. The Hospital layout routes you through the maze of corridors, around protruding obstacles until finally you are squeezed into an elevator. I admire the skill of the bed movers. They have a dexterity maneuvering their bulky charges around that verges on miraculous. I arrived at my destination relatively intact, and found I was in Radiology. Actually I was parked in Radiology. It's quiet, sounds are muted, light is indirect and I am in a bed with a warm blanket covering me. I could nap now. Naturally the timing is perfect, as I close my eyes the bed is moved into position for the surgical procedure. They are ready for me. My port is about to be removed.
My doctor explained that they would numb the port site with some injections just as Dentist does for a filling. Only they were removing my port (Does that make it an un-filling?) I would be in bed, head tilted away and in a few minutes, after some cutting, some tugging, some stitches and some bandages and ... I was Port Free.
I was Port Free. I remember being brought back to the fifth floor recovery room, the protocol in case something horrible happened, but of course nothing did. Juice and a cookie were provided, my reward for being such a good patient I suppose.
Such a simple thing, it would take weeks for me to realize how much of my life was devoted to the process of being ready to fight Cancer. I would later determine that I had carried my Port in me for 921 days.
My departure from the Hospital was subdued, the usual cautions about not showering while I still had stitches, any redness, pain, pus or fever, and a date when to return to get my stitches removed. As I walked down those front steps to the street, there was a feeling that the essence of my journey was not one of elation, no fanfare for 'beating' cancer, but the realization that life simply goes on.
Life goes on, and I go with it. And I do so Port free. I still have another year of bloodwork to look forward to, every three months. I have Colonoscopy sometime in 2014, and I have the usual health concerns of everyone who gets older in life. The moment of my Cancer is now past. It seems that my journey will continue, and I realize, somewhat bemusedly, that I've been on a journey all my life. Cancer was just a traveling companion for a little while.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Saturday, December 1, 2012
De-Ported - I
I see my Oncologist every six months. Every three months there's blood work. Once a month my IV Port gets flushed. November would see a change in this protocol. It began with a visit to my Oncologist.
November 5th and I'm back at the Cancer Centre for my six month follow-up with my Oncologist. New procedural changes for notifying the patient that their doctor is ready to see them were introduced since my last visit. In the past you would register at the front reception desk, be given paperwork and a pager, go upstairs and perform your ESAS survey, drop off the paperwork with the doctor's receptionist and wait for the pager to inform you that you will now be seen. This time no paperwork and no pager. You check in with the front reception, they email your doctor's reception person and after you do the ESAS survey, you wait in the lounge. A friendly voice informs you when it's your turn. Less stressful than having a pager go off unexpectedly in your lap. Maintaining the personal interaction rather than abstracting a visit with a technical process is a nice "soft" change.
I had barely sat down when my name was called, and I was ushered into the patient examining area by the smiling nurse. My weigh is recorded (186lbs) and some survey questions are asked by the nurse - if you have any concerns for the upcoming meeting with your oncologist, now would be a good time to mention them.
There was only one item I wished to discuss, but the exam preliminaries needed to be performed. For that I need to hop up onto the exam table and take deep breaths so my lungs can be heard via stethoscope. Next comes the reclining portion of the exam, where I lie down and look up at the ceiling. Prodding and poking of the abdomen occurs, and the region of greatest interest-in my case the liver-is examined. Other than confirming I'm still ticklish, there was nothing of note to report.
From the cancer doctor's perspective, the liver is the most likely place for cancer to reoccur. My general aches and pains are not really symptoms of the disease that has changed my life. Mostly these complaints are under the larger umbrella of the affliction know as "getting older". I do remind the doc about my primary concern of late: my IV Port.
"We'll take it out." she says. Simple statements like that are, upon later reflection, profound. It means I don't need further treatment. It means I don't hold my breath waiting in fear. It means I have a future.
