Last year in 2014 I underwent surgery for a recurrence of colon cancer. In 2015 I was diagnosed with an inoperable metastasis in my lung. Yet there is another link between these two events: Quilts.
From a dear coworker in 2014 I received a beautiful, hand-made quilt from Victoria's Quilts of Canada. Comfort for the body, comfort for the soul and I was truly touched when she presented me with this gift. The quilt is beautifully hand-made, then donated to cancer patients. The organization only asks for whatever a sponsor donates. From humble beginnings, this organization now distributes around 500 quilts per months. This quilt quickly became my favourite 'comfort blanket' whenever there is a chill in the air, or if the Winter nights became too cool. I love my quilt.
So it was quite surprise for me this Spring after my most recent diagnosis when a package arrived at my house. Inside was another Victoria's Quilt. While looking at the enclosed note I found it exceedingly difficult to read, for the first thing I read was the name of the sponsor: my next door neighbor. To say I was emotionally overwhelmed would be an understatement, these days the tears freely flow for any act of kindness. I now have two lovely Victoria's Quilts, both of which will be used, and both which will always remind me that kindness can vanquish fear.
I don't know how to express my thanks for those where compassion knows no bounds. It has been my privilege over the years to be a recipient over so many of these extraordinary acts. During my ordeal I've experienced wonder at how simple acts of compassion can help ease this weary journey of mine. The path I walk is for me alone, but lining the way are the outstretched hands of those who willingly help me when I stumble.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
The Radiation Chronicles: Fifth treatment
Friday June 26th and another beautiful sunny summer morning heralded my fifth, and hopefully last, radiation treatment. My previous nights pain and emotion had remarkably dissipated, no doubt due to the rest achieved with the help of Tylenol-3's. I was certainly in a better frame of mind, and wanted this process to be over as quickly as possible. So once more I'm in the waiting room outside the treatment area, when my name is called. It's time for my last treatment
This time my session has a novelty -- I will be part of a teaching exercise. For the past several weeks a young student has been both observing and working with the regular staff on my particular treatment. I had first encountered this student during my CT mapping process some two weeks prior. She was also present at several of my treatments this week. Today she would be going solo, and I would be hervictim patient.
Although the staff knows me by sight, they have always adhered to the formalities: Ask the patient their date of birth. Confirm that the treatment is for a specific condition. Ask if the patient has any questions. For a brief instant my mischievous side wanted to throw out a flippant answer to see how she responds, but wisely thought better of it. She worked efficiently and methodically, dotting all the i's and crossing all the t's. She situated my leg for its final treatment and retreated to the control room with her two proctors. Ten minutes later we both had reason to smile: my treatment was complete and the earnest young student had successfully completed her training exercise.
Now it was reward time. I presented the box of chocolates I had brought with me as a token of thanks to the student, with a suggestion to share with her coworkers. Big smiles on everyone's face as I left the Radiation Therapy department, hopefully for the last time. For me it is important to let those caring for me know how much I appreciate their dedication and efforts. Little things, like a smile, a kind word of thanks, or even a box of chocolates lets people know you are grateful.
In the weeks to come my leg would feel better, and sometimes worse. There was improvement, but I suspect the damage is done. Gone are my days of being able to walk for hours without efforts. Now I walk with a limp, but my journey still continues.
This time my session has a novelty -- I will be part of a teaching exercise. For the past several weeks a young student has been both observing and working with the regular staff on my particular treatment. I had first encountered this student during my CT mapping process some two weeks prior. She was also present at several of my treatments this week. Today she would be going solo, and I would be her
Although the staff knows me by sight, they have always adhered to the formalities: Ask the patient their date of birth. Confirm that the treatment is for a specific condition. Ask if the patient has any questions. For a brief instant my mischievous side wanted to throw out a flippant answer to see how she responds, but wisely thought better of it. She worked efficiently and methodically, dotting all the i's and crossing all the t's. She situated my leg for its final treatment and retreated to the control room with her two proctors. Ten minutes later we both had reason to smile: my treatment was complete and the earnest young student had successfully completed her training exercise.
Now it was reward time. I presented the box of chocolates I had brought with me as a token of thanks to the student, with a suggestion to share with her coworkers. Big smiles on everyone's face as I left the Radiation Therapy department, hopefully for the last time. For me it is important to let those caring for me know how much I appreciate their dedication and efforts. Little things, like a smile, a kind word of thanks, or even a box of chocolates lets people know you are grateful.
In the weeks to come my leg would feel better, and sometimes worse. There was improvement, but I suspect the damage is done. Gone are my days of being able to walk for hours without efforts. Now I walk with a limp, but my journey still continues.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
The Radiation Chronicles IV: Crash
Yesterday I was in an out of my treatment in record time. Everything seemed to be going great for me. Today I'm having my fourth treatment and already my left leg is experiencing significant pain. It's a painful throbbing that just won't go away. No repositioning of the leg was comfortable for long. My sleep the previous night was constantly interrupted by my incessant moving and leg irritation. I woke up before dawn, exhausted. I hoped I would be able to remain still for my treatment.
Mercifully this treatment, like the day prior, was brief. As I walked out of the treatment room through the Cancer Clinic I recalled the words of my Radiation Oncologist and nurse just two days before: that the pain would increase as the treatment took effect. It appears they were correct.
After treatment it was normal for me to return to work. I had a miserable day because of my leg. The pain never went away, never subsided. No position standing or sitting was comfortable. Ibuprofen, which up to now had relieved my pain, simply had no effect. By 4:00PM, exhausted and with little accomplished at work, I gave up and left for home. My only goal now was to fill my prescription that the Oncologist had given me on Tuesday. I hoped it would be enough.
I rode my bike from work to home. Formerly biking was an activity that I enjoyed because it was relatively pain free. Cruelly my disease was claiming even this cherished activity from me. My ride home was short, less than ten minutes, but I was crying by the time I arrived at my house, worn out by the battle raging in my shin. Yet I still needed my prescription filled. The tears I could brush away, the pain I endured as best as I could. I would ride another ten minutes to the pharmacy and submit my prescription. While the pharmacist filled my prescription, I sat nearby, letting the tears flow, head down, wondering if my days would remain like this. My name is being called, my pharmacist has my prescription ready. As I pay my share of it, the pharmacist comments that I don't get a lot of pain meds.
I leave the pharmacy but need to make one more stop. I had forgotten to pick up something for my techs at the Cancer Clinic. A small token to show that we patients are grateful for the care and quality of treatment administered. Finally I arrive home, and my pain meds - Tylenol-3's - advised 1-2 tablets every few hours as needed. I start with one for now.
This pain is nowhere near as acute as what I felt when I had kidney stones some years back. Yet it was enough to exhaust me physically and drain all my energies. As I lay on the couch, the pill gradually took effect, dulling my perception enough that I could fall into an exhausted sleep that my body and mind so desperately needed. The meds were working.
Mercifully this treatment, like the day prior, was brief. As I walked out of the treatment room through the Cancer Clinic I recalled the words of my Radiation Oncologist and nurse just two days before: that the pain would increase as the treatment took effect. It appears they were correct.
After treatment it was normal for me to return to work. I had a miserable day because of my leg. The pain never went away, never subsided. No position standing or sitting was comfortable. Ibuprofen, which up to now had relieved my pain, simply had no effect. By 4:00PM, exhausted and with little accomplished at work, I gave up and left for home. My only goal now was to fill my prescription that the Oncologist had given me on Tuesday. I hoped it would be enough.
I rode my bike from work to home. Formerly biking was an activity that I enjoyed because it was relatively pain free. Cruelly my disease was claiming even this cherished activity from me. My ride home was short, less than ten minutes, but I was crying by the time I arrived at my house, worn out by the battle raging in my shin. Yet I still needed my prescription filled. The tears I could brush away, the pain I endured as best as I could. I would ride another ten minutes to the pharmacy and submit my prescription. While the pharmacist filled my prescription, I sat nearby, letting the tears flow, head down, wondering if my days would remain like this. My name is being called, my pharmacist has my prescription ready. As I pay my share of it, the pharmacist comments that I don't get a lot of pain meds.
I leave the pharmacy but need to make one more stop. I had forgotten to pick up something for my techs at the Cancer Clinic. A small token to show that we patients are grateful for the care and quality of treatment administered. Finally I arrive home, and my pain meds - Tylenol-3's - advised 1-2 tablets every few hours as needed. I start with one for now.
This pain is nowhere near as acute as what I felt when I had kidney stones some years back. Yet it was enough to exhaust me physically and drain all my energies. As I lay on the couch, the pill gradually took effect, dulling my perception enough that I could fall into an exhausted sleep that my body and mind so desperately needed. The meds were working.
Thursday, August 6, 2015
The Radiation Chronicles: Treatment Three-Fastest. Treatment. Ever
It's a sunny June morning, with the rich blue sky that has no hint of humidity. The day is more Spring than Summer, and should truly be enjoyed. I however am inside a cancer clinic waiting area, ready for my third round of radiation treatment. Before I can even get my Samsung media player online, a friendly tech is calling my name. Treatment is about to start.
By now I have an established routine before getting on the table: I divest my pockets of all items: keys, wallet, electronic devices and loose change. My shoes are off and my left sock is removed. Once that task is accomplished, I can lay on the table, where my feet are placed into the plastic holders. The pillows prop up my head, but my legs being slightly raised cause some aches in the back of my knees. One of the techs was with me on my first treatment on Monday and remembers me. I feel embarrassed as I never quite remember any of their names.
Positioning my leg went remarkably fast. Even the process of treatment seemed to go quick. I supposed I might have been daydreaming, as my sense of time passing simply wasn't registering. It seemed like only moments from when the techs departed the room to returning again. I felt good and perhaps because the fine weather, there was an optimism that I hadn't had for a long while. I decided I should treat myself to a little reward.
Steimar Bakery is a local institution, know for fine breads and superb pastries. My return to work would see us stop there for a treat. I felt so good I even ordered a coffee, something I had almost never had in the past year. Blueberry Danish and coffee. Sunshine and blue skies. The aroma of freshly-baked bread. The richness of this experience was not simply because I have cancer, but that I took the time to appreciate the moment for what it was -something I simply enjoyed for it's own sake.
Today I was in good spirits, my treatment is half over, and things seemed to be going great. That would change by tomorrow, as I would experience a complete 180 degree reversal of emotions.
By now I have an established routine before getting on the table: I divest my pockets of all items: keys, wallet, electronic devices and loose change. My shoes are off and my left sock is removed. Once that task is accomplished, I can lay on the table, where my feet are placed into the plastic holders. The pillows prop up my head, but my legs being slightly raised cause some aches in the back of my knees. One of the techs was with me on my first treatment on Monday and remembers me. I feel embarrassed as I never quite remember any of their names.
Positioning my leg went remarkably fast. Even the process of treatment seemed to go quick. I supposed I might have been daydreaming, as my sense of time passing simply wasn't registering. It seemed like only moments from when the techs departed the room to returning again. I felt good and perhaps because the fine weather, there was an optimism that I hadn't had for a long while. I decided I should treat myself to a little reward.
Steimar Bakery is a local institution, know for fine breads and superb pastries. My return to work would see us stop there for a treat. I felt so good I even ordered a coffee, something I had almost never had in the past year. Blueberry Danish and coffee. Sunshine and blue skies. The aroma of freshly-baked bread. The richness of this experience was not simply because I have cancer, but that I took the time to appreciate the moment for what it was -something I simply enjoyed for it's own sake.
Today I was in good spirits, my treatment is half over, and things seemed to be going great. That would change by tomorrow, as I would experience a complete 180 degree reversal of emotions.
Saturday, August 1, 2015
The Radiation Chronices: Second Treatment
All my treatments save today's ( Tuesday June 23rd), were scheduled for 8:30AM. Because I was to meet with my Radiation Oncologist, this treatment was scheduled for 1:30PM. Which was extremely fortunate, as I would have missed it if was earlier.
Monday had been an energy-expending day for me, and I crashed that night into an exhausted sleep. So tired was I that the thunderstorm that rolled through before dawn didn't wake me. It did however interrupt the power, and that caused my clock radio to reset. Which allowed me to sleep in. It wasn't until nearly 9:00AM that I awoke. Since all my appointments that week save today's were for 8:30AM, I guess I was fortunate for the later treatment time.
Having reset my alarm clock I was able to attend my next treatment in a somewhat more leisurely manner. As I was no longer a "Treatment Newby", my registration at the Radiation Registration desk was perfunctory, and I wandered down to the assigned Patient Waiting Room. I know what to expect now, so I'm pretty comfortable with the process. Today however I have different techs than last time, and it was interesting to see how they approached the set up for aligning my leg for treatment.
There was a bit more jockeying of my leg to position it 'just so', and the longer they fiddled with the setup, the more the back of knees ached. I guess I should stretch before I do this next time. Once the techs are satisfied they return to the safety of the control room behind me and the treatment commences. Once more the table raises, and the treatment machine does it's eerie slow-motion traversal around my leg. I have this fleeting vision that I've seen this on an X-files episode before. Hopefully it's not a repressed memory!
As before, the process completion is indicated by the return of the techs, and the lowering of the table back to 'ground zero'. As it seems to happen more often, my getting up from a prone position on my back involves a bit of gymnastic maneuvering and the occasional assistance from a friendly tech. My second treatment is over, and back I go to the Radiation Reception desk. Where I wait for my follow-up appointment with the oncologist.
It wasn't a very long wait, and I'm brought into the exam room. My nurse is going over her checklist and asking if I have any concerns or symptoms. So far nothing other than my sore leg which I've attributed to over-exertion from my "walking" attempts yesterday. The nurse exits, and the doctor enters, almost like a tag-team match.
Basically they're seeing if my leg, in particular the skin, is having any irritation or other reactions. I could expect a light sunburn effect in the next few days, or possibly some other irritation. But the main concern is my level of pain. Both the doctor and nurse have expressed concern that if I'm having pain to let them know immediately. Although I'm hesitant to become reliant on drugs, there's simply no value in suffering. Stoicism is overrated. So I have a prescription for Tylenol-3, and I resolve that I wouldn't fill the prescription until I needed them. If I knew what was going to happen in two more days I would have filled it immediately after leaving the Hospital!
However the doctor doesn't see any immediate issues with my leg, and won't need to follow up with me until October. Unless there's a problem, then I am to notify the Cancer Center immediately.
I'm feeling pretty confident about the treatment right now, and while it's not letting me walk in my usual way, the amount of distress seems to be getting less. Time will tell, and with only three more treatments remaining, I am told I will expect significant relief. Tomorrow I resume my 8:30AM appointment times. Hope I don't sleep in!
Monday had been an energy-expending day for me, and I crashed that night into an exhausted sleep. So tired was I that the thunderstorm that rolled through before dawn didn't wake me. It did however interrupt the power, and that caused my clock radio to reset. Which allowed me to sleep in. It wasn't until nearly 9:00AM that I awoke. Since all my appointments that week save today's were for 8:30AM, I guess I was fortunate for the later treatment time.
Having reset my alarm clock I was able to attend my next treatment in a somewhat more leisurely manner. As I was no longer a "Treatment Newby", my registration at the Radiation Registration desk was perfunctory, and I wandered down to the assigned Patient Waiting Room. I know what to expect now, so I'm pretty comfortable with the process. Today however I have different techs than last time, and it was interesting to see how they approached the set up for aligning my leg for treatment.
There was a bit more jockeying of my leg to position it 'just so', and the longer they fiddled with the setup, the more the back of knees ached. I guess I should stretch before I do this next time. Once the techs are satisfied they return to the safety of the control room behind me and the treatment commences. Once more the table raises, and the treatment machine does it's eerie slow-motion traversal around my leg. I have this fleeting vision that I've seen this on an X-files episode before. Hopefully it's not a repressed memory!
