I have over 240 Christmas songs on a playlist. My white tree glows softly with lights that remind me of multi-hued fireflies. There are three bags of candy in my freezer; presents festooned with self-adhesive bows beneath the tree, and daily Christmas specials on my television. And yet, it could be April.
My mind just can't settle into a holiday groove. If I feel it at all, my brain slips off like Teflon. It isn't something I can force. There are too many other things to think and feel.
It bothers me that I can't find enjoyment. This could possibly be the last Christmas I ever have (though I'm hoping not), and I can't even feel the warmth of the season. I'm being cheated as I race through the dark. The bleakness itself is punishing. There is nothing fair about cancer.
On January 2nd, I have a PET scan scheduled. January 4th will include labs and an appointment with my oncologist. My 2019 is screeching in with uncertainty, and it's not the tingly, anticipatory kind.
Sunday, December 23, 2018
Monday, December 17, 2018
Record transference
Eleven days gone since I was told I have Hodgkin's. No appointments are made. A week ago, someone from City Block Hospital said they'd see what was taking so long. Silence.
"You can't sit on this, it goes fast," Dr. H. said to me during Cancer Announcement (2018 edition).
I decide to see what I can do without a long-distance plan on my phone. I don't own a cellphone. I must be an online sleuth when I call doctors—the apparent numbers for lines are never toll-free.
The hospital I want my cancer treatment through is the one that referred me to City Block Hospital. The doctors there need my updated records. I played 40 minutes of phone-tag this morning. Turns out, I can't request my own records from CBH to send them elsewhere. I can't see the doctor who saw me last year without them.
I might be looking at a suspension in motion until after the new year. I'm trying not to panic over the sluggishness. I'm trying not to panic over what my life will be like once everything is go, go, go.
In this silence, breathe... I tell myself, ...and live.
"You can't sit on this, it goes fast," Dr. H. said to me during Cancer Announcement (2018 edition).
I decide to see what I can do without a long-distance plan on my phone. I don't own a cellphone. I must be an online sleuth when I call doctors—the apparent numbers for lines are never toll-free.
The hospital I want my cancer treatment through is the one that referred me to City Block Hospital. The doctors there need my updated records. I played 40 minutes of phone-tag this morning. Turns out, I can't request my own records from CBH to send them elsewhere. I can't see the doctor who saw me last year without them.
I might be looking at a suspension in motion until after the new year. I'm trying not to panic over the sluggishness. I'm trying not to panic over what my life will be like once everything is go, go, go.
In this silence, breathe... I tell myself, ...and live.
Friday, December 7, 2018
Classic Hodgkin Lymphoma
The mass in my chest wasn't without its secrets. I will not have a pleasant, Christmas-filled December. I was given a diagnosis of Hodgkin's yesterday.
There is much testing and imaging to be done. There will be a bone marrow biopsy in my future. Chemotherapy seems likely.
I'm... numb. Fear resides, trembling, under the placidity. Beneath the reassurances of "great odds". It is one of the most treatable types of cancer. I feel nothing. Is this determination?
I have no symptoms. I've read them all. Anything that matches can be explained away because I've had certain issues for many years. Not the same thing. Does this mean I have a beginning stage?
This cancer has nothing to do with last year's cancer. I had two types of cancer growing simultaneously. If we weren't scanning for my Uterine cancer, would we have known about the danger in my chest? Should I be grateful for my other cancer because it helped us detect this one? Can cancer ever be something "good"?
If my body has already housed two types of cancer, am I due for more? Is my life span already stunted? Will I live to grow old?
There is much testing and imaging to be done. There will be a bone marrow biopsy in my future. Chemotherapy seems likely.
I'm... numb. Fear resides, trembling, under the placidity. Beneath the reassurances of "great odds". It is one of the most treatable types of cancer. I feel nothing. Is this determination?
I have no symptoms. I've read them all. Anything that matches can be explained away because I've had certain issues for many years. Not the same thing. Does this mean I have a beginning stage?
This cancer has nothing to do with last year's cancer. I had two types of cancer growing simultaneously. If we weren't scanning for my Uterine cancer, would we have known about the danger in my chest? Should I be grateful for my other cancer because it helped us detect this one? Can cancer ever be something "good"?
If my body has already housed two types of cancer, am I due for more? Is my life span already stunted? Will I live to grow old?
Saturday, December 1, 2018
Surgery and Beyond
Snatches of memory:
I'm suspended in midair in what I think of as a sex swing (but is really a Hoyer Lift).
Bee-needles of numbing agent pummel my back for my epidural. The anesthesiologist sends zings down my body because she keeps hitting nerves. I get to see my blood pressure and heart rate dive as I ready to pass out.
I pull a bloody tube out of my nose after sedation. It scratches my throat to hell.
I'm in the ICU for observation. I feel I don't deserve to be there.
Someone tells me I'm missing a rib. I'm hallucinating from the drugs. I'm actually missing a section of rib.
~*~*~*~
My incision is on the front of my chest because my surgeon thought recovery would come easier. It's approximately four inches long. I might have a scar that's visible even while fully dressed. I don't mind much.
~*~*~*~
The trip home was four hours. My pain medicine lasted three. Pale and shaking, I hoisted myself onto my toilet after we got home. I made it, though the pain was excruciating and exquisite. I thought it'd be worse.
~*~*~*~
My hospital stay lasted just two days. I was home for Thanksgiving after all.
Nurses check my vitals and healing twice a week so I don't need rehab. Two therapists evaluated me to make sure I can do everything my pre-surgery self could do; they confirmed I don't need them.
~*~*~*~
I have significant nerve damage in my left breast, the swathe of skin impacted surprises me. Few people will tell you how odd nerve damage can be... or how much it can hurt.
~*~*~*~
The mass doesn't seem to be cancerous. I could officially be declared cancer-free right around my 34th birthday. Part of a rib is the price. A scar I trace with my fingertips and ponder, just for a moment, what could've been.
I'm suspended in midair in what I think of as a sex swing (but is really a Hoyer Lift).
Bee-needles of numbing agent pummel my back for my epidural. The anesthesiologist sends zings down my body because she keeps hitting nerves. I get to see my blood pressure and heart rate dive as I ready to pass out.
I pull a bloody tube out of my nose after sedation. It scratches my throat to hell.
I'm in the ICU for observation. I feel I don't deserve to be there.
Someone tells me I'm missing a rib. I'm hallucinating from the drugs. I'm actually missing a section of rib.
~*~*~*~
My incision is on the front of my chest because my surgeon thought recovery would come easier. It's approximately four inches long. I might have a scar that's visible even while fully dressed. I don't mind much.
~*~*~*~
The trip home was four hours. My pain medicine lasted three. Pale and shaking, I hoisted myself onto my toilet after we got home. I made it, though the pain was excruciating and exquisite. I thought it'd be worse.
~*~*~*~
My hospital stay lasted just two days. I was home for Thanksgiving after all.
Nurses check my vitals and healing twice a week so I don't need rehab. Two therapists evaluated me to make sure I can do everything my pre-surgery self could do; they confirmed I don't need them.
~*~*~*~
I have significant nerve damage in my left breast, the swathe of skin impacted surprises me. Few people will tell you how odd nerve damage can be... or how much it can hurt.
~*~*~*~
The mass doesn't seem to be cancerous. I could officially be declared cancer-free right around my 34th birthday. Part of a rib is the price. A scar I trace with my fingertips and ponder, just for a moment, what could've been.
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