However those feelings wouldn't manifest until the port was actually removed. While sitting on the exam table, I half-expected my doctor to call a nurse and yank it out of me then and there. Not quite the way it would happen, but I was assured at the end of my visit that a time would be scheduled "before Christmas" for its removal. I was already thinking "Best Christmas Present Ever" when my doctor observed as an afterthought that there were lots of good veins in my hands should we need to resume treatment. OK, I can live with that should it be necessary, but hey it's been nearly two years without any treament, lets just live life today and tomorrow and see what happens. I was also reminded to maintain the rigorous schedule of getting my blood work done every three months. Those tests remain as always, my first line of defense. They also serve as a reminder that better doesn't always mean cured, and cured doesn't always mean finished. LIfe goes on..
My exam now complete, I left the clinic knowing I would be called very soon to schedule the ports' removal. It was a nice sunny day. I was happy. Whether it's true or not, all my positive memories of the WRCC are linked to images of sunshine in my mind. Nothing wrong with being happy, even better when you are healthy. I sincerely believe that you can't have one without the other.
Events are drawing to a close. One more simple small procedure brings me that much closer to finishing my journey. More importantly, to finish on my terms: not merely survive Cancer, but to step our from under its shadow and live without fear.
November 5th and I'm back at the Cancer Centre for my six month follow-up with my Oncologist. New procedural changes for notifying the patient that their doctor is ready to see them were introduced since my last visit. In the past you would register at the front reception desk, be given paperwork and a pager, go upstairs and perform your ESAS survey, drop off the paperwork with the doctor's receptionist and wait for the pager to inform you that you will now be seen. This time no paperwork and no pager. You check in with the front reception, they email your doctor's reception person and after you do the ESAS survey, you wait in the lounge. A friendly voice informs you when it's your turn. Less stressful than having a pager go off unexpectedly in your lap. Maintaining the personal interaction rather than abstracting a visit with a technical process is a nice "soft" change.
I had barely sat down when my name was called, and I was ushered into the patient examining area by the smiling nurse. My weigh is recorded (186lbs) and some survey questions are asked by the nurse - if you have any concerns for the upcoming meeting with your oncologist, now would be a good time to mention them.
There was only one item I wished to discuss, but the exam preliminaries needed to be performed. For that I need to hop up onto the exam table and take deep breaths so my lungs can be heard via stethoscope. Next comes the reclining portion of the exam, where I lie down and look up at the ceiling. Prodding and poking of the abdomen occurs, and the region of greatest interest-in my case the liver-is examined. Other than confirming I'm still ticklish, there was nothing of note to report.
From the cancer doctor's perspective, the liver is the most likely place for cancer to reoccur. My general aches and pains are not really symptoms of the disease that has changed my life. Mostly these complaints are under the larger umbrella of the affliction know as "getting older". I do remind the doc about my primary concern of late: my IV Port.
"We'll take it out." she says. Simple statements like that are, upon later reflection, profound. It means I don't need further treatment. It means I don't hold my breath waiting in fear. It means I have a future.
However those feelings wouldn't manifest until the port was actually removed. While sitting on the exam table, I half-expected my doctor to call a nurse and yank it out of me then and there. Not quite the way it would happen, but I was assured at the end of my visit that a time would be scheduled "before Christmas" for its removal. I was already thinking "Best Christmas Present Ever" when my doctor observed as an afterthought that there were lots of good veins in my hands should we need to resume treatment. OK, I can live with that should it be necessary, but hey it's been nearly two years without any treament, lets just live life today and tomorrow and see what happens. I was also reminded to maintain the rigorous schedule of getting my blood work done every three months. Those tests remain as always, my first line of defense. They also serve as a reminder that better doesn't always mean cured, and cured doesn't always mean finished. LIfe goes on..
My exam now complete, I left the clinic knowing I would be called very soon to schedule the ports' removal. It was a nice sunny day. I was happy. Whether it's true or not, all my positive memories of the WRCC are linked to images of sunshine in my mind. Nothing wrong with being happy, even better when you are healthy. I sincerely believe that you can't have one without the other.
Events are drawing to a close. One more simple small procedure brings me that much closer to finishing my journey. More importantly, to finish on my terms: not merely survive Cancer, but to step our from under its shadow and live without fear.
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