As before, the process completion is indicated by the return of the techs, and the lowering of the table back to 'ground zero'. As it seems to happen more often, my getting up from a prone position on my back involves a bit of gymnastic maneuvering and the occasional assistance from a friendly tech. My second treatment is over, and back I go to the Radiation Reception desk. Where I wait for my follow-up appointment with the oncologist.
It wasn't a very long wait, and I'm brought into the exam room. My nurse is going over her checklist and asking if I have any concerns or symptoms. So far nothing other than my sore leg which I've attributed to over-exertion from my "walking" attempts yesterday. The nurse exits, and the doctor enters, almost like a tag-team match.
Basically they're seeing if my leg, in particular the skin, is having any irritation or other reactions. I could expect a light sunburn effect in the next few days, or possibly some other irritation. But the main concern is my level of pain. Both the doctor and nurse have expressed concern that if I'm having pain to let them know immediately. Although I'm hesitant to become reliant on drugs, there's simply no value in suffering. Stoicism is overrated. So I have a prescription for Tylenol-3, and I resolve that I wouldn't fill the prescription until I needed them. If I knew what was going to happen in two more days I would have filled it immediately after leaving the Hospital!
However the doctor doesn't see any immediate issues with my leg, and won't need to follow up with me until October. Unless there's a problem, then I am to notify the Cancer Center immediately.
I'm feeling pretty confident about the treatment right now, and while it's not letting me walk in my usual way, the amount of distress seems to be getting less. Time will tell, and with only three more treatments remaining, I am told I will expect significant relief. Tomorrow I resume my 8:30AM appointment times. Hope I don't sleep in!
Thursday, July 30, 2015
The Radiation Chronicles
For one week in June my blog will be known as the 'Radiation Chronicles' to reflect the treatment I would be receiving. Treatment prescribed for the likely metastasis in my left shin. Because of the chronic pain, I couldn't sleep, I couldn't walk, and I couldn't concentrate. My personal and work life were suffering. Pain was now defining my life. Radiation offered hope to relieve that pain.
I had my initial consult with my Radiation Oncologist on Thursday June 11th. The day after I would undergo a CT simulation which would identify the extent of the radiation treatment. After finishing the approximately one hour mapping process, I was handed a green appointment card. My first treatment would start on Monday.
Sunday night and I'm not sleeping. My left leg is throbbing, the only position that brings any sort of relief is when I'm lying prone on my stomach, left leg stretched straight. I don't care that it's in my bones, I just want to sleep.
I arrive at the Cancer Centre well before my appointment time, going directly to the Radiation Registration desk just as they told me to last Friday. I present my green appointment card. The receptionist smiles and comments that I'm a "treatment newby". As I've never received radiation treatment before, the receptionist guides me to the waiting area for Radiation Therapy. I've never been in this part of the Cancer Centre. It seems empty, quieter than where I received chemo. Another patient arrives. He is older, and we exchange muted greetings. I wasn't up to conversation, but my companion was undeterred. However his one-sided conversation was marked by the anger he had towards his disease and how it changed his life. I could only wonder if I would feel similarly in the future.
My co-patient was soon called in for his treatment. Minutes later, a smiling young tech calls my name and leads me to the treatment room. A second tech joins us, and as this was my first treatment they took great care in making me feel comfortable. Patiently they explained that the procedure would be painless and wouldn't take long. My only job would be to simply lie still during the course of treatment. I could do that I thought. First first step was removing my shoes and the sock on my left foot. I had the forethought to wear shorts, so I didn't have remove my pants. No one needs to see that. Next I had to lie down on the table, and my feet were placed into plastic rests that slightly raised my heels off of the table. I was given a pillow for my head, and somewhat tentatively I asked for a second. I like my head propped up a bit, and the techs obliged my simple request. I was surprised by their next request: would I be more comfortable if they strapped me onto the table? It turns out that part of the process involves the table lifting to a height of approximately five feet!
The finicky part of the process was the alignment of my leg. The dots tattooed on my leg last Friday were used for this part. Satisfied that the stars, or at least my leg, was in alignment, the techs left the room to begin the process. Now the table I'm on is raised. I watch as the Varian radiation therapy machine slowly rotates around my leg. This machine is a large and imposing device, moving with a precision I find reassuring. I understand now why the table is raised: so the machine can deliver it's treatment from any angle. During my treatment there will be X-rays to ensure that the alignment is correct before the radiation is actually delivered. My only feeling during this time is the ache in my knees as I try to keep perfectly still. Perhaps because this is my first experience, the time seemed to pass slowly. Random thoughts: what if I have to sneeze, would they stop the procedure? I would later find out that if I was to sneeze then do so, just don't move, especially your arms. Fortunately during my treatment I never had to put that action to the test.
I realized the treatment was completed when the technicians return. My table was slowly lowered, and I have to be patient not to try to sit up too quickly. I had come through my first treatment without incident. With four more treatments remaining, I wondered how long it would be before I felt any improvement.
The rest of the day, perhaps feeling a confidence that I didn't really have, I walked, or rather, limped, a lot. The efforts I put forth attempting to walk "normally" would prove too much. That night exhaustion caught up with me, despite the pain in my shin. Tomorrow I would receive my second treatment, and interestingly, meet with the Radiation Oncologist for a follow up.
I had my initial consult with my Radiation Oncologist on Thursday June 11th. The day after I would undergo a CT simulation which would identify the extent of the radiation treatment. After finishing the approximately one hour mapping process, I was handed a green appointment card. My first treatment would start on Monday.
Sunday night and I'm not sleeping. My left leg is throbbing, the only position that brings any sort of relief is when I'm lying prone on my stomach, left leg stretched straight. I don't care that it's in my bones, I just want to sleep.
I arrive at the Cancer Centre well before my appointment time, going directly to the Radiation Registration desk just as they told me to last Friday. I present my green appointment card. The receptionist smiles and comments that I'm a "treatment newby". As I've never received radiation treatment before, the receptionist guides me to the waiting area for Radiation Therapy. I've never been in this part of the Cancer Centre. It seems empty, quieter than where I received chemo. Another patient arrives. He is older, and we exchange muted greetings. I wasn't up to conversation, but my companion was undeterred. However his one-sided conversation was marked by the anger he had towards his disease and how it changed his life. I could only wonder if I would feel similarly in the future.
My co-patient was soon called in for his treatment. Minutes later, a smiling young tech calls my name and leads me to the treatment room. A second tech joins us, and as this was my first treatment they took great care in making me feel comfortable. Patiently they explained that the procedure would be painless and wouldn't take long. My only job would be to simply lie still during the course of treatment. I could do that I thought. First first step was removing my shoes and the sock on my left foot. I had the forethought to wear shorts, so I didn't have remove my pants. No one needs to see that. Next I had to lie down on the table, and my feet were placed into plastic rests that slightly raised my heels off of the table. I was given a pillow for my head, and somewhat tentatively I asked for a second. I like my head propped up a bit, and the techs obliged my simple request. I was surprised by their next request: would I be more comfortable if they strapped me onto the table? It turns out that part of the process involves the table lifting to a height of approximately five feet!
The finicky part of the process was the alignment of my leg. The dots tattooed on my leg last Friday were used for this part. Satisfied that the stars, or at least my leg, was in alignment, the techs left the room to begin the process. Now the table I'm on is raised. I watch as the Varian radiation therapy machine slowly rotates around my leg. This machine is a large and imposing device, moving with a precision I find reassuring. I understand now why the table is raised: so the machine can deliver it's treatment from any angle. During my treatment there will be X-rays to ensure that the alignment is correct before the radiation is actually delivered. My only feeling during this time is the ache in my knees as I try to keep perfectly still. Perhaps because this is my first experience, the time seemed to pass slowly. Random thoughts: what if I have to sneeze, would they stop the procedure? I would later find out that if I was to sneeze then do so, just don't move, especially your arms. Fortunately during my treatment I never had to put that action to the test.
I realized the treatment was completed when the technicians return. My table was slowly lowered, and I have to be patient not to try to sit up too quickly. I had come through my first treatment without incident. With four more treatments remaining, I wondered how long it would be before I felt any improvement.
The rest of the day, perhaps feeling a confidence that I didn't really have, I walked, or rather, limped, a lot. The efforts I put forth attempting to walk "normally" would prove too much. That night exhaustion caught up with me, despite the pain in my shin. Tomorrow I would receive my second treatment, and interestingly, meet with the Radiation Oncologist for a follow up.
Monday, July 6, 2015
Lung Biopsy
On June 18th, 2015 I had my first, and likely my last, lung biopsy. The reason for this procedure was to obtain samples of the mass in my lungs and lymph nodes. By having these samples analyzed, it can be determined exactly what type of cancer I have. This means a day surgery procedure, and, more importantly, the joy of experiencing another tube inserted into another orifice.
As a veteran of several day surgery procedures, I know the process well: show up early at the Hospital and register at the Admitting department. Take your paperwork up the Day Surgery floor, and wait for your name to be called . So that's what I did on June 18th, arriving about 40 minutes early for my 1PM appointment. I waited patiently until I was seen by the clerk, discovering only then that I was pre-registered. My paperwork was already waiting at the Day Surgery site on the fourth floor.
Upon arriving on the Day Surgery floor, I confirmed my appointment and was asked to take a seat, being informed that I would be seen shortly. Good thing I had done all that 'practice waiting' earlier today. Soon enough a nurse arrives to bring in me into the preparation room. It's cold and I'm expecting the usual process of having to disrobe entirely and change into a hospital gown. While I would eventually wear the "Johnny Shirt", I would be able to keep everything on but my shoes and shirt. I was thankful for this, as it was cold in the room. My problematic left leg hurt as I'm not comfortable laying on my back. The nurse is looking at my hand, seeking a suitable vein for the IV. I have good hands for that apparently, yet the first shot misses. Second attempt is higher in my arm, near the crook of my elbow. I prefer that anyways. This attempt succeeds. I will wear the usual souvenir bandages and tape when I leave. More waiting, then my nurse is replaced by the anesthesiologist.
The nice anesthesiologist patiently explains the process of what they need to do to me. This consists of numbing my tongue, throat, mouth and voice box. I will receive a 'twilight sedation' via the IV, and will likely be conscious during the procedure. What she didn't tell me is that the administration of the anesthesia is accomplished by dabbing the above-mentioned parts with an anesthesia-soaked swab on the end of a stick. The first part began easily enough, with an Ativan pill placed under my tongue. Once that was dissolved, the anesthesia application began in earnest.
My job is to open my mouth and stick out my tongue. Repeatedly. Initial applications are easy, the mouth and tongue are swabbed, and you are encouraged to swallow, as this will help numb your throat. Things get a bit more challenging the further down your throat, and that's where the gag reflex kicks in. You never actually choke, it's a natural reflex that most of us can't (or won't) override. I was able to test my gag reflex several times during this process. Each time I'd gag, my anesthetist told me what a great job I was doing, and waited for me to regain my composure. I would take another breath, open my mouth and stick out my tongue. We repeated this activity numerous times, and yes, it did get easier, mostly because she stopped doing it.
I don't recall if I felt particular numb, but the doctor and staff were satisfied I was ready. By now I've got numerous EKG monitoring wires stuck on my chest; those will be fun to remove. I was repeatedly asked if I was on blood thinners or aspirin. I was also asked if I had any allergies. Next I was given a bite guard, so I wouldn't chomp down on the scope tube that would be threaded down my throat. Finally my eyes were covered up, and the procedure began.
A sensation of something moving down my throat was my only indication that the tube was being inserted. This feeling only lasted for a few moments however. I wouldn't remember when it was removed, yet I believed I was conscious during most of the procedure. I would hear conversations, the occasional "he needs more...". I can't talk, but I can make hand gestures: thumbs up or down if needed. There wasn't anything requiring my input, and I tried to drift off. Rather, I hoped I'd drift off, I hadn't been sleeping well for a very long time, and was hoping I'd be right out. No such luck. My time sense of course wasn't very accurate, I can't tell how long the procedure lasted. It didn't seem very long. More importantly, I didn't feel a thing.
I'm aware that the procedure is done, and things have gone well. My bed and I are moved back to a recovery room. I feel fine. I'll be observed for about an hour, and then my gag reflex will be tested. They way they do this is have you sip some water. If you can drink without gagging, it's a good thing. Those initial sips were quickly followed by substantially more water; I hadn't had anything to eat or drink in over 12 hours now, and I was thirsty!
Upon discharge I was reminded that there might be some coughed-up blood and a raw feeling in my throat. Fortunately none of these symptoms presented, and over the next few hours I was able to eat and drink without concern. Now all I had to do was wait another 11 days for the results. Of course as I was getting dressed I discovered the leftover EKG sensors stuck on me like leeches. Pulling each sensor off also yanked a fair bit of body hair with it. The most painful process of this whole thing always seems to come down to tape and hair.
My biopsy results would be read to me on the 29th, eleven days from my procedure date. I didn't feel worried about the biopsy results, I know I have cancer. I just wanted to be comfortable. When I saw the Lung doc, it was rather anticlimactic. Our conversation lasted about five minutes, where he confirmed I had cancer and that it was derived from the instance in my colon. Upon leaving his office, the doctor told me he was glad to have met me, and for some reason, that made me feel sad. At home that night I dutifully informed my friends and family about the results. It seems that everyone wants to believe that there's a microscopic chance that the biopsy would show something else. I feel like I'm letting them all down when there's no good news.
It's getting difficult to keep emotions in check, to keep motivated, to want to live my life in my usual fashion. I know that this feeling will eventually fade and I'll adopt a new perspective. It's slowly dawning on me that I don't have to maintain an air of strength for myself or others. I just have to be strong enough to do what I want, when I want. Finding ways to be comfortable and happy are hard enough when you're healthy, so when you're sick, you should simply enjoy those peaceful and happy times as you can.
As a veteran of several day surgery procedures, I know the process well: show up early at the Hospital and register at the Admitting department. Take your paperwork up the Day Surgery floor, and wait for your name to be called . So that's what I did on June 18th, arriving about 40 minutes early for my 1PM appointment. I waited patiently until I was seen by the clerk, discovering only then that I was pre-registered. My paperwork was already waiting at the Day Surgery site on the fourth floor.
Upon arriving on the Day Surgery floor, I confirmed my appointment and was asked to take a seat, being informed that I would be seen shortly. Good thing I had done all that 'practice waiting' earlier today. Soon enough a nurse arrives to bring in me into the preparation room. It's cold and I'm expecting the usual process of having to disrobe entirely and change into a hospital gown. While I would eventually wear the "Johnny Shirt", I would be able to keep everything on but my shoes and shirt. I was thankful for this, as it was cold in the room. My problematic left leg hurt as I'm not comfortable laying on my back. The nurse is looking at my hand, seeking a suitable vein for the IV. I have good hands for that apparently, yet the first shot misses. Second attempt is higher in my arm, near the crook of my elbow. I prefer that anyways. This attempt succeeds. I will wear the usual souvenir bandages and tape when I leave. More waiting, then my nurse is replaced by the anesthesiologist.
The nice anesthesiologist patiently explains the process of what they need to do to me. This consists of numbing my tongue, throat, mouth and voice box. I will receive a 'twilight sedation' via the IV, and will likely be conscious during the procedure. What she didn't tell me is that the administration of the anesthesia is accomplished by dabbing the above-mentioned parts with an anesthesia-soaked swab on the end of a stick. The first part began easily enough, with an Ativan pill placed under my tongue. Once that was dissolved, the anesthesia application began in earnest.
