I’m not gonna lie – I was not expecting to have to bring you the news of another recurrence of my cancer so soon. According to my quite flawed and in no way scientific calculations, I shouldn’t have had to write this particular blog post until mid-2011 at the earliest. And yet, here we are.
This time, it is a tiny spot (i.e. less than 2 cm) in my shoulder (“the neck of the scapula” to be precise) that was found on my routine PET/CT on the 8th (you know it can’t be good when the oncologist calls you mere hours after you’ve completed the exam). Truthfully, I had kind of expected this news – a shoulder MRI that I’d had earlier for a separate (minor) problem showed a suspicious lesion and my tumor markers were rising. What I didn’t expect was that the PET also showed a few very small (“none larger than .8 cm”) lesions in my left armpit lymph nodes. That for sure didn’t mesh with the construct I’d fabricated for my disease based on its history - one small lesion at a time in the bone only, take care of that and then enjoy the time in between disease-free and maybe, just maybe I have beat it for good. My blissful state of denial is officially over.
“What does this mean?” I asked my oncologist, opening the door for a series of best-case scenario statements that may or may not turn out to be true:
“It might not even be cancerous – there’s no way to know for sure without a biopsy”
“Let’s do the blood work again – maybe the results were an anomaly”
“The tumors are so small it’s not even worth doing surgery/chemotherapy/radiation at this point, especially since you aren’t experiencing any pain”
“We should be able to control the tumor growth by continuing with the hormone therapy, maybe adding a drug to increase effectiveness”
I understand that metastatic breast cancer is incurable, but I often tell myself that maybe I will be the exception. I understand that I have already beaten so many odds by surviving as long as I have, but I eagerly devour stories of women with stage IV who’ve lived 17 years, 22 years, 27 years after diagnosis. I understand that this disease is, in fact, a killer (not necessarily of me, and not necessarily any time soon but a killer nonetheless) but I tell my children that it’s more like a chronic disease that must be managed (like diabetes or cold sores) so that they don’t worry while they’re away at college. And I understand that no one wants this diagnosis to be true about me, but it is and I am sorry for once again visiting it upon you.
My next oncologist’s appointment is later this week and I’m sure by then I will have a clearer picture of the treatment plan. I AM optimistic that it will not involve major surgery or debilitating chemo at this time – but I spend a lot of time fooling myself. And I’m glad I do.
Blessings and Love to All.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
I Wanna Be Sedated
Tuesday I finally went to get the dental implants in the left side of my jaw/fibula. While I didn’t feel I needed them for functionality (hey, I can eat steak and bagels! Who needs teeth?), my oral surgeon advised that they were necessary for overall jaw health both in the fibula bone and also for the opposing upper teeth.
This surgery actually scared me a bit more than the original surgery last year; I was fearful of damaging the fibula, which would have necessitated more (and more difficult) surgery than just implants. But it went well – despite the fact that my oral surgeon needed to use large chucks to get my mouth open wide enough for his dental instruments. Not surprisingly – it hurt like hell, at least until I was able to relax a little. And all of this without any kind of sedation, twilight sleep or laughing gas. In fact, he didn’t even have to massively numb my mouth because there’s no feeling in the jaw; he used just a little bit of novocaine “just in case.” Just in case? Is there a nerve there or not? It made me paranoid to the point where I flinched a few times despite not feeling any pain, just a little bit of pressure (well…a lot of pressure. It is bone after all). As uncomfortable as it was, though, it only took about an hour and I was feeling good enough afterward that I was able to head in to work.
The real fun began later. I left work a little early, after starting to feel some pain in the mandible, gum and cheek as the novocaine wore off. After filling my prescriptions (antibiotics, painkillers) I went home; ate a little (soft) something; marveled that I once again had a swollen face (not a good look for me, I can tell you); and realized the pain was pretty steady and strong and that I needed to partake of some Tylenol + Codeine. Now, I’m not a big fan of narcotics (always seem to have a headache the next day), but I do appreciate that they work and well, yeah, I do seem to get a nice, happy (temporary) buzz from them. So…I took one and sat down to watch my Monday night shows (thank God “House” didn’t feature any sicknesses, scans, or symptoms that I’m familiar with – usually I end up shouting out “Hey, I had that test!” at some point during the show). Three hours later I’m ready for bed and conscious of the fact that a) I am still in pain; and b) I am still completely sober and coherent. The painkiller has had no effect.
I make the fateful decision to take another, even though it hasn’t been 6 hours. The instructions (yes, I read them – this is DonnaLee we’re talking about here) did say that a patient might need two if one doesn’t work. Of course, they also said one could supplement with ibuprofen. But I figured after 3 hours another one would be fine (forgetting that these instructions may apply to a 180 pound man but not necessarily to a 110 pound woman) and that maybe, just maybe, it would be OK, that I could tolerate another dose just fine, especially since the first one seemed to be a dud. As Alex Rodriguez would say – “Ha!”
I woke up an hour or so later with some serious heartburn and a definite awareness of my now-altered state. I tried sitting up; I tried walking (um, staggering) a bit; I tried sleeping in different positions; and I finally went to the bathroom, just off our bedroom. Next thing I know, Warren is picking me up off the bathroom floor – he heard a thump. That was me…going down…with a bump on my head to prove it. According to Warren (the story now becomes his as I am clearly out of it), he tried to help me back to bed whereupon I had a small seizure (probably, as we later found out, due to dehydration as well as the medication) and lay rigid on the bed, eyes wide open, perhaps even not breathing. Poor Warren, with the telephone in hand ready to dial 911, thought I was gone. I mean, really gone. At least until a second later when I bolted upright, gasped, and told him I felt nauseous. The next hour was scary for both of us (at one point, Warren got cold and clammy and dizzy and I urged him to check the carbon monoxide detectors – but there were no CO readings and Pixie, our “shih-tzu in a coal mine” was fine), with me vomiting and Warren debating whether or not to run across the street to MJ’s for help. Luckily, I gradually felt better and after reading (again) the prescription information and warnings, I surmise that what I had probably experienced was a good old-fashioned drug overdose.
