I cannot think of anything interesting to write about today. Everyone always wants to know how I first knew I had the “C” so I guess I will tell that story. I am foggy on the exact sequence of events. I don’t even know if it was July or August. I think it was July but my mom, Carrot, has written that it was August. She is probably right. Strange how I cannot mark the single most important day in my life with certainty. I remember going to Doctor #1 because I had a pain in my side. I remember being scared that they would want to take blood. I am terrified of needles. Hundreds of sticks later and it still takes all the courage I can muster to stretch my arm out and get poked. I still can’t do it without “medicinal support.” Handfuls of Ativan. I remember lying on the table getting the sonogram which was supposed to show that I had a gallbladder problem. I remember Sonogram Tech #1 saying to Sonogram Tech #2, “Look at all of that in there!” I remember being given two big glasses of barium to drink. I remember Carrot being impressed with how quickly I got it down. I remember walking down a long hall to a CT machine. I don’t remember anything else about that first day. I am told that after that we went into a room where Doctor #1 told us that he thought it was the OC. I can recall absolutely nothing about that conversation. Back home. Terror so overwhelming that I cannot process it. Doctor #1 brings the results of the CT scan to my parents’ house. Doctor #1 talks to my dad, PJ. PJ comes in with a book. He shows me a statistic. “45% of people diagnosed with the OC live five years.” Lying on my stomach in bed. Pushing on my abdomen. I feel something hard and like a sausage. I convince myself I am constipated. I talk to the brother of a friend at MD Anderson. He is one of my angels. He arranges to get me into MDA the following Monday. He asks if I have had a CA-125. I don’t know what that is. I don’t yet speak the language. I will learn it quickly. I wish I didn’t know it. Getting a CA-125 requires getting stuck. I don’t want one. He asks if I have noticed any bloating. While he is talking, I pull my shirt up and look at my stomach. It looks like I have swallowed a watermelon. How had I not noticed that? I try to suck it in. I try to remember all of the big meals I have eaten in the past couple of days. It is probably because I have been eating too much. I cannot suck it in. We drive to Houston. It is Sunday night. Carrot and PJ are trying to make me feel better. They drive to find the hospital so we won’t be late for our appointment. I see a bald, skinny, gray-skinned, cancer-ish looking man hooked up to his chemo bag rolling down the street in a wheelchair. I freak. Is that going to be me? I am nasty to Carrot and PJ. I snap at them. They are solid. My rocks. This will become a pattern. I am mean and they are understanding. Keeping their fear hidden for me. We spend the night at La Quinta. I am so afraid I literally cannot speak. We get to MDA. We ride the elevator to the eighth floor. I fill out lots of forms. Still speechless. I am only 37 years old. Too young. I am holding the films from my CT scan. I have not looked at them. I do not know that in just three minutes my life will never be the same. An intern will walk in and matter-of-factly state to me, “As you know, there are three tumors. One on your ovary and two in your abdomen.” I do not know that there are three tumors. I still do not know if that is because I had blocked the conversation with Doctor #1 or because I had not yet been told. I cannot breathe. At all. I lay down on the floor in the examining room. I tell the intern I need Ativan. I feel as if I am literally going to explode. I grab my purse and swallow Ativan. The intern is panicking. She doesn’t know what to do with this reaction. She gets Doctor #2. He is cold. I nickname him “Dr. Cold”. He leads me out of the exam room into a conference room. I ask to see my parents. They are brought in. I ask Dr. Cold if I can be cured. He says he does not know. He does not blink.
Speaking the language and Dr. Cold are two other “fun” things I wish I did not know about Cancer.
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I'm trying to decide whether or not I should respond to this post--the powers that be seem aligned against it. Last night, I wiped out over an hour's work. Today, I wiped out 15 minutes' worth. If this one disappears, I'm taking it as a sign I need to keep my thoughts to myself.
ReplyDeleteThese memories are not easy to relive emotionally, much less to articulate. Andi is a gifted writer; I read her blogs and know that I am not. But I want to give her my pieces of the puzzle in case they matter.