My job is to open my mouth and stick out my tongue. Repeatedly. Initial applications are easy, the mouth and tongue are swabbed, and you are encouraged to swallow, as this will help numb your throat. Things get a bit more challenging the further down your throat, and that's where the gag reflex kicks in. You never actually choke, it's a natural reflex that most of us can't (or won't) override. I was able to test my gag reflex several times during this process. Each time I'd gag, my anesthetist told me what a great job I was doing, and waited for me to regain my composure. I would take another breath, open my mouth and stick out my tongue. We repeated this activity numerous times, and yes, it did get easier, mostly because she stopped doing it.
I don't recall if I felt particular numb, but the doctor and staff were satisfied I was ready. By now I've got numerous EKG monitoring wires stuck on my chest; those will be fun to remove. I was repeatedly asked if I was on blood thinners or aspirin. I was also asked if I had any allergies. Next I was given a bite guard, so I wouldn't chomp down on the scope tube that would be threaded down my throat. Finally my eyes were covered up, and the procedure began.
A sensation of something moving down my throat was my only indication that the tube was being inserted. This feeling only lasted for a few moments however. I wouldn't remember when it was removed, yet I believed I was conscious during most of the procedure. I would hear conversations, the occasional "he needs more...". I can't talk, but I can make hand gestures: thumbs up or down if needed. There wasn't anything requiring my input, and I tried to drift off. Rather, I hoped I'd drift off, I hadn't been sleeping well for a very long time, and was hoping I'd be right out. No such luck. My time sense of course wasn't very accurate, I can't tell how long the procedure lasted. It didn't seem very long. More importantly, I didn't feel a thing.
I'm aware that the procedure is done, and things have gone well. My bed and I are moved back to a recovery room. I feel fine. I'll be observed for about an hour, and then my gag reflex will be tested. They way they do this is have you sip some water. If you can drink without gagging, it's a good thing. Those initial sips were quickly followed by substantially more water; I hadn't had anything to eat or drink in over 12 hours now, and I was thirsty!
Upon discharge I was reminded that there might be some coughed-up blood and a raw feeling in my throat. Fortunately none of these symptoms presented, and over the next few hours I was able to eat and drink without concern. Now all I had to do was wait another 11 days for the results. Of course as I was getting dressed I discovered the leftover EKG sensors stuck on me like leeches. Pulling each sensor off also yanked a fair bit of body hair with it. The most painful process of this whole thing always seems to come down to tape and hair.
My biopsy results would be read to me on the 29th, eleven days from my procedure date. I didn't feel worried about the biopsy results, I know I have cancer. I just wanted to be comfortable. When I saw the Lung doc, it was rather anticlimactic. Our conversation lasted about five minutes, where he confirmed I had cancer and that it was derived from the instance in my colon. Upon leaving his office, the doctor told me he was glad to have met me, and for some reason, that made me feel sad. At home that night I dutifully informed my friends and family about the results. It seems that everyone wants to believe that there's a microscopic chance that the biopsy would show something else. I feel like I'm letting them all down when there's no good news.
It's getting difficult to keep emotions in check, to keep motivated, to want to live my life in my usual fashion. I know that this feeling will eventually fade and I'll adopt a new perspective. It's slowly dawning on me that I don't have to maintain an air of strength for myself or others. I just have to be strong enough to do what I want, when I want. Finding ways to be comfortable and happy are hard enough when you're healthy, so when you're sick, you should simply enjoy those peaceful and happy times as you can.
Friday, June 12, 2015
A whole week between CT scans
My damn left shin is a pain. Specifically it's a pain if I walk, or sit, or sleep. It seems I can't get any long-term relief. It's not an agonizing pain but it's annoying and for a while I thought it might be getting better. Wishful thinking perhaps, but I found I simply wasn't comfortable, unable to sleep soundly, or walk, or worst of all, just not knowing what it was.
Over a month ago I had a Bone Scan, which showed suspicious activity and signaled alarms that Paget's Disease or Metastasis was the cause. I was scared, and made an immediate follow-up appointment with the family doctor who had ordered the tests. While the Bone Scan screamed cancer, the X-ray said no evidence. I felt relieved and even happy for a while. Perhaps I had damaged my bone with some sort of physical trauma. But the pain wouldn't subside for any period of time. It wasn't horribly bad, it was just there. Annoying and unpredictable. However my work and life quality were suffering. I couldn't think or concentrate for prolonged periods. I brought this up with my Oncologist, who upon examining my shin said it was probably a metastasis, eating away at the bone. Great, now I'm a cancer chew-toy.
To confirm this I would have another CT scan. Within two days of my visit to the Oncologist, I was scheduled for a late-evening CT of my left leg. No preparation needed to be imbibed, no IV for contrast injections, just slide me into the CT and dose me with a whack of radiation. While my oncologist indicated that colon cancer patients presenting with bone metastasis were rare, it was not unheard of. Even so, as a precaution I would have a consult with a Radiation Oncologist. The consult would take place exactly one week after my recent CT of my left leg.
Thursday morning, June 11th and I'm at the Windsor Regional Cancer Centre. However since this is to visit a Radiation Oncologist, I'm meeting in a different venue than where I've gone for the past five years. While it's a new office with new people, some things don't change: like the boring, repetitious recitation of my medical history, my list of prescription meds and other minor trivia (like, what's bothering me now...) (Remind me to invent the app that lets patients and physicians update their medical databases per every visit. ) Administrative work completed, now I would meet the Doctor, and finally have the shin pain mystery solved.
I knew it was cancer. I've known since before the Bone Scan. Call it denial, but I like to think that I was now ready to hear the news. I didn't get upset, or insist on bone biopsies (ugh) or any further tests. I wanted to move forward to the next phase: Radiation Therapy. It was again stressed that this is strictly palliative. Some folks equate 'palliative' with 'imminent death'. I believe that it's going to help me feel better, and frankly that's all I want. My outlook on life is now looking towards the immediate future: This week. Tomorrow. Today. While the treatment itself is quite easy and quick, there were some preliminaries, and it would begin the very next day, with another CT scan.
This CT scan is a simulation, designed to set up the guide posts for the real treatment process. The way they do this is with precision scanning of the affected area and using alignment dots tattooed on your skin. In other words, I just got some rad, wicked, ink. Dude.
My treatments are expected to start within two weeks, so hopefully by the end of June. The treatment itself apparently takes only ten minutes, and is repeated for five days. So they'll start on a Monday and by Friday I'll be done. I'm told there will be some initial discomfort -basically I'm getting a daily dose of sunburn. For relief, apparently Hydrocortisone cream will be prescribed.. It can't be any worse than what I'm going through now. (Actually there's a suspicious spot on my right knee that will need further investigation.)
So I've had a seven-day stretch between CT scans and now all I can do is wait for my treatment. I'm sure it'll be a blast!
Over a month ago I had a Bone Scan, which showed suspicious activity and signaled alarms that Paget's Disease or Metastasis was the cause. I was scared, and made an immediate follow-up appointment with the family doctor who had ordered the tests. While the Bone Scan screamed cancer, the X-ray said no evidence. I felt relieved and even happy for a while. Perhaps I had damaged my bone with some sort of physical trauma. But the pain wouldn't subside for any period of time. It wasn't horribly bad, it was just there. Annoying and unpredictable. However my work and life quality were suffering. I couldn't think or concentrate for prolonged periods. I brought this up with my Oncologist, who upon examining my shin said it was probably a metastasis, eating away at the bone. Great, now I'm a cancer chew-toy.
To confirm this I would have another CT scan. Within two days of my visit to the Oncologist, I was scheduled for a late-evening CT of my left leg. No preparation needed to be imbibed, no IV for contrast injections, just slide me into the CT and dose me with a whack of radiation. While my oncologist indicated that colon cancer patients presenting with bone metastasis were rare, it was not unheard of. Even so, as a precaution I would have a consult with a Radiation Oncologist. The consult would take place exactly one week after my recent CT of my left leg.
Thursday morning, June 11th and I'm at the Windsor Regional Cancer Centre. However since this is to visit a Radiation Oncologist, I'm meeting in a different venue than where I've gone for the past five years. While it's a new office with new people, some things don't change: like the boring, repetitious recitation of my medical history, my list of prescription meds and other minor trivia (like, what's bothering me now...) (Remind me to invent the app that lets patients and physicians update their medical databases per every visit. ) Administrative work completed, now I would meet the Doctor, and finally have the shin pain mystery solved.
I knew it was cancer. I've known since before the Bone Scan. Call it denial, but I like to think that I was now ready to hear the news. I didn't get upset, or insist on bone biopsies (ugh) or any further tests. I wanted to move forward to the next phase: Radiation Therapy. It was again stressed that this is strictly palliative. Some folks equate 'palliative' with 'imminent death'. I believe that it's going to help me feel better, and frankly that's all I want. My outlook on life is now looking towards the immediate future: This week. Tomorrow. Today. While the treatment itself is quite easy and quick, there were some preliminaries, and it would begin the very next day, with another CT scan.
This CT scan is a simulation, designed to set up the guide posts for the real treatment process. The way they do this is with precision scanning of the affected area and using alignment dots tattooed on your skin. In other words, I just got some rad, wicked, ink. Dude.
My treatments are expected to start within two weeks, so hopefully by the end of June. The treatment itself apparently takes only ten minutes, and is repeated for five days. So they'll start on a Monday and by Friday I'll be done. I'm told there will be some initial discomfort -basically I'm getting a daily dose of sunburn. For relief, apparently Hydrocortisone cream will be prescribed.. It can't be any worse than what I'm going through now. (Actually there's a suspicious spot on my right knee that will need further investigation.)
So I've had a seven-day stretch between CT scans and now all I can do is wait for my treatment. I'm sure it'll be a blast!
Thursday, June 11, 2015
Hard Questions, Tougher Answers
April is the month of Daffodils, the yellow flower that symbolizes the fight against cancer. For me however, April is forever linked with either being informed I have cancer, or receiving treatment for it. April is not my favourite month. My latest news that I had cancer in my lung was, to put it mildly, a complete shock. No matter how often I'd consider the possibility of recurrence, I never imagined I wouldn't be able to escape one more time. For a time I would dwell in sorrow and despair, and that, for me, is the worst aspect of enduring this disease.
I made another appointment with my Oncologist, I had to ask the tough questions and fully comprehend the answers. The first question: How long do I have? The question everyone wants to know but dreads the answer. "A couple of years" is what I might have. There is no absolute measure. I take that as a guide, knowing that the time is dependent on how well chemo holds the cancer at bay, and hope that there will be no further metastasis. It is a grim number, but one I'll work with.
There is one other question I ask because it is asked of me: Why don't I start chemo now? A good question, because it seems logical you would want treatment before the cancer grows further. As it was explained to me, and I accept it as such: chemo won't make me feel any better right now. Right now I'm breathing fine, I'm active, I'm capable doing normal everyday activities. I can ride my bike just fine. I have energy. Whacking me with chemo will reduce my vitality without any apparent gain - no symptoms presenting, so no way to see if I'm getting better. Plus there's a catch: what kind of cancer do I have anyways?
My original diagnosis years ago was Colon cancer. The progress of Colon cancer is through the liver and lungs. Chemo treatments are targeted to specific cancers: if it's a metastasis of the colon but presenting in the lungs, you use a chemo for colon cancer. If it's a new primary, I'll need a different chemo. To determine what kind I have however, I'll need a lung biopsy.
For the lung biopsy I would meet another new doctor. My lung specialist had me do a breathing test first, I suppose to establish a baseline. This test consists of being put inside a small plexiglass box and breathing though a tube approximately the size of a car tailpipe. A clip is placed on your nose so you don't accidentally inhale through that orifice as well. The test doesn't take long, but it is repetitive. I huffed and I puffed, doing my best Big Bad Wolf impression, and within twenty minutes or so I was done. My next appointment would be with the lung doctor himself, to review my test results.
Fortunately I didn't have long to wait -the very next day in fact. I met with my doctor and he seemed to think I was breathing satisfactorily, no wheezing, coughing up blood or other issues of respiratory distress. Then he showed my my CT scan. Despite having had numerous scans myself, I've never actually seen the resultant images. Today I would see the 3D tour of my lungs. My right lung looked, well, lung-like. My Left sort of seemed to be two smaller lungs jammed together, a narrowing that looked like someone was trying to make a balloon animal. That's where the cancer lived: in the upper quadrant of my left lung. Apparently there were various lymph nodes, around my chest that might be suspect too. But the one item that was terrorizing my life was apparently encroaching one of the airways to my lung. That was discouraging. Now we needed to find out what kind of cancer I have. For that a Bronchoscopy and a biopsy will be needed.
So Thursday June 18th, I'll be at the local hospital for another day procedure, with another tube being pushed into another orifice. Who wouldn't want to look forward to that?!
Saturday, May 9, 2015
Shadows revealed
Wed May 6th, 2015, and I'm sitting in the exam room at the Cancer Centre, waiting for my oncologist once again. It's a routine experience, but there's been an underlying disquiet during my recent visits that something was not right. My most recent CT scan was three weeks prior, and I had blood work earlier this morning. My doctor has arrived, and after the preliminaries, the news I didn't think I would hear for some time has rendered me shocked and helpless once more.
Shadows in my lung are indeed cancer. Cancer that has grown since January to the point where it is not considered viable for surgery. The emphasis, gently expressed by my oncologist, is that chemo is not a cure. I am stunned, unable to think coherently. For all my years as partner in this deadly dance with cancer, I have never stumbled. Now the balance has shifted, and I am being inexorably pulled into the vortex where my only options are to hang on for the ride, as I don't think I'll escape.
As it happened to me over five years ago, I'm only dimly hearing my doctor telling me about my treatment options. I can feel the sadness well up, my throat cracking as I ask questions I forget, then hearing answers I can't remember. I have another appointment card being handed to me, the session is over. On autopilot alone I keep my composure. We leave the cancer center, but stop at a nearby park. Tears are the only way I know how to express myself. When I return to work, the conversation with my manager an echo of the one five years prior.
The toughest conversation is at home later that night, when I call my sister. It breaks my heart to hear her voice, full of shock and anger at what I will be going through yet again. I have no answer for her why this keeps happening to me. That night, exhausted, I'm in bed by 10:30pm, but sleep is filled with tears and despair. I awake at 5:00am, for I still have another test: a Bone Scan for my shin.
I've done two bone scans already in my life, and they've shown that I'm shot through with arthritis. This one is to find out why my shin is in so much pain. The doctors and physiotherapist agree it's not a shin split. The chronic pain of the past few months has abated however, and I'm walking much better. I wonder if I've been walking on a fractured bone all this time.
The technician reviews my medical history, and I matter-of-factly mention the latest findings of cancer in my lungs. It seems so surreal now, lying on this platform, hands and feet strapped in so you don't move during the procedure. The scan is in multiple parts, and I receive a mild radioactive injection. For the bulk of the test I am required to lie on my back, motionless, for the better part of an hour. Curiously I feel relaxed, and if I didn't fall into a deep sleep, I felt..better.
After the scan I'm taken for more X-rays of my shin. By noon I'm done and the rest of the day is mine, as I have no desire to return to work. Still dealing with the aftermath of yesterday, I resolve to contact the cancer clinic to meet with the oncologist again: I need hard answers, and this time I'm ready to hear them.
Shadows in my lung are indeed cancer. Cancer that has grown since January to the point where it is not considered viable for surgery. The emphasis, gently expressed by my oncologist, is that chemo is not a cure. I am stunned, unable to think coherently. For all my years as partner in this deadly dance with cancer, I have never stumbled. Now the balance has shifted, and I am being inexorably pulled into the vortex where my only options are to hang on for the ride, as I don't think I'll escape.