A day of recovery (no, not at the Betty Ford Treatment Center) on Wednesday and I was good as new, back at work, still swollen from the surgery but in no pain and eating and drinking normally. By the weekend I had plenty of energy (went to spin class Saturday, taught Sunday school, did laundry, cleaned the house, etc.) and I actually feel pretty darn good, even excited that in a few months when the jaw if fully healed, I’ll have teeth on the left side again.
And despite how frightening (for Warren more so than for me!) this incident was I am grateful that he didn’t call an ambulance. Can’t you picture it? “So you have incurable, metastatic breast cancer and this overdose was ‘accidental’ Ms. Stewart, is that correct? Are you…sure? Let’s give you a little sedative to take the edge off and talk about it here in our Psych ward for a few days!” To which I would need to respond – “Are you kidding me? And miss the Yankees winning their Division Series?” Now THAT would be crazy!
Blessings and Love to All.
This surgery actually scared me a bit more than the original surgery last year; I was fearful of damaging the fibula, which would have necessitated more (and more difficult) surgery than just implants. But it went well – despite the fact that my oral surgeon needed to use large chucks to get my mouth open wide enough for his dental instruments. Not surprisingly – it hurt like hell, at least until I was able to relax a little. And all of this without any kind of sedation, twilight sleep or laughing gas. In fact, he didn’t even have to massively numb my mouth because there’s no feeling in the jaw; he used just a little bit of novocaine “just in case.” Just in case? Is there a nerve there or not? It made me paranoid to the point where I flinched a few times despite not feeling any pain, just a little bit of pressure (well…a lot of pressure. It is bone after all). As uncomfortable as it was, though, it only took about an hour and I was feeling good enough afterward that I was able to head in to work.
The real fun began later. I left work a little early, after starting to feel some pain in the mandible, gum and cheek as the novocaine wore off. After filling my prescriptions (antibiotics, painkillers) I went home; ate a little (soft) something; marveled that I once again had a swollen face (not a good look for me, I can tell you); and realized the pain was pretty steady and strong and that I needed to partake of some Tylenol + Codeine. Now, I’m not a big fan of narcotics (always seem to have a headache the next day), but I do appreciate that they work and well, yeah, I do seem to get a nice, happy (temporary) buzz from them. So…I took one and sat down to watch my Monday night shows (thank God “House” didn’t feature any sicknesses, scans, or symptoms that I’m familiar with – usually I end up shouting out “Hey, I had that test!” at some point during the show). Three hours later I’m ready for bed and conscious of the fact that a) I am still in pain; and b) I am still completely sober and coherent. The painkiller has had no effect.
I make the fateful decision to take another, even though it hasn’t been 6 hours. The instructions (yes, I read them – this is DonnaLee we’re talking about here) did say that a patient might need two if one doesn’t work. Of course, they also said one could supplement with ibuprofen. But I figured after 3 hours another one would be fine (forgetting that these instructions may apply to a 180 pound man but not necessarily to a 110 pound woman) and that maybe, just maybe, it would be OK, that I could tolerate another dose just fine, especially since the first one seemed to be a dud. As Alex Rodriguez would say – “Ha!”
I woke up an hour or so later with some serious heartburn and a definite awareness of my now-altered state. I tried sitting up; I tried walking (um, staggering) a bit; I tried sleeping in different positions; and I finally went to the bathroom, just off our bedroom. Next thing I know, Warren is picking me up off the bathroom floor – he heard a thump. That was me…going down…with a bump on my head to prove it. According to Warren (the story now becomes his as I am clearly out of it), he tried to help me back to bed whereupon I had a small seizure (probably, as we later found out, due to dehydration as well as the medication) and lay rigid on the bed, eyes wide open, perhaps even not breathing. Poor Warren, with the telephone in hand ready to dial 911, thought I was gone. I mean, really gone. At least until a second later when I bolted upright, gasped, and told him I felt nauseous. The next hour was scary for both of us (at one point, Warren got cold and clammy and dizzy and I urged him to check the carbon monoxide detectors – but there were no CO readings and Pixie, our “shih-tzu in a coal mine” was fine), with me vomiting and Warren debating whether or not to run across the street to MJ’s for help. Luckily, I gradually felt better and after reading (again) the prescription information and warnings, I surmise that what I had probably experienced was a good old-fashioned drug overdose.
A day of recovery (no, not at the Betty Ford Treatment Center) on Wednesday and I was good as new, back at work, still swollen from the surgery but in no pain and eating and drinking normally. By the weekend I had plenty of energy (went to spin class Saturday, taught Sunday school, did laundry, cleaned the house, etc.) and I actually feel pretty darn good, even excited that in a few months when the jaw if fully healed, I’ll have teeth on the left side again.
And despite how frightening (for Warren more so than for me!) this incident was I am grateful that he didn’t call an ambulance. Can’t you picture it? “So you have incurable, metastatic breast cancer and this overdose was ‘accidental’ Ms. Stewart, is that correct? Are you…sure? Let’s give you a little sedative to take the edge off and talk about it here in our Psych ward for a few days!” To which I would need to respond – “Are you kidding me? And miss the Yankees winning their Division Series?” Now THAT would be crazy!
Blessings and Love to All.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