For me, the sequence of events seems much too clear. A daughter who has been feeling puny for several months asks me to make a doctor's appointment for her in Tyler and to come pick her up in Austin. This daughter is terrified of doctors; I am worried. I don’t drive my car; I drive PJ’s teal Ford-150 pickup. Why does my mind store such a trivial detail? I don't know. I go to Andi's office. I haven’t seen her since the end of May, and it’s now the end of July. She has lost weight and doesn't look like she feels well. She admits she's been having a pain in her side and that she can't eat without taking mouthfuls of Tums. I am afraid. I want this to be one of those bad dreams that are terrifyingly real until you wake up. I have already lost a sister to cancer. There is no way to stem the flow of memories or the adrenalin pumping like Spindletop. But Andi has a friend, an internist, who thinks it is her gall bladder. I begin to breathe again. There is hope. There is a sensible explanation for my daughter's symptoms. We make the trip back to Tyler that night and head to the doctor's office the next morning. Obviously nervous...anxious to confirm the gallbladder diagnosis or maybe something even less invasive.... continued in next post
Andi is examined by Dr. #1, who escorts her back to the waiting room and recommends an ultrasound "just to be sure." He smiles pleasantly; Andi's Dad and I breathe a collective sigh of relief. I go with Andi for the ultrasound and am put in an inobtrusive seat, but I can still watch the procedure. Tick tock. Tick tock. What am I thinking? “The ultrasound is taking too long. Why is it taking so long?” Two technicians glance furtively at one another. I can’t hear their conversation, though apparently Andi can. (She and I have never talked about those early days.) Finally the test is over; we go home to wait for the reassuring phone call that never comes. We wait...and wait...and wait. Tension builds. Three sets of eyes stare blankly at a surreal television screen; its speakers defy the moratorium on talking. Finally, around 7 p.m. the phone rings. The doctor tells Andi it's not her gall bladder but something on her ovaries, and he would like to do a CAT scan on Monday. The hospital will call on Friday to set up a time for the scan. The phone clicks. It is Thursday evening. Not gallbladder. Ovaries. CAT scan. CAT scan. Not gallbladder, ovaries. If ovaries, then what? CAT scan. That is all we know and all we will know for four interminable days.
ReplyDeleteStark fear crams each of us in isolation suits. We suffer alone. Words of comfort are paltry, pathetic offerings that punctuate long periods of silence. No one eats. I watch my precious child sit on our sloping lawn for hours, her back to the house, motionless except for an occasional frisbee toss to her oblivious pup Vito. Oh, to be a dog! Anything that cannot love another human being so deeply or look into her eyes and see unbridled fear.
On Monday Andi, PJ, and I head back to the hospital for the CT scan. PJ is good at small talk. He tries his best to talk a lot about not much. Andi is taken back for the test and returns to the waiting room. We wait … wait … wait … Hours later, Dr. #1 comes and gets us personally and takes us back to his office. By now I think I know how where this nightmare is headed. We are offered seats. The doctor sits companionably, not behind his desk but on it. His body language is misleading; without warning, he spits out the preliminary diagnosis: Ovarian Cancer Stage III and asks where Andi would like to go for treatment. She is in shock; to this day, she does not remember this discussion. She chooses M.D. Anderson. I am thankful she is choosing treatment. I know all about her phobia of doctors, needles, medical procedures of any kind. This is the child who would have dropped out of school at 15 rather than get her immunization boosters if she had been allowed to choose. At first I am inclined to think Dr. #1 is Dr. Cold: What kind of doctor blurts out such horrific news? How could he be so matter-of-fact, so professional, so unemotional? Later, I realize what a difficult moment this must have been for Dr. #1, who is PJ’s friend and had worked Andi into his schedule as a personal favor. Gallbladders aren’t even his specialty, much less ovaries. Sugarcoat this bitter pill? Not even if you had the magical powers of Mary Poppins.
Later on, Andi says, Dr. #1 brought the CAT scans to our house—I suppose so she could hand carry them to MDA. I don’t remember that visit. I do not know that my daughter is shut in her room staring at her distended belly, pushing on her abdomen and feeling something hard. I am still in my isolation suit. I am hoping there has been a horrible mistake. Dr. #1 is not an oncologist. What does he know? We need to talk to the experts. In the meantime, we will be optimistic.
Exactly one week from Dr. #1’s tentative diagnosis, Andi is stretched out on the examining room floor at M.D. Anderson, and PJ and I are sitting in the waiting room on the 6th floor of the Mays Building, which is the one with the tree sculpture. Later, the receptionist stamps our parking ticket. First visits are free.
The tree sculpture, parking lots, and waiting rooms are “fun” things I wish I didn’t know about M.D. Anderson.
Thanks for filling in the blanks, Carrot. I guess I missed about three days in there. Good times! :D
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