As it happened to me over five years ago, I'm only dimly hearing my doctor telling me about my treatment options. I can feel the sadness well up, my throat cracking as I ask questions I forget, then hearing answers I can't remember. I have another appointment card being handed to me, the session is over. On autopilot alone I keep my composure. We leave the cancer center, but stop at a nearby park. Tears are the only way I know how to express myself. When I return to work, the conversation with my manager an echo of the one five years prior.
The toughest conversation is at home later that night, when I call my sister. It breaks my heart to hear her voice, full of shock and anger at what I will be going through yet again. I have no answer for her why this keeps happening to me. That night, exhausted, I'm in bed by 10:30pm, but sleep is filled with tears and despair. I awake at 5:00am, for I still have another test: a Bone Scan for my shin.
I've done two bone scans already in my life, and they've shown that I'm shot through with arthritis. This one is to find out why my shin is in so much pain. The doctors and physiotherapist agree it's not a shin split. The chronic pain of the past few months has abated however, and I'm walking much better. I wonder if I've been walking on a fractured bone all this time.
The technician reviews my medical history, and I matter-of-factly mention the latest findings of cancer in my lungs. It seems so surreal now, lying on this platform, hands and feet strapped in so you don't move during the procedure. The scan is in multiple parts, and I receive a mild radioactive injection. For the bulk of the test I am required to lie on my back, motionless, for the better part of an hour. Curiously I feel relaxed, and if I didn't fall into a deep sleep, I felt..better.
After the scan I'm taken for more X-rays of my shin. By noon I'm done and the rest of the day is mine, as I have no desire to return to work. Still dealing with the aftermath of yesterday, I resolve to contact the cancer clinic to meet with the oncologist again: I need hard answers, and this time I'm ready to hear them.
Sunday, May 3, 2015
Another day, another Colonoscopy
I've had the distinct pleasure of undergoing the Colonoscopy process four times in my life. Three of those times showed Cancer. It's been a year since my last surgery, time for a follow-up colonoscopy. Of course that can only mean one thing: The Prep.
Four previous colonscopies and two surgeries have removed any mystery or fears around the preparation process. The process itself is simple, as I follow the reduced-intake diet. This means soft foods three days before the procedure, full fluids two days before, and on the prep day itself, only clear liquids. As a result, I know I will be cold and tired and yes, at times, hungry. But these feelings only last for a little while. I'm weary of continually doing this process, but will keep doing it again as often as needed. Because it's absolutely necessary.
My procedure is scheduled for a Tuesday morning at 9:30AM. This is good, as I much prefer early morning than later afternoon. Early morning procedures mean the prep is essentially one day. My process however begins three days before, on the Saturday: Soft Food Day. On SFD I have scrambled eggs for breakfast (and sneak in a pancake). Supper is more scrambled eggs, and instant mashed potatoes. Cutting out fibre seems counter-intuitive, but the process works. Saturday was fine, save for the ongoing shin pain in my left leg. I can't have any aspirin or anything that would affect the prep or might be a bleeding risk, so I endure the throbbing. The most uncomfortable feeling during this latest procedure would be the shin pain; it made sleep difficult and walking painful. In a few weeks I would be limping whenever I walked, but for now, I just endured it and proceeded with the task at hand: not eating.
Sunday I'm on full fluids. This is actually the worst day in terms of hunger and eating, as there is a sharp decrease in my calorie intake, mostly because I'm eating plain vanilla Greek yogurt, milk, and cream soups (without crackers!). I don't particularly like creams soups for a couple of reasons. One, they're creamy, and just don't have the flavour and texture I enjoy. The other is that they are not pure cream soups: they have bits and pieces floating in them which must be removed. Suffice to say that I don't eat a lot of cream soups. I drink a lot of water, some ginger ale and green tea. I ignore any feelings of hunger, which do go away fairly quickly. I spend my evening watching a lot of TV and puttering around the house. Before I go to bed, I make Jello -green and yellow only, no red allowed!
I book Monday off of work, as this is prep day. It allows me to sleep in, and only do what I will need to do. So of course I can't sleep in. Instead, I decide to do yard work. I haven't done anything all Spring (not that we had much of a Spring so far), so naturally I spend the entire morning raking leaves and picking up sticks. In a little over an hour I'm exhausted. Moving inside the house I figure that a good sunny day requires a good sunny day activity: cleaning windows. That goes well but I'm feeling pretty weak and tired after this much manual labour. Physical work without nutrition is probably one of my sillier endeavors. However as I don't actually begin the prep until 3:00PM, I can't just sit around doing nothing or watch TV. Not yet at any rate.. I'm not hungry, at least for the choices offered: Broth, tea or coffee, and of course, Jello. Now I liked Jello as a kid. As an adult I'd make it on hot summer days and throw in a glob (or two, or three... ) of Ice Cream. After multiple go-rounds with the preparation process and hospital stays, I can honestly say that Jello is now firmly associated with some of the most unpleasant experiences in my life. Suffice to say, I only eat Jello when I'm undergoing the Prep. And this morning, I really don't feel like eating Jello for breakfast.
I drink a lot of water and green tea. I suck on hard candies (only green or yellow) for flavour. I tell myself that fasting is good for the soul (and waistline). The hard candies I am trying this time don't mix well with the green tea, and I find my palette has produced that annoying dry-mouth feeling that no amount of brushing seems to cleanse. A Halls cough-drop however has enough punch to remove the dry, slightly metallic after taste. But mostly my shin bothered me and I was uncomfortable sitting. Or standing. Or lying down to nap. My less-that-smart-choice this morning of doing yard work had aggravated my shin. I couldn't nap, and time passed slowly. Finally 3:00PM arrived, and I could finally start the preparation proper.
This preparation is called Purg Odan and it comes as three small packets that, when mixed with water, form the basis of the process. Every four hours I need to mix and drink one of these packets. They don't taste great, but they're not the worst thing I've ever consumed. During the process I drink lots of water. And ginger ale. And tea or coffee (I tried coffee again -instant though, and couldn't stand it. My taste buds are shot it seems) Also strongly recommended is to drink Gatorade to maintain electrolytes. The purge processes suck the liquid out of you and wash away electrolytes as well. The Gatorade I have is lemony-yellow. I would sip from it but found it difficult to drink. I found I had little desire to consume things other than water or the occasional green tea this time. I was tired and little energy to focus on highly technical activities, like changing the channel on the TV. And I still was bothered by my shin splints.
Within a few hours of taking the first packet ("sachet" is what the official packaging labels each packet) I was on my way to purge nirvana. At 7:00PM and 11:00PM I repeated the process. Having used other means to accomplish this task, I can say that the Purg Odan was no worse. In some ways it was better as I didn't feel so bloated after drinking 4 liters of the other stuff. But the end results were the same: drink some stuff, go the bathroom. Repeat.
Throughout the night the frequency and duration of the trips to the bathroom decreased. Yet it wasn't until 3:30AM when my bowels called a truce. I could finally sleep uninterrupted for a few hours.
Tuesday morning and I awoke early, and thirsty. I wouldn't be able to drink anything two hours before the exam. Which in my case meant by 7:30AM I was finished with consuming any fluids. A good thing, as any liquid taken in wants to go out by any available means it seems. At this point I'm essentially as cleaned out as I can be, and my weight is about 186lbs. I've lost about 7 pounds since the weekend. I'm tired and I'm cold, and I just want it be over. The time finally comes when I need to go to the clinic to have the last step performed.
My doctor's clinic has a remarkably large, very well lit, clean and modern looking waiting room. En suite bathrooms are there for those last minute emergencies. I arrived as instructed, 1/2 hour before my appointment time of 9:30. The registration is perfunctory, and my waiting time is minimal. I'm soon asked to go into the exam room. I'm on autopilot now, the familiar process plays out as it has so many times before: change into the standard johnny shirt, but you get to keep your socks on. "ProTip" -I wore my thickest warmest socks, as the single sheet you are given to cover you won't be warm enough. Everything is proceeding as it should, but my nurse informs me that there's a delay. However I'm still prepped with the IV, the only painful part of this whole process is the IV needle into my hand. My vitals are recorded, and once that's done I can rest. I'm somewhat tired but can't sleep. I'm surprisingly not thirsty or hungry. My shin pain is bothering me more than anything else. Time drags by and I realize I left my Samsung Galaxy player in the bag with all my clothes, so I can't even read or play a bad game of chess. Ten Thirty, I've been in this room for over an hour. Ten Fourty and it's now my turn. My bed and I are brought into the surgical suite. More waiting, then the anasthesiologist arrives. Some questions are asked: No I'm not a smoker - No allergies that I'm aware of save seasonal. I'm wired up to the various machines that record my vitals, then I'm left alone for a bit. During this time I play a game where I try to slow my breathing down to trigger the alarms on the machine that monitors my respiratory rates. I'm rewarded by little beeps as I get below 74, but only momentarily. It gives me something to do. At last my doctor arrives, now the real fun begins.
At this point my memory doesn't get hazy, it simply fails. There is no recollection what happened next. One minute I'm being asked to roll on my side, and then...nothing. My next conscious thought is the realization that I'm back in the first exam room. I have absolutely no idea what time it is. My nurse arrives and seeing that I'm awake, asks that all-important question: "Have you passed gas yet?". I answer in the affirmative. Without this vital action, I would not be allowed to go home. But the good news doesn't end there: my Colonscopy was clean! I had no issues with the previous surgical areas nor were there any polyps or concerns. What this meant to me is that I don't have to have another procedure for three more years!
I'm relieved and perhaps due to the medication I've received during my procedure, my shin isn't bothering me. It's noon on a sunny Tuesday, and I have a healthy colon. Life is balanced once more, time to celebrate. A small meal at a tiny restaurant just down the street from my doctor's office marks the extent of my celebration. I've learned the hard way not to indulge too much too fast after one of these procedures. However in a few days I'd be eating normally, with no adverse affects.
For the remainder of the day I simply rested, with numerous peaceful small naps. I didn't eat unless I felt hungry, and I only ate a little at at time. I drank more water, (but still couldn't finish the Gatorade). This time fortune had smiled upon me, and life is good. In three more years, we'll see if fortune begrudges me another pass to clean health.
Four previous colonscopies and two surgeries have removed any mystery or fears around the preparation process. The process itself is simple, as I follow the reduced-intake diet. This means soft foods three days before the procedure, full fluids two days before, and on the prep day itself, only clear liquids. As a result, I know I will be cold and tired and yes, at times, hungry. But these feelings only last for a little while. I'm weary of continually doing this process, but will keep doing it again as often as needed. Because it's absolutely necessary.
My procedure is scheduled for a Tuesday morning at 9:30AM. This is good, as I much prefer early morning than later afternoon. Early morning procedures mean the prep is essentially one day. My process however begins three days before, on the Saturday: Soft Food Day. On SFD I have scrambled eggs for breakfast (and sneak in a pancake). Supper is more scrambled eggs, and instant mashed potatoes. Cutting out fibre seems counter-intuitive, but the process works. Saturday was fine, save for the ongoing shin pain in my left leg. I can't have any aspirin or anything that would affect the prep or might be a bleeding risk, so I endure the throbbing. The most uncomfortable feeling during this latest procedure would be the shin pain; it made sleep difficult and walking painful. In a few weeks I would be limping whenever I walked, but for now, I just endured it and proceeded with the task at hand: not eating.
Sunday I'm on full fluids. This is actually the worst day in terms of hunger and eating, as there is a sharp decrease in my calorie intake, mostly because I'm eating plain vanilla Greek yogurt, milk, and cream soups (without crackers!). I don't particularly like creams soups for a couple of reasons. One, they're creamy, and just don't have the flavour and texture I enjoy. The other is that they are not pure cream soups: they have bits and pieces floating in them which must be removed. Suffice to say that I don't eat a lot of cream soups. I drink a lot of water, some ginger ale and green tea. I ignore any feelings of hunger, which do go away fairly quickly. I spend my evening watching a lot of TV and puttering around the house. Before I go to bed, I make Jello -green and yellow only, no red allowed!
I book Monday off of work, as this is prep day. It allows me to sleep in, and only do what I will need to do. So of course I can't sleep in. Instead, I decide to do yard work. I haven't done anything all Spring (not that we had much of a Spring so far), so naturally I spend the entire morning raking leaves and picking up sticks. In a little over an hour I'm exhausted. Moving inside the house I figure that a good sunny day requires a good sunny day activity: cleaning windows. That goes well but I'm feeling pretty weak and tired after this much manual labour. Physical work without nutrition is probably one of my sillier endeavors. However as I don't actually begin the prep until 3:00PM, I can't just sit around doing nothing or watch TV. Not yet at any rate.. I'm not hungry, at least for the choices offered: Broth, tea or coffee, and of course, Jello. Now I liked Jello as a kid. As an adult I'd make it on hot summer days and throw in a glob (or two, or three... ) of Ice Cream. After multiple go-rounds with the preparation process and hospital stays, I can honestly say that Jello is now firmly associated with some of the most unpleasant experiences in my life. Suffice to say, I only eat Jello when I'm undergoing the Prep. And this morning, I really don't feel like eating Jello for breakfast.
I drink a lot of water and green tea. I suck on hard candies (only green or yellow) for flavour. I tell myself that fasting is good for the soul (and waistline). The hard candies I am trying this time don't mix well with the green tea, and I find my palette has produced that annoying dry-mouth feeling that no amount of brushing seems to cleanse. A Halls cough-drop however has enough punch to remove the dry, slightly metallic after taste. But mostly my shin bothered me and I was uncomfortable sitting. Or standing. Or lying down to nap. My less-that-smart-choice this morning of doing yard work had aggravated my shin. I couldn't nap, and time passed slowly. Finally 3:00PM arrived, and I could finally start the preparation proper.
This preparation is called Purg Odan and it comes as three small packets that, when mixed with water, form the basis of the process. Every four hours I need to mix and drink one of these packets. They don't taste great, but they're not the worst thing I've ever consumed. During the process I drink lots of water. And ginger ale. And tea or coffee (I tried coffee again -instant though, and couldn't stand it. My taste buds are shot it seems) Also strongly recommended is to drink Gatorade to maintain electrolytes. The purge processes suck the liquid out of you and wash away electrolytes as well. The Gatorade I have is lemony-yellow. I would sip from it but found it difficult to drink. I found I had little desire to consume things other than water or the occasional green tea this time. I was tired and little energy to focus on highly technical activities, like changing the channel on the TV. And I still was bothered by my shin splints.
Within a few hours of taking the first packet ("sachet" is what the official packaging labels each packet) I was on my way to purge nirvana. At 7:00PM and 11:00PM I repeated the process. Having used other means to accomplish this task, I can say that the Purg Odan was no worse. In some ways it was better as I didn't feel so bloated after drinking 4 liters of the other stuff. But the end results were the same: drink some stuff, go the bathroom. Repeat.
Throughout the night the frequency and duration of the trips to the bathroom decreased. Yet it wasn't until 3:30AM when my bowels called a truce. I could finally sleep uninterrupted for a few hours.
Tuesday morning and I awoke early, and thirsty. I wouldn't be able to drink anything two hours before the exam. Which in my case meant by 7:30AM I was finished with consuming any fluids. A good thing, as any liquid taken in wants to go out by any available means it seems. At this point I'm essentially as cleaned out as I can be, and my weight is about 186lbs. I've lost about 7 pounds since the weekend. I'm tired and I'm cold, and I just want it be over. The time finally comes when I need to go to the clinic to have the last step performed.
