The Dentist

A few days before the CT progress check, as I'm getting ready for bed I start having pain in my lower jaw. It goes from mild to severe in a matter of hours. Thankfully I'm a walking pharmacy and have pain meds!

The next morning I search for a dentist. Fun