My doctor's clinic has a remarkably large, very well lit, clean and modern looking waiting room. En suite bathrooms are there for those last minute emergencies. I arrived as instructed, 1/2 hour before my appointment time of 9:30. The registration is perfunctory, and my waiting time is minimal. I'm soon asked to go into the exam room. I'm on autopilot now, the familiar process plays out as it has so many times before: change into the standard johnny shirt, but you get to keep your socks on. "ProTip" -I wore my thickest warmest socks, as the single sheet you are given to cover you won't be warm enough. Everything is proceeding as it should, but my nurse informs me that there's a delay. However I'm still prepped with the IV, the only painful part of this whole process is the IV needle into my hand. My vitals are recorded, and once that's done I can rest. I'm somewhat tired but can't sleep. I'm surprisingly not thirsty or hungry. My shin pain is bothering me more than anything else. Time drags by and I realize I left my Samsung Galaxy player in the bag with all my clothes, so I can't even read or play a bad game of chess. Ten Thirty, I've been in this room for over an hour. Ten Fourty and it's now my turn. My bed and I are brought into the surgical suite. More waiting, then the anasthesiologist arrives. Some questions are asked: No I'm not a smoker - No allergies that I'm aware of save seasonal. I'm wired up to the various machines that record my vitals, then I'm left alone for a bit. During this time I play a game where I try to slow my breathing down to trigger the alarms on the machine that monitors my respiratory rates. I'm rewarded by little beeps as I get below 74, but only momentarily. It gives me something to do. At last my doctor arrives, now the real fun begins.
At this point my memory doesn't get hazy, it simply fails. There is no recollection what happened next. One minute I'm being asked to roll on my side, and then...nothing. My next conscious thought is the realization that I'm back in the first exam room. I have absolutely no idea what time it is. My nurse arrives and seeing that I'm awake, asks that all-important question: "Have you passed gas yet?". I answer in the affirmative. Without this vital action, I would not be allowed to go home. But the good news doesn't end there: my Colonscopy was clean! I had no issues with the previous surgical areas nor were there any polyps or concerns. What this meant to me is that I don't have to have another procedure for three more years!
I'm relieved and perhaps due to the medication I've received during my procedure, my shin isn't bothering me. It's noon on a sunny Tuesday, and I have a healthy colon. Life is balanced once more, time to celebrate. A small meal at a tiny restaurant just down the street from my doctor's office marks the extent of my celebration. I've learned the hard way not to indulge too much too fast after one of these procedures. However in a few days I'd be eating normally, with no adverse affects.
For the remainder of the day I simply rested, with numerous peaceful small naps. I didn't eat unless I felt hungry, and I only ate a little at at time. I drank more water, (but still couldn't finish the Gatorade). This time fortune had smiled upon me, and life is good. In three more years, we'll see if fortune begrudges me another pass to clean health.
Friday, April 3, 2015
Mystery in the Shadows
April first, All Fools Day, An auspicious way to meet one's oncologist. We meet today to discuss the results of two X-ray's and a CT scan earlier this year. My family doctor was concerned enough to inform my oncologist. Now my oncologist is concerned too, for there is a shadow in my lung that shouldn't be there.
In the oncologists office I am examined, and all my vitals are normal, no fever, no cough, and certainly no vestiges of pneumonia from three months prior. I feel fine, save for an aggravated left tibia: shin splints. But no, that's not the problem. My oncologist was concerned about the shadow on my X-ray. And now, so am I.
We don't know if it's Cancer or an infection. The unknown shadow will be viewed by a CT scan I'm to have two weeks from now. However it was the CEA results from my blood work that I found troubling: they're increasing, slowly, but steadily.
Last May my CEA numbers hovered around 1. Now they're around 3. These numbers can increase significantly if I was a smoker. I've never smoked in my life, so this begs the question: why is it increasing? Another CT and more blood work will begin the investigation, but what will be the results?
So there's a mystery in the shadows, and the possible answers are troubling. I would leave this appointment preoccupied with the implications of what I had learned this afternoon. As I was handed the card for my next appointment, I commented to the nurse that this would be an opportune time to say "April Fools". She obliged my weak comment with a smile, making me feel somewhat better.
For the first time in a long time I left the Cancer Clinic with less confidence than when I entered. Cancer can still reach out to hit me, and not always physically. Attitude is not only confidence -real or imagined - but being willing to yield when necessary, to adjust attitudes, and just as importantly, my outlook on life.
In the oncologists office I am examined, and all my vitals are normal, no fever, no cough, and certainly no vestiges of pneumonia from three months prior. I feel fine, save for an aggravated left tibia: shin splints. But no, that's not the problem. My oncologist was concerned about the shadow on my X-ray. And now, so am I.
We don't know if it's Cancer or an infection. The unknown shadow will be viewed by a CT scan I'm to have two weeks from now. However it was the CEA results from my blood work that I found troubling: they're increasing, slowly, but steadily.
Last May my CEA numbers hovered around 1. Now they're around 3. These numbers can increase significantly if I was a smoker. I've never smoked in my life, so this begs the question: why is it increasing? Another CT and more blood work will begin the investigation, but what will be the results?
So there's a mystery in the shadows, and the possible answers are troubling. I would leave this appointment preoccupied with the implications of what I had learned this afternoon. As I was handed the card for my next appointment, I commented to the nurse that this would be an opportune time to say "April Fools". She obliged my weak comment with a smile, making me feel somewhat better.
For the first time in a long time I left the Cancer Clinic with less confidence than when I entered. Cancer can still reach out to hit me, and not always physically. Attitude is not only confidence -real or imagined - but being willing to yield when necessary, to adjust attitudes, and just as importantly, my outlook on life.
Saturday, March 21, 2015
"I don't want to scare you..."
The New Year started with a cold, which morphed into pneumonia. X-rays and CT confirmed the diagnosis, so I was given antibiotics. I would need to get another X-ray in a month. This follow-up X-ray occurred on the last Friday of February. The first Monday of March there was a message from my family doctor. He wanted me to go for another CT scan.
Another CT scan. My last scan was a mere two months ago. I figured they were concerned about the slightly enlarged lymph nodes in my chest. A call to the family doctor should clarify this, I thought. Unfortunately it wasn't the lymph nodes, and Wednesday morning found me sitting in another exam room being informed of his concerns: there was a small mass in my chest.
This wasn't news to me, as it had been noticed on the prior X-rays, and was always assumed that it was pneumonia. However considerable time has passed since that original diagnosis. Now this disconcerting X-ray has my family doctor concerned. I felt fine, and relatively unconcerned. That is until he said those words: "I don't want to scare you...". Uh oh...
Actually I left the office more depressed than scared; I wouldn't be scared until I started doing internet searches. I should have remembered: when you have an unknown medical condition Don't Search The Web. My family doctor's worrying was more that just a conversation, he contacted my oncologist personally to express those concerns. So it wasn't a surprise when the call came from the oncologist's office: I had an appointment booked for April 1st. I would need to have my usual blood work a couple of weeks before that. I hadn't expected to see the oncologist for another four months, and that only added to my concerns. Now I was getting scared.
So for a few days I tried to not surf the web for 'Lung cancers & other terrible diseases'. My dad had died of lung cancer, but I never had his three-pack-a-day habit. Nor did I ever work in Asbestos or Uranium mines like he once did. Thus I firmly embraced my family doctor's thoughts that it might 'simply' be scar tissue. Not sure what kind of atmosphere I'm breathing to cause that effect however.
Eventually the concern subsided and I resumed my normal, humdrum boring life. I went to work. I puttered with my hobbies. Sometimes I would catch myself taking extra-deep breaths, as if somehow the inability to completely fill my lungs was a symptom of some horrible condition. My fears gradually faded, and I stopped obsessing, remembered that I felt fine, and was not in any pain (actually my left shin was bothering me but I figured it's only my arthritis). If there's a problem I'll find out soon enough.
The remainder of March would find me getting poked by the vampire crews at the local lab and cancer centre. Getting prescription refills for the cholesterol and arthritis medications I take daily, fulfilling the boring medical stuff of my life. My calendar has shifted from the Julian to the Caduceus manner of reckoning.
April will be no less busy. Besides the visit with the oncologist to determine what they'll do about my chest, there's an upcoming colonoscopy. Even though it's my fifth such procedure (and my seventh time going through 'The Prep') it's not something I look forward too. But it's part of my process now, and something necessary for my continued well-being. I'll just have to adopt that same philosophy for whatever procedure my oncologist deems necessary for my lung examination. Likely it's going to involve another tube going taking the scenic route through my body. I'm sure I'll have something to write about after that experience.
Another CT scan. My last scan was a mere two months ago. I figured they were concerned about the slightly enlarged lymph nodes in my chest. A call to the family doctor should clarify this, I thought. Unfortunately it wasn't the lymph nodes, and Wednesday morning found me sitting in another exam room being informed of his concerns: there was a small mass in my chest.
This wasn't news to me, as it had been noticed on the prior X-rays, and was always assumed that it was pneumonia. However considerable time has passed since that original diagnosis. Now this disconcerting X-ray has my family doctor concerned. I felt fine, and relatively unconcerned. That is until he said those words: "I don't want to scare you...". Uh oh...
Actually I left the office more depressed than scared; I wouldn't be scared until I started doing internet searches. I should have remembered: when you have an unknown medical condition Don't Search The Web. My family doctor's worrying was more that just a conversation, he contacted my oncologist personally to express those concerns. So it wasn't a surprise when the call came from the oncologist's office: I had an appointment booked for April 1st. I would need to have my usual blood work a couple of weeks before that. I hadn't expected to see the oncologist for another four months, and that only added to my concerns. Now I was getting scared.
So for a few days I tried to not surf the web for 'Lung cancers & other terrible diseases'. My dad had died of lung cancer, but I never had his three-pack-a-day habit. Nor did I ever work in Asbestos or Uranium mines like he once did. Thus I firmly embraced my family doctor's thoughts that it might 'simply' be scar tissue. Not sure what kind of atmosphere I'm breathing to cause that effect however.
Eventually the concern subsided and I resumed my normal, humdrum boring life. I went to work. I puttered with my hobbies. Sometimes I would catch myself taking extra-deep breaths, as if somehow the inability to completely fill my lungs was a symptom of some horrible condition. My fears gradually faded, and I stopped obsessing, remembered that I felt fine, and was not in any pain (actually my left shin was bothering me but I figured it's only my arthritis). If there's a problem I'll find out soon enough.
The remainder of March would find me getting poked by the vampire crews at the local lab and cancer centre. Getting prescription refills for the cholesterol and arthritis medications I take daily, fulfilling the boring medical stuff of my life. My calendar has shifted from the Julian to the Caduceus manner of reckoning.
April will be no less busy. Besides the visit with the oncologist to determine what they'll do about my chest, there's an upcoming colonoscopy. Even though it's my fifth such procedure (and my seventh time going through 'The Prep') it's not something I look forward too. But it's part of my process now, and something necessary for my continued well-being. I'll just have to adopt that same philosophy for whatever procedure my oncologist deems necessary for my lung examination. Likely it's going to involve another tube going taking the scenic route through my body. I'm sure I'll have something to write about after that experience.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
2015 began with a cough...
January is only three weeks old and I've already had an Xray, blood work and a CT scan. It all began on New Years day, with a cough.
The cough started in the evening, and at first I thought nothing of it. Chills followed shortly after. I figured it was just a cold, and I'd be going to work the next morning. Then a headache progressed to the point where I finally took an Aspirin in a vain hope of some relief. A runny nose, watery eyes, and coughs that came in spasms soon followed. Sleep was non-existent and I was worn out by the time morning arrived. Determined -or perhaps just stupid -I tried to go to work.
My resolve failed when it became apparent that I couldn't keep my balance while trying to stay upright. New plan: crawl back to bed and continue to be miserable for the rest of the day. Nailed it. My cold would last for days. Only one other time in the 1980's have I ever felt this sick from a 'simple' cold.
Four days after greeting the New Year with a cold I felt better and was ready to return to work. That was Monday, and Wednesday I was scheduled to have my annual CT. Being somewhat cautious, I opted to postpone the Wednesday visit, rationalizing that a few more days would make me less susceptible to any nasty bugs that might lurk in Hospital waiting areas. With my exam rescheduled til the following Monday, I had a relatively boring and seemingly healthy work week.
A CT exam for me is no longer a big deal. In fact it's downright boring, so I thought I'd mix it up a bit: Banana flavoured RediCat. It's yummy delicious, that is if you're into chalk-flavoured banana drinks. I would need to drink two bottle:, one the night before, and one just prior to the exam.
I drink my room-temperatured flavoured chalk (a.k.a. "RediCat") at 10:00PM the night before my exam. I won't have breakfast as you can't eat three hours prior to the procedure. First stop is at the Cancer Centre lab, where my right arm is picked. The important maker here will be the CEA but that result won't be available for weeks. Preliminaries are over, now it's time for the main event.
After registering at the Diagnostic Imaging desk I'm directed to the CT suite. From there I'm instructed to drink my second bottle of RediCat. It tastes as good as the first bottle. My left arm will be used for the IV that will administer contrast material during the exam. I don't look forward to the warm, slightly unpleasant sensation that I've somehow soiled myself. A few minutes of being told to "take a breath and hold....breathe normally" and my exam is complete. I have two new badges to honour my visit: bandages on each arm as reminders of what I went through today. Finished with the Hospital, I can now go back to work, and finally have something to eat!
My cough returns later that night, maybe I picked up something from my recent hospital exam. The next two days the cough gets worse. So much so that my worried manager urges me to get it checked out. At lunch I head over to the clinic, and by the afternoon they're pretty sure I have pneumonia, and order an Xray of my chest. The clinic doctor is concerned, she sees a mass in my chest and wants to do another CT. Since I just had a CT two days prior, I take a pass on getting irradiated yet again. But I make an appointment with my family doctor just in case.
The family doctor has the results of my recent CT, and sure enough, it's pneumonia. He prescribes another series of antibiotics for me. I'll take these ones for ten days, and in a month I'll go back to the clinic for another Xray. All this in January, and I still had an appointment with my oncologist.
Appointments at the Cancer Centre require a self-assessment (ESAS) , and aside from some tiredness, I think I'm doing OK. My weight is checked and I notice that the value is in the 190lb range, back where I was five years ago. I blame cookies.
The meeting with the oncologist told me two things: one the CT showed pneumonia(!) and secondly that the enlarged lymph nodes in my chest had not changed perceptibly in the past year. For now the protocol is to keep doing blood work every three months, with yet another CT in six months. Should there be a significant increase in the size of the lymph nodes, I'll likely need to undergo chemo once more. We'll see what Summer will bring me.
However before the next CT, I'll undergo a follow-up colonoscopy in April. This is my life now: a CT here, a colonoscopy there, and always one day at a time.
The cough started in the evening, and at first I thought nothing of it. Chills followed shortly after. I figured it was just a cold, and I'd be going to work the next morning. Then a headache progressed to the point where I finally took an Aspirin in a vain hope of some relief. A runny nose, watery eyes, and coughs that came in spasms soon followed. Sleep was non-existent and I was worn out by the time morning arrived. Determined -or perhaps just stupid -I tried to go to work.
My resolve failed when it became apparent that I couldn't keep my balance while trying to stay upright. New plan: crawl back to bed and continue to be miserable for the rest of the day. Nailed it. My cold would last for days. Only one other time in the 1980's have I ever felt this sick from a 'simple' cold.
Four days after greeting the New Year with a cold I felt better and was ready to return to work. That was Monday, and Wednesday I was scheduled to have my annual CT. Being somewhat cautious, I opted to postpone the Wednesday visit, rationalizing that a few more days would make me less susceptible to any nasty bugs that might lurk in Hospital waiting areas. With my exam rescheduled til the following Monday, I had a relatively boring and seemingly healthy work week.
A CT exam for me is no longer a big deal. In fact it's downright boring, so I thought I'd mix it up a bit: Banana flavoured RediCat. It's yummy delicious, that is if you're into chalk-flavoured banana drinks. I would need to drink two bottle:, one the night before, and one just prior to the exam.
I drink my room-temperatured flavoured chalk (a.k.a. "RediCat") at 10:00PM the night before my exam. I won't have breakfast as you can't eat three hours prior to the procedure. First stop is at the Cancer Centre lab, where my right arm is picked. The important maker here will be the CEA but that result won't be available for weeks. Preliminaries are over, now it's time for the main event.
After registering at the Diagnostic Imaging desk I'm directed to the CT suite. From there I'm instructed to drink my second bottle of RediCat. It tastes as good as the first bottle. My left arm will be used for the IV that will administer contrast material during the exam. I don't look forward to the warm, slightly unpleasant sensation that I've somehow soiled myself. A few minutes of being told to "take a breath and hold....breathe normally" and my exam is complete. I have two new badges to honour my visit: bandages on each arm as reminders of what I went through today. Finished with the Hospital, I can now go back to work, and finally have something to eat!
My cough returns later that night, maybe I picked up something from my recent hospital exam. The next two days the cough gets worse. So much so that my worried manager urges me to get it checked out. At lunch I head over to the clinic, and by the afternoon they're pretty sure I have pneumonia, and order an Xray of my chest. The clinic doctor is concerned, she sees a mass in my chest and wants to do another CT. Since I just had a CT two days prior, I take a pass on getting irradiated yet again. But I make an appointment with my family doctor just in case.
The family doctor has the results of my recent CT, and sure enough, it's pneumonia. He prescribes another series of antibiotics for me. I'll take these ones for ten days, and in a month I'll go back to the clinic for another Xray. All this in January, and I still had an appointment with my oncologist.
Appointments at the Cancer Centre require a self-assessment (ESAS) , and aside from some tiredness, I think I'm doing OK. My weight is checked and I notice that the value is in the 190lb range, back where I was five years ago. I blame cookies.
The meeting with the oncologist told me two things: one the CT showed pneumonia(!) and secondly that the enlarged lymph nodes in my chest had not changed perceptibly in the past year. For now the protocol is to keep doing blood work every three months, with yet another CT in six months. Should there be a significant increase in the size of the lymph nodes, I'll likely need to undergo chemo once more. We'll see what Summer will bring me.
However before the next CT, I'll undergo a follow-up colonoscopy in April. This is my life now: a CT here, a colonoscopy there, and always one day at a time.
Friday, January 2, 2015
Five years after
When I turned fifty I was diagnosed with stage 4 colon cancer. Over the course of a year I was immersed in treatment. Surgery, chemotherapy, X-rays and CT scans to see how far it had spread. And always blood work. I've probably given enough blood samples to sate Count Dracula. That was five years ago. Early in 2014 I had a recurrence of my cancer, which surgery has hopefully fixed. In October I celebrated my fifty-fifth birthday. Five years since my up-close and very personal encounter with Cancer.
Since my treatment ended in 2011 I kept up with the required tests: blood work, CT scans and the always fun Colonoscopy. It was a colonoscopy in February of 2014 that found a polyp. This same colonoscopy showed cancer has returned to the original site. When I received the news I thought I would have to do it all over again: the surgery, the chemotherapy, the return to living only for today. Fortunately surgery has proved sufficient. I would be off for five weeks to recover before I returned to work full-time once more. I had once again "beaten" cancer, so I should be happy. But I wasn't.
It dawned on me that you simply don't cure cancer. Certainly you can make it go away, eradicate it's effects for a time. But you don't cure it. It came uninvited into my life on two separate occasions. Despite medical diligence it surprised both myself and my doctors with its return. This has caused me to wonder what will happen next.
What happened next was simple: life went on. I returned to work after this latest surgery, fortunately without any complications. My biggest fear during the weeks before surgery would be that I would need a Colostomy bag. This time it wasn't needed. But it made me wonder if I have the emotional strength to keep adapting to radical changes in my physical health and my self perception. I may be resilient and even adaptable, but I know that won't always be the case.
In time I healed. Once more I returned to work. The memories of my fears before surgery faded. Seasons changed, the Fall arrived, and with it my birthday. I would turn fifty-five in 2014. In the five years since my initial diagnosis I've had my share of adventures, of fears and of triumphs. The new year will bring more tests, and I'll worry when I need to worry. Until then, just like everyone else, I'll live my life, one day at a time.
Friday, October 17, 2014
ER: a great TV show, no fun to visit
Labour day is one of those Holidays where you don't go to work, but stuff needs to get done. Fortunately this obligation required only about an hour of my time at the office, leaving the evening free for me to do whatever I wish. This evening I wished to lay on the couch and watch TV. Generally reclining on a couch is not associated as being a painful activity, so imagine my surprise when I experienced pain from the simple act of sitting upright. It was sharp and sudden, deep inside, somewhere under my left ribs. I had never experienced a pain in this location before. I wondered if I was so lazy that sitting on a couch would cause me to pull a muscle. It was annoying but seemed to be getting no worse. That is, until I went to bed that night.
Normally I sleep comfortably on my right side. My first sign that things were going to be troublesome involved the simple act of getting into bed and lying down. It hurt. A lot. Sharp pain, deep in my chest , seeming to be under the ribs on my left side. It hurt to roll on my right side. Or to the left. Lying on my back was no better. I spent a miserable night wondering if I should go to the ER. The only position that was somewhat comfortable was sitting up. I might have dozed, in fits and starts but I did not rest. Morning did not bring any relief, and I was having a miserable time simply moving through my usual routine. I would walk to work that day, and noticed that it hurt to take deep breaths. It seemed that a visit to the local clinic was in order.
Fortunately that Tuesday morning the clinic traffic was relatively light and I was ushered in quickly after I was registered. My nurse took the usual vitals: temperature, blood pressure, heart rate. Everything seemed OK. I was then examined by the clinic doctor, who said that although they could give me an EKG, they didn't have the resources to fully rule out any heart-related issues. For that I would need to go to our local ER.
The last time I was in this particular ER was shortly after receiving my first chemo treatment. Back then I was treated for Thrush and given a stern reminder about going to an ER when chemo-compromised. Now almost five years later, I note the changes that have occurred. The registration process still consists of a security guard directing you where to sit, in this case the Triage Registration Waiting Area. No longer the hard plastic industrial seats, these are almost comfortable. I wait for my turn to be seen by the nurse, resigning myself to the fact that I must have something horribly wrong with me else why I did I come to Emerg? My turn arrives to visit the nurse. As I rise I struggle to lift my backpack without grimacing. In triage I dutifully tell the nurse my story of the sudden onset of my pain, the subsequent visit to a clinic, and the redirect to the ER. My oxygen and temperature stats are checked, then I'm sent to the Registration Waiting Area.
Registration is quick, and a familiar face greets me from the other side of the desk. An associate who remembers me from when I once worked as an IT tech at this same hospital over twenty years prior comments that the last time we saw each other was in this same ER back in 2005. Back then I was seeking relief from extreme pain caused by a kidney stone. Today's issue were not as raw, but I felt it was something that needed to be checked regardless. Registration complete, I'm sent back to the waiting room. Less than half an hour later, I hear my name being called, and I think that at this rate I'll be back to work later that afternoon. I would soon learn how inaccurate that thought would be.
It turned out that I was being called not to see the doctor, but to be given some preliminary tests. As I had presented with chest pain, I would be receiving an EKG. A blood samples would also be taken. In total my pleasant tech and I spent perhaps less than 15 minutes together, after which I returned to the waiting area once more. My real ER experience was just beginning.
I'm well-prepared to wait it would seem: laptop, tablet, MP3 player, all manner of diversions which make it appear that we are constantly connected to the larger world. But WiFi reception was poor, the slowly loading web pages seemingly a mirror to how time crawls by in the ER. I canceled an appointment for an eye exam that was scheduled for later that day. That was at 2:00PM. By 5:00PM I wondered if I should have had lunch. During my wait I had only sipped on some water, steadfastly refusing to eat anything "just in case". Now going on six hours, I was no longer anxious, just uncomfortable, bored and tired. I would continue waiting til around 6:00PM, when I was finally ushered into the ER proper. I kept thinking that six hours wasn't so bad. But I was wrong once more.
Inside the ER I get to wait some more. This time I sit on hard plastic chairs consistent with my general perception of ER waiting rooms. It appears that I'm just waiting until an exam room becomes available. I'm brought in when it's ready, and the ER nurse performs more checks on my general health. I'm informed I'll be going for a CT scan. Before the scan takes place however, I'll moved to another waiting area, the fifth of my sojourn. The chairs in this waiting area are the most comfortable so far. There's a patient seated beside me, receiving an IV. She's wrapped in a blanket and looks exhausted. I say hello, as I recognized that we had both arrived at the Hospital at roughly the same time. We chat a bit, exchanging our medical histories as perfect strangers seem to do in this situation. She has terminal stage 4 lung cancer. I tell her my story. We find we're both being sent for CT's. Our porter brings her via wheelchair to the CT suite. I walk the short distance, glad of the small relief for cramped muscles and inactivity of the past eight hours.
It's quiet in the CT suite, lights subdued and sounds muted. My fellow patient has her exam first. My turn is soon after. The methodical and efficient CT techs have us in and out of there in short order. I have another CT exam to add to my collection. Exam complete, my co-patient and I wait for the porter to retrieve us, returning us back to the ER. It is almost eight hours since I was registered. I've had an EKG, blood test and my vital signs recorded. I've just finished a CT and now I finally get to see the doctor. She's all smiles and tells me she has good news.
It's not a heart problem: I have pneumonia. How can this be good I wonder? My doctor assures me that it was caught very early and the antibiotics she prescribes will help. She also mentioned that they checked for evidence of cancer in my lungs -given my past history I suppose that's a good thing. There was nothing of note. With that diagnosis my ER visit was nearly over. A nurse would remove my IV lock, and after that I was free to go home, over eight hours after I had first walked into the Hospital.
On the way home we stop at a pharmacy to fill the prescription. A course of five days, two pills the first night and one a day for the next four days. I'm told by the pharmacist that I'll feel better tomorrow. I figure I can't feel any worse: sore chest, tired and drained of any energy, yet I did nothing all day but sit. I hadn't eaten until I was discharged from ER. I had no appetite. I just wanted to sleep.
I would take the next day off, mostly to recover my energy, and hopefully not be affecting anyone when I returned to work. When I was given my diagnosis of pneumonia by the ER physician, I had asked her how I got it. She candidly admitted that she didn't know. I guess in life we can never assume there's a visible cause and effect for everything. But I was OK, and after my day off which consisted of many many hours of doing nothing but napping, I felt a lot better.
I would take the entire course of my antibiotics, and by the end of the week my long vigil in ER was a fading memory. It would be a footnote in my blog, something tangential to my history within our medical system. I reflect on what this latest dip into the health care pool meant to me, and admitted to myself that my concern wins over my confidence these days. Terry at age forty would have shrugged off the nagging chest pain as an annoyance and ignored it. Nearly 55, I have learned to accept that you cannot resist the passage of Time, but you can still control the course of where you're going. The day I spent in ER was something I chose to do. Had I not gone, there might have been considerable more time in Hospital recovering from far more perilous effects of that pneumonia. The choices life gives us aren't always what we want, but what we make of them is entirely our own.
Normally I sleep comfortably on my right side. My first sign that things were going to be troublesome involved the simple act of getting into bed and lying down. It hurt. A lot. Sharp pain, deep in my chest , seeming to be under the ribs on my left side. It hurt to roll on my right side. Or to the left. Lying on my back was no better. I spent a miserable night wondering if I should go to the ER. The only position that was somewhat comfortable was sitting up. I might have dozed, in fits and starts but I did not rest. Morning did not bring any relief, and I was having a miserable time simply moving through my usual routine. I would walk to work that day, and noticed that it hurt to take deep breaths. It seemed that a visit to the local clinic was in order.
Fortunately that Tuesday morning the clinic traffic was relatively light and I was ushered in quickly after I was registered. My nurse took the usual vitals: temperature, blood pressure, heart rate. Everything seemed OK. I was then examined by the clinic doctor, who said that although they could give me an EKG, they didn't have the resources to fully rule out any heart-related issues. For that I would need to go to our local ER.
The last time I was in this particular ER was shortly after receiving my first chemo treatment. Back then I was treated for Thrush and given a stern reminder about going to an ER when chemo-compromised. Now almost five years later, I note the changes that have occurred. The registration process still consists of a security guard directing you where to sit, in this case the Triage Registration Waiting Area. No longer the hard plastic industrial seats, these are almost comfortable. I wait for my turn to be seen by the nurse, resigning myself to the fact that I must have something horribly wrong with me else why I did I come to Emerg? My turn arrives to visit the nurse. As I rise I struggle to lift my backpack without grimacing. In triage I dutifully tell the nurse my story of the sudden onset of my pain, the subsequent visit to a clinic, and the redirect to the ER. My oxygen and temperature stats are checked, then I'm sent to the Registration Waiting Area.
Registration is quick, and a familiar face greets me from the other side of the desk. An associate who remembers me from when I once worked as an IT tech at this same hospital over twenty years prior comments that the last time we saw each other was in this same ER back in 2005. Back then I was seeking relief from extreme pain caused by a kidney stone. Today's issue were not as raw, but I felt it was something that needed to be checked regardless. Registration complete, I'm sent back to the waiting room. Less than half an hour later, I hear my name being called, and I think that at this rate I'll be back to work later that afternoon. I would soon learn how inaccurate that thought would be.
It turned out that I was being called not to see the doctor, but to be given some preliminary tests. As I had presented with chest pain, I would be receiving an EKG. A blood samples would also be taken. In total my pleasant tech and I spent perhaps less than 15 minutes together, after which I returned to the waiting area once more. My real ER experience was just beginning.
I'm well-prepared to wait it would seem: laptop, tablet, MP3 player, all manner of diversions which make it appear that we are constantly connected to the larger world. But WiFi reception was poor, the slowly loading web pages seemingly a mirror to how time crawls by in the ER. I canceled an appointment for an eye exam that was scheduled for later that day. That was at 2:00PM. By 5:00PM I wondered if I should have had lunch. During my wait I had only sipped on some water, steadfastly refusing to eat anything "just in case". Now going on six hours, I was no longer anxious, just uncomfortable, bored and tired. I would continue waiting til around 6:00PM, when I was finally ushered into the ER proper. I kept thinking that six hours wasn't so bad. But I was wrong once more.
Inside the ER I get to wait some more. This time I sit on hard plastic chairs consistent with my general perception of ER waiting rooms. It appears that I'm just waiting until an exam room becomes available. I'm brought in when it's ready, and the ER nurse performs more checks on my general health. I'm informed I'll be going for a CT scan. Before the scan takes place however, I'll moved to another waiting area, the fifth of my sojourn. The chairs in this waiting area are the most comfortable so far. There's a patient seated beside me, receiving an IV. She's wrapped in a blanket and looks exhausted. I say hello, as I recognized that we had both arrived at the Hospital at roughly the same time. We chat a bit, exchanging our medical histories as perfect strangers seem to do in this situation. She has terminal stage 4 lung cancer. I tell her my story. We find we're both being sent for CT's. Our porter brings her via wheelchair to the CT suite. I walk the short distance, glad of the small relief for cramped muscles and inactivity of the past eight hours.
It's quiet in the CT suite, lights subdued and sounds muted. My fellow patient has her exam first. My turn is soon after. The methodical and efficient CT techs have us in and out of there in short order. I have another CT exam to add to my collection. Exam complete, my co-patient and I wait for the porter to retrieve us, returning us back to the ER. It is almost eight hours since I was registered. I've had an EKG, blood test and my vital signs recorded. I've just finished a CT and now I finally get to see the doctor. She's all smiles and tells me she has good news.
It's not a heart problem: I have pneumonia. How can this be good I wonder? My doctor assures me that it was caught very early and the antibiotics she prescribes will help. She also mentioned that they checked for evidence of cancer in my lungs -given my past history I suppose that's a good thing. There was nothing of note. With that diagnosis my ER visit was nearly over. A nurse would remove my IV lock, and after that I was free to go home, over eight hours after I had first walked into the Hospital.
On the way home we stop at a pharmacy to fill the prescription. A course of five days, two pills the first night and one a day for the next four days. I'm told by the pharmacist that I'll feel better tomorrow. I figure I can't feel any worse: sore chest, tired and drained of any energy, yet I did nothing all day but sit. I hadn't eaten until I was discharged from ER. I had no appetite. I just wanted to sleep.
I would take the next day off, mostly to recover my energy, and hopefully not be affecting anyone when I returned to work. When I was given my diagnosis of pneumonia by the ER physician, I had asked her how I got it. She candidly admitted that she didn't know. I guess in life we can never assume there's a visible cause and effect for everything. But I was OK, and after my day off which consisted of many many hours of doing nothing but napping, I felt a lot better.
I would take the entire course of my antibiotics, and by the end of the week my long vigil in ER was a fading memory. It would be a footnote in my blog, something tangential to my history within our medical system. I reflect on what this latest dip into the health care pool meant to me, and admitted to myself that my concern wins over my confidence these days. Terry at age forty would have shrugged off the nagging chest pain as an annoyance and ignored it. Nearly 55, I have learned to accept that you cannot resist the passage of Time, but you can still control the course of where you're going. The day I spent in ER was something I chose to do. Had I not gone, there might have been considerable more time in Hospital recovering from far more perilous effects of that pneumonia. The choices life gives us aren't always what we want, but what we make of them is entirely our own.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
How I spent my summer vacation
I consider the unofficial start of Fall as the day after Labour day. On that day summer vacation is over and school begins. It's the time to write your essay of "What I did on my Summer Vacation".
Technically resuming my day job in a full-time capacity would not be considered a vacation. But Spring saw me going for colon surgery at the end of April, and I would spend five weeks recovering. During the month of May I took the opportunity to get some work done on my basement drains. Returning to work could be considered my 'Vacation from Cancer'. However there were a couple of events that stood out, those being my second walk as a Survivor, and of course, a CT scan.
Last year I walked in the Relay for Life as a Survivor. My inaugural walk with other survivors that idyllic evening was emotionally uplifting and I hoped for the same results this time. With the kindness of friends and family, we raised $1,000 to contribute to the Canadian Cancer Society. While I was hoping to recapture the memory of my previous walk, I made new ones instead--most of which consisted of standing in drizzling rain on a cold June evening. All through the ceremonies leading up to the Survivor's Victory lap, the rains had increased. I stood there, shivering in the chill and darkening skies. But as the names of the Survivors were being called the rains stopped. The skies perceptibly brightened and I felt the warmth of pride as I joined the ranks of Survivors when my name was called. Unfortunately the weather returned to it's wet and miserable state, and I decided to leave well before the moving and retrospective event known as the Luminary Ceremony. Maybe next year. That was my fun for June.
My second event of note this summer was my oh-so-exciting CT scan. Perhaps it was the experience of laying motionless while the table slowly ran in and out of the gantry. Or hearing the mechanical-sounding voice instruct me to Take a Breath and Hold it. Maybe it was the prospect of having contrast dye injected through an IV - the warmth radiating from my ears down to my lower extremities, making you think you've soiled yourself. (I didn't but it's such a disconcerting feeling which I never get used to). But the real excitement of a CT scan is drinking the RediCat.
RediCat is a contrast drink that looks like watery chalk. It has approximately the same flavour as watery chalk, and in this instance, a hint of Berry. Probably the Chalk berry. For my test I would need two bottles of this beverage. The first I would drink the night before the exam, the second I would bring with me and drink it just before I would have the CT. One novelty I had not experienced before was getting blood work done before the CT. Once the lab reported the results, the CT techs ran me through the by now routine process. My subsequent follow-up with the Oncologist would maintain the status quo: CEA blood tests every two months, another CT scheduled for January of 2015 and oh, joy, another Colonoscopy for February next year. That was my fun for July.
My fun for August was the installation of a new furnace and air conditioner. I truly had a boring month which consisted on nothing cancer related whatsoever. I kind of like that.
This past summer was noted for it's less-than-ideal weather, too much rain, being cold, and of course, being over far too quick. I made some small clock projects, but mostly just worked and did stuff around the house. It was a perfect vacation from Cancer, one I hope to repeat next year.
Technically resuming my day job in a full-time capacity would not be considered a vacation. But Spring saw me going for colon surgery at the end of April, and I would spend five weeks recovering. During the month of May I took the opportunity to get some work done on my basement drains. Returning to work could be considered my 'Vacation from Cancer'. However there were a couple of events that stood out, those being my second walk as a Survivor, and of course, a CT scan.
Last year I walked in the Relay for Life as a Survivor. My inaugural walk with other survivors that idyllic evening was emotionally uplifting and I hoped for the same results this time. With the kindness of friends and family, we raised $1,000 to contribute to the Canadian Cancer Society. While I was hoping to recapture the memory of my previous walk, I made new ones instead--most of which consisted of standing in drizzling rain on a cold June evening. All through the ceremonies leading up to the Survivor's Victory lap, the rains had increased. I stood there, shivering in the chill and darkening skies. But as the names of the Survivors were being called the rains stopped. The skies perceptibly brightened and I felt the warmth of pride as I joined the ranks of Survivors when my name was called. Unfortunately the weather returned to it's wet and miserable state, and I decided to leave well before the moving and retrospective event known as the Luminary Ceremony. Maybe next year. That was my fun for June.
My second event of note this summer was my oh-so-exciting CT scan. Perhaps it was the experience of laying motionless while the table slowly ran in and out of the gantry. Or hearing the mechanical-sounding voice instruct me to Take a Breath and Hold it. Maybe it was the prospect of having contrast dye injected through an IV - the warmth radiating from my ears down to my lower extremities, making you think you've soiled yourself. (I didn't but it's such a disconcerting feeling which I never get used to). But the real excitement of a CT scan is drinking the RediCat.
RediCat is a contrast drink that looks like watery chalk. It has approximately the same flavour as watery chalk, and in this instance, a hint of Berry. Probably the Chalk berry. For my test I would need two bottles of this beverage. The first I would drink the night before the exam, the second I would bring with me and drink it just before I would have the CT. One novelty I had not experienced before was getting blood work done before the CT. Once the lab reported the results, the CT techs ran me through the by now routine process. My subsequent follow-up with the Oncologist would maintain the status quo: CEA blood tests every two months, another CT scheduled for January of 2015 and oh, joy, another Colonoscopy for February next year. That was my fun for July.
My fun for August was the installation of a new furnace and air conditioner. I truly had a boring month which consisted on nothing cancer related whatsoever. I kind of like that.
This past summer was noted for it's less-than-ideal weather, too much rain, being cold, and of course, being over far too quick. I made some small clock projects, but mostly just worked and did stuff around the house. It was a perfect vacation from Cancer, one I hope to repeat next year.
Wednesday, June 25, 2014
Something completely different
This past winter, annoyances that were not cancer-related crept up on me. One was my aching left knee, the result I believed of too-strenuous snow shoveling after a particularly heavy snowfall in February. The other was a crooked ring finger on my left hand, making some activities painful. I had postponed investigating these issues, mostly to focus on my cancer treatment, but also with the vague hope that it would just 'go away'. But the pain persisted through the winter, and with no imminent cancer issues in my immediate future, I decided to get it checked out. At first my family doctor thought I might have fractured my finger at some point. An X-ray of my left hand was not conclusive, the worry that there was some sort of infection due to arthritis was suspected. A bone scan would be my next procedure.
Two years ago I complained of a sore back and vague, nagging aches, which led to my first-ever bone scan . The initial diagnosis was early onset arthritis. Now I would undergo another scan. So here's how I spent a half-day at a Hospital...
Friday May 16th I arrive promptly at the Hospital for my 7:30am appointment. It's a Hospital, so there's paperwork then waiting. If there's something I should be good at after all my medical adventures it should be waiting. I'm no good at waiting, but I have learned to endure. For today I would need to endure multiple tests spanning four hours. First there was the scan of my hand.
Simple process, place hands face down on the scanning table where the tech told me to and a few minutes later I was done. The next test would require an injection of a mildly radioactive substance and a full bone scan. A waiting period of several hours for the material to go through my system was required in order for the injected substance to spread through me. I was advised to drink a lot of water during this period. With nothing else to do, I wandered around a Hospital I had once been employed at 20 years earlier.
Around 10:00am and I'm back in the Nuclear Medicine department ready for another go-round. I'm advised to go to the washroom (I take instructions to drink lots of water very seriously.). For this next test I'll be strapped on a table (simply to keep my legs and arms from moving too much) while the table slowly goes through a scanner. It's akin to a very, very slow CT. Very slow. It will take an hour for a transit. During this time you try not to move, to think about that itch on the side of your nose, or the general not-quite-comfortable feeling -I really really want to roll over on my side, but of course that cannot happen. So I try close my eyes and achieve a state of detachment, where the world fades away and calm is within me. I think they call it "sleep".
Sleep of course never happens in a hospital, but I achieved a degree of relaxation I played a game where I would close my eyes and guess how far the table had progressed when I opened them. In a Hospital you have to make your own fun. Only an hour later -it seemed longer- and I was being unstrapped from the table. A few more tests would need to be endured however.
Specific tests would be done on my hands and knees. I was rearranged, still on my back on that very narrow table, with my hands on a supporting pillow over my abdomen. Another pass through. These tests were far shorter but it was getting past 11:00am. There's simply nothing to be done, the processes take the time it needs, and the patient simply has to be stoic. Finally, by 11:30 that morning my tests were complete. In a few weeks my results would be ready.
Tests concluded, and I'm ready to leave the Hospital. But there was one caveat: the radioactive tracer material in my blood would be active for a short time that day. Should I need to cross the border into the USA, I would undoubtedly trigger their radioactive alarms! Far be it from me to create an international incident, I would spend the rest of my afternoon at the local library.
Waiting for results is another fun game we play with the medical system. For several weeks I waited for the phone call from the family doctor that would summon me to discuss the findings. But there was no call. My knee was really bothering me and I initiated a follow-up consultation with my family doctor. What I would learn was what I suspected: I have Arthritis. Specifically, Osteoarthritis.
Osteoarthritis is probably what I and many others assume to be 'old age'. Everything aches, and some range of motion needs to be done slowly and delicately. My family doctor and I discussed the extent of the arthritis. It's in all my joints, more pronounced in my aching knee but also in my finger joints and elbows. He prescribed a topical ointment for my knee, and some pills that would hopefully alleviate some of the pain. To date the ointment seems to be working, but it's a chore: I need to apply 10 drops, repeated four time for a total of forty drops. Then I have to do that process four times a day. That's 160 drops a day. And the key is to massage it into your knee. There are other considerations for this arthritis thing too.
One is to keep active. I don't have to run marathons (not that I ever did) but I should keep walking. With summer approaching my bike and I have begun to do some riding. I find that the knee responds well to this activity. The other consideration is to keep your weight down -no point in making painful joints struggle with carrying more of a load than they need to.
June is winding down and my aching knee seems to respond to this treatment and exercise. I'm just careful not to stress the finger, there's no way to straighten it without surgery, and at this point in life, it's not an option. Another medical challenge accepted and managed the best way I am able. I don't worry about growing old, I'll get there in my own time.
Two years ago I complained of a sore back and vague, nagging aches, which led to my first-ever bone scan . The initial diagnosis was early onset arthritis. Now I would undergo another scan. So here's how I spent a half-day at a Hospital...
Friday May 16th I arrive promptly at the Hospital for my 7:30am appointment. It's a Hospital, so there's paperwork then waiting. If there's something I should be good at after all my medical adventures it should be waiting. I'm no good at waiting, but I have learned to endure. For today I would need to endure multiple tests spanning four hours. First there was the scan of my hand.
Simple process, place hands face down on the scanning table where the tech told me to and a few minutes later I was done. The next test would require an injection of a mildly radioactive substance and a full bone scan. A waiting period of several hours for the material to go through my system was required in order for the injected substance to spread through me. I was advised to drink a lot of water during this period. With nothing else to do, I wandered around a Hospital I had once been employed at 20 years earlier.
Around 10:00am and I'm back in the Nuclear Medicine department ready for another go-round. I'm advised to go to the washroom (I take instructions to drink lots of water very seriously.). For this next test I'll be strapped on a table (simply to keep my legs and arms from moving too much) while the table slowly goes through a scanner. It's akin to a very, very slow CT. Very slow. It will take an hour for a transit. During this time you try not to move, to think about that itch on the side of your nose, or the general not-quite-comfortable feeling -I really really want to roll over on my side, but of course that cannot happen. So I try close my eyes and achieve a state of detachment, where the world fades away and calm is within me. I think they call it "sleep".
Sleep of course never happens in a hospital, but I achieved a degree of relaxation I played a game where I would close my eyes and guess how far the table had progressed when I opened them. In a Hospital you have to make your own fun. Only an hour later -it seemed longer- and I was being unstrapped from the table. A few more tests would need to be endured however.
Specific tests would be done on my hands and knees. I was rearranged, still on my back on that very narrow table, with my hands on a supporting pillow over my abdomen. Another pass through. These tests were far shorter but it was getting past 11:00am. There's simply nothing to be done, the processes take the time it needs, and the patient simply has to be stoic. Finally, by 11:30 that morning my tests were complete. In a few weeks my results would be ready.
Tests concluded, and I'm ready to leave the Hospital. But there was one caveat: the radioactive tracer material in my blood would be active for a short time that day. Should I need to cross the border into the USA, I would undoubtedly trigger their radioactive alarms! Far be it from me to create an international incident, I would spend the rest of my afternoon at the local library.
Waiting for results is another fun game we play with the medical system. For several weeks I waited for the phone call from the family doctor that would summon me to discuss the findings. But there was no call. My knee was really bothering me and I initiated a follow-up consultation with my family doctor. What I would learn was what I suspected: I have Arthritis. Specifically, Osteoarthritis.
Osteoarthritis is probably what I and many others assume to be 'old age'. Everything aches, and some range of motion needs to be done slowly and delicately. My family doctor and I discussed the extent of the arthritis. It's in all my joints, more pronounced in my aching knee but also in my finger joints and elbows. He prescribed a topical ointment for my knee, and some pills that would hopefully alleviate some of the pain. To date the ointment seems to be working, but it's a chore: I need to apply 10 drops, repeated four time for a total of forty drops. Then I have to do that process four times a day. That's 160 drops a day. And the key is to massage it into your knee. There are other considerations for this arthritis thing too.
One is to keep active. I don't have to run marathons (not that I ever did) but I should keep walking. With summer approaching my bike and I have begun to do some riding. I find that the knee responds well to this activity. The other consideration is to keep your weight down -no point in making painful joints struggle with carrying more of a load than they need to.
June is winding down and my aching knee seems to respond to this treatment and exercise. I'm just careful not to stress the finger, there's no way to straighten it without surgery, and at this point in life, it's not an option. Another medical challenge accepted and managed the best way I am able. I don't worry about growing old, I'll get there in my own time.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Staples and Tape
I was discharged from the Hospital on April 28th, five days after my surgery for Colon Cancer. I would need several more weeks to heal, to regain my strength, and find some measure of my former stamina. First however I had to endure a week of sleeping with staples in my stomach. Stretching, reaching, bending -any action that might cause undue stress on my tender tummy would require an element of discretion. After a week or so of broken sleep and cautious movements, I had my follow-up appointment with the surgeon. On May 8th I finally got those damn staples removed. My doctor was pleased with how my incision was healing. Which meant I could shower, I could
walk at my usual cadence and overall, start doing typical Terry things once more. The real healing would begin. Yet there was one more annoyance in the aftermath of all my surgery: tape. Another sticky situation to deal with.
Tape used by Hospitals is meant to adhere to your skin no matter what. When I was released from the Hospital I had a new dressing covering my stapled incision. I couldn't have a shower yet, but I could luxuriate in a bathtub. That's when I discovered I still had tape on my back from the epidural. Removing it wasn't too bad, hair grows back. Usually. The real mess was from the gummy residue that clumps up and sticks to skin and hair, resisting all my attempts to remove it. Soap and water, alcohol, and finally soaking the affected areas in baby oil would be used. Baby oil would be my go-to choice in future: just let it sit and it gently and painlessly washes off. I'm such a wimp.
My first walk the day after the staples were removed was a wonderful half-hour romp: to visit a doctor of course. I needed to check in with my family doctor to complain about a few issues, and get prescription refilled. That Friday morning on a fine sunny spring day, I walked the 30 minutes to his office, happy to simply have that option available to me. Upon arrival I would go through the usual medical rituals: weight, blood pressure and general health questions with the nurse. Once these preliminaries were complete, I was ushered into the room to await my family doctor.
We exchanged pleasantries, discussed my surgery, he seemed impressed that I was doing so well roughly two weeks from my surgery. The reason for my visit today was to have my Crestor prescription filled (no sense having a heart attack after surviving Cancer!) and to see about some nagging issues. Seems that I was creaky in some of my joints, specifically my left knee (I had twisted it shoveling snow in February and neglected to have it looked at due to my other priority), and an inability to straighten the ring finger on my left hand. Cursory examination suggested I might have a fractured my finger. I could move the finger but not straighten it out, and it was painful in some cases. I would need an X-ray. More walking to the clinic where I would receive my X-ray. A walk to the drugstore to pick up my prescription. A walk BACK to the clinic, to retrieve the prescription that I inadvertently left there when dropping off my X-ray forms. Back to the drugstore. Finally with my prescription filled I wandered home. I had walked for the grand total of about an hour and a half, most of that 'at speed'. I was exhausted.
Over the next several weeks I would regain some stamina and walking would not be the draining activity it was on that Friday. I was feeling good. More importantly, I was happy and some of my confidence that I would 'be OK' was returning. The next few days saw a steady increase in the walks -few long ones but their frequency increased. Plus a lot more naps between walks. Everything seemed to be progressing as it should and I was happy. Then I received a phone call from the Hospital. My family doctor wanted me to have a Bone Scan for my hand. Friday May 16th , one week after having my hand X-rayed I would be getting a Bone Scan. My adventures continue.
Tape used by Hospitals is meant to adhere to your skin no matter what. When I was released from the Hospital I had a new dressing covering my stapled incision. I couldn't have a shower yet, but I could luxuriate in a bathtub. That's when I discovered I still had tape on my back from the epidural. Removing it wasn't too bad, hair grows back. Usually. The real mess was from the gummy residue that clumps up and sticks to skin and hair, resisting all my attempts to remove it. Soap and water, alcohol, and finally soaking the affected areas in baby oil would be used. Baby oil would be my go-to choice in future: just let it sit and it gently and painlessly washes off. I'm such a wimp.
My first walk the day after the staples were removed was a wonderful half-hour romp: to visit a doctor of course. I needed to check in with my family doctor to complain about a few issues, and get prescription refilled. That Friday morning on a fine sunny spring day, I walked the 30 minutes to his office, happy to simply have that option available to me. Upon arrival I would go through the usual medical rituals: weight, blood pressure and general health questions with the nurse. Once these preliminaries were complete, I was ushered into the room to await my family doctor.
We exchanged pleasantries, discussed my surgery, he seemed impressed that I was doing so well roughly two weeks from my surgery. The reason for my visit today was to have my Crestor prescription filled (no sense having a heart attack after surviving Cancer!) and to see about some nagging issues. Seems that I was creaky in some of my joints, specifically my left knee (I had twisted it shoveling snow in February and neglected to have it looked at due to my other priority), and an inability to straighten the ring finger on my left hand. Cursory examination suggested I might have a fractured my finger. I could move the finger but not straighten it out, and it was painful in some cases. I would need an X-ray. More walking to the clinic where I would receive my X-ray. A walk to the drugstore to pick up my prescription. A walk BACK to the clinic, to retrieve the prescription that I inadvertently left there when dropping off my X-ray forms. Back to the drugstore. Finally with my prescription filled I wandered home. I had walked for the grand total of about an hour and a half, most of that 'at speed'. I was exhausted.
Over the next several weeks I would regain some stamina and walking would not be the draining activity it was on that Friday. I was feeling good. More importantly, I was happy and some of my confidence that I would 'be OK' was returning. The next few days saw a steady increase in the walks -few long ones but their frequency increased. Plus a lot more naps between walks. Everything seemed to be progressing as it should and I was happy. Then I received a phone call from the Hospital. My family doctor wanted me to have a Bone Scan for my hand. Friday May 16th , one week after having my hand X-rayed I would be getting a Bone Scan. My adventures continue.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Going Home starts with Jello
My journey from Patient to Person made significant gains on Monday, April 28th. It began with two events: my first meal in days, and moving to a new floor.
Breakfast that Monday would be the first morsel of food I had consumed since the prior Thursday. As it always is in this type of surgery, breakfast consists of Jello and juices. The intent is to gently start up the normal processes without undue stress on the colon. However after four days of nothing but fluids my appetite was slow to return. Between the Orange Juice and and a few tiny sips of black coffee, and slurps of Raspberry Jello, I managed to finish the small portion provided. Clear fluids would be my diet initially, and slowly progress to fuller fluids. My lunch had vegetable soup - my first hot meal in days, and I drank it down greedily. Having achieved the goals of eating without incident, I was now ready to be transfered from P.O.T.U. to another floor. My Journey was literally continuing.
Before I left the P.O.T.U. however I was divested of another of my tubes: the catheter. Not always comfortable, you're not even aware you're voiding. It would be removed early that Monday morning. The process was not painful but somewhat disconcerting, as I would be an educational experience for a nurse who had never removed a catheter before. From my past surgeries, I recall this process being performed late at night (The "wee" hours of the morning?). This time it would be mid-morning with me sitting on the side of my bed, gown up to my waist, looking anywhere but at the two nurses huddled in front of me. I tried not to listen to their conversation regarding the mechanics of what they were about to do, but there was a moment when "oh..." turned into "OH!...much better thank you...". My relief was genuine and now under my own control.
"De-catheterized" I still needed to prove that I could void without problems. Being a hospital they're not about to accept my statement, they want proof. I'm instructed to use the provided plastic container, which also has graduations on it to measure volume. On my first attempt I did an impressive 500ml. Success in a hospital is not measured by extraordinary results, it's measured by how you manage normal everyday things. So far I was walking without problems, I was eating without issue and now, oh joy, I was peeing. I was deemed fit enough to move out of P.O.T.U.
My new home for the next day and a half would be room 7105A, one floor below the the P.O.T.U. For some reason however my impressive feats of filling plastic containers needed to be repeated to the satisfaction of my new nurses. I obliged with a personal best that finally allowed me to relegate the "pee bottle" to the shelf for the remainder of my stay. I was making great progress, but was still tethered to my IV. If I could get through lunch without incident it would be removed. I had another goal, one I was confident I could achieve.
Lunch didn't have Jello, it was a "full fluids" meal: milk, cream of broccoli soup, and vanilla ice cream for dessert. Having successfully taken in fluids and food without incident, my IV was disconnected, I was no longer tethered! My freedom is on the horizon! However, now that I was eating my nurses were asking me that extremely critical question: Have I passed gas?
Colon Cancer surgery removes tissue from the (empty) colon and splices it back together. Your body has not sent anything down that passage for days. It has to learn how to do that again, and it has to be 100% successful to qualify for the 'get out of Hospital free' card. Passing gas is an absolute prerequisite in the continuing transition from Patient to Person. Eating starts the normal process, but it simply takes time and can't be forced. During my stay my doctor and nurses listen intently to my belly sounds with their ever-present stethoscope. I wouldn't disappoint such an intent audience. Eventually the few meals I consumed would produce the expected results. It is my personal belief that Cream of Broccoli soup can make a brick pass gas, such was its effect after lunch. But there remained a second prerequisite that would prove the success of my surgery. Achieving this second prerequisite, ( Number Two of my goals if you would prefer) would be the key to my being released from the Hospital. Before that would happen, I would keep walking to help the process along.
Exercise after surgery is great. It's one of the few activities I could do to keep boredom away. My visitors would come to see me, and we would walk the halls of the hospital. When they were gone I would walk laps around the floor. On average, I was able to complete one lap around my floor in 74 steps. Not bad for a guy in a bathrobe and slippers. I would do perhaps 15 minutes of walking, then rest and drink water. A lot of water. Then walk some more. Waking up in the morning after my shave and bath, before breakfast, I would do laps. Before visitors arrived, more laps. With visitors -laps. I had two dozen staples in me still, but was cautious to not overdo my efforts and cause that tingling effect of metal on sensitive skin. It was only Monday, and I desperately wanted to go home. My wish would be granted the next day.
Early Tuesday morning my surgeon came to see me again. Pleased with my progress so far he asked if I wanted to go home, and seemed satisfied with my immediate YES to his question. My nurse however was a bit more cautious, as I had not fulfilled the second requirement of my obligatory prerequisites. But I would pass that test soon: waiting in the wings was breakfast, and this time it was Oatmeal.
Oatmeal is a high fibre breakfast cereal. Lots of fluids, lots of exercise, and the effects of fibre were enough to earn my release. I was happy in a way that I think only patients who have undergone this process might understand. In a few hours I would be in my street clothes packed up and ready to leave. As my discharge paperwork progressed my nurse turned to me an said with some amusement: "Will you require a wheel chair to bring you out of the Hospital?" Another nurse chimed in "He'll probably just WALK down the stairs!". They were quite aware of how mobile I had become, and knew what my answer would be before they asked. By noon I would be outside, waiting for my ride.
The act of leaving my residence of the past five days imperceptibly freed me from the last vestiges of being a Patient. I was now a Person. Once more I was Terry McAlinden. Rain that had been routinely falling throughout the morning had ceased. The sun was shining and I breathed in that unseasonably chilly air as I stepped out of the Hospital, and into the car that would take me home.
Breakfast that Monday would be the first morsel of food I had consumed since the prior Thursday. As it always is in this type of surgery, breakfast consists of Jello and juices. The intent is to gently start up the normal processes without undue stress on the colon. However after four days of nothing but fluids my appetite was slow to return. Between the Orange Juice and and a few tiny sips of black coffee, and slurps of Raspberry Jello, I managed to finish the small portion provided. Clear fluids would be my diet initially, and slowly progress to fuller fluids. My lunch had vegetable soup - my first hot meal in days, and I drank it down greedily. Having achieved the goals of eating without incident, I was now ready to be transfered from P.O.T.U. to another floor. My Journey was literally continuing.
Before I left the P.O.T.U. however I was divested of another of my tubes: the catheter. Not always comfortable, you're not even aware you're voiding. It would be removed early that Monday morning. The process was not painful but somewhat disconcerting, as I would be an educational experience for a nurse who had never removed a catheter before. From my past surgeries, I recall this process being performed late at night (The "wee" hours of the morning?). This time it would be mid-morning with me sitting on the side of my bed, gown up to my waist, looking anywhere but at the two nurses huddled in front of me. I tried not to listen to their conversation regarding the mechanics of what they were about to do, but there was a moment when "oh..." turned into "OH!...much better thank you...". My relief was genuine and now under my own control.
"De-catheterized" I still needed to prove that I could void without problems. Being a hospital they're not about to accept my statement, they want proof. I'm instructed to use the provided plastic container, which also has graduations on it to measure volume. On my first attempt I did an impressive 500ml. Success in a hospital is not measured by extraordinary results, it's measured by how you manage normal everyday things. So far I was walking without problems, I was eating without issue and now, oh joy, I was peeing. I was deemed fit enough to move out of P.O.T.U.
My new home for the next day and a half would be room 7105A, one floor below the the P.O.T.U. For some reason however my impressive feats of filling plastic containers needed to be repeated to the satisfaction of my new nurses. I obliged with a personal best that finally allowed me to relegate the "pee bottle" to the shelf for the remainder of my stay. I was making great progress, but was still tethered to my IV. If I could get through lunch without incident it would be removed. I had another goal, one I was confident I could achieve.
Lunch didn't have Jello, it was a "full fluids" meal: milk, cream of broccoli soup, and vanilla ice cream for dessert. Having successfully taken in fluids and food without incident, my IV was disconnected, I was no longer tethered! My freedom is on the horizon! However, now that I was eating my nurses were asking me that extremely critical question: Have I passed gas?
Colon Cancer surgery removes tissue from the (empty) colon and splices it back together. Your body has not sent anything down that passage for days. It has to learn how to do that again, and it has to be 100% successful to qualify for the 'get out of Hospital free' card. Passing gas is an absolute prerequisite in the continuing transition from Patient to Person. Eating starts the normal process, but it simply takes time and can't be forced. During my stay my doctor and nurses listen intently to my belly sounds with their ever-present stethoscope. I wouldn't disappoint such an intent audience. Eventually the few meals I consumed would produce the expected results. It is my personal belief that Cream of Broccoli soup can make a brick pass gas, such was its effect after lunch. But there remained a second prerequisite that would prove the success of my surgery. Achieving this second prerequisite, ( Number Two of my goals if you would prefer) would be the key to my being released from the Hospital. Before that would happen, I would keep walking to help the process along.
Exercise after surgery is great. It's one of the few activities I could do to keep boredom away. My visitors would come to see me, and we would walk the halls of the hospital. When they were gone I would walk laps around the floor. On average, I was able to complete one lap around my floor in 74 steps. Not bad for a guy in a bathrobe and slippers. I would do perhaps 15 minutes of walking, then rest and drink water. A lot of water. Then walk some more. Waking up in the morning after my shave and bath, before breakfast, I would do laps. Before visitors arrived, more laps. With visitors -laps. I had two dozen staples in me still, but was cautious to not overdo my efforts and cause that tingling effect of metal on sensitive skin. It was only Monday, and I desperately wanted to go home. My wish would be granted the next day.
Early Tuesday morning my surgeon came to see me again. Pleased with my progress so far he asked if I wanted to go home, and seemed satisfied with my immediate YES to his question. My nurse however was a bit more cautious, as I had not fulfilled the second requirement of my obligatory prerequisites. But I would pass that test soon: waiting in the wings was breakfast, and this time it was Oatmeal.
Oatmeal is a high fibre breakfast cereal. Lots of fluids, lots of exercise, and the effects of fibre were enough to earn my release. I was happy in a way that I think only patients who have undergone this process might understand. In a few hours I would be in my street clothes packed up and ready to leave. As my discharge paperwork progressed my nurse turned to me an said with some amusement: "Will you require a wheel chair to bring you out of the Hospital?" Another nurse chimed in "He'll probably just WALK down the stairs!". They were quite aware of how mobile I had become, and knew what my answer would be before they asked. By noon I would be outside, waiting for my ride.
The act of leaving my residence of the past five days imperceptibly freed me from the last vestiges of being a Patient. I was now a Person. Once more I was Terry McAlinden. Rain that had been routinely falling throughout the morning had ceased. The sun was shining and I breathed in that unseasonably chilly air as I stepped out of the Hospital, and into the car that would take me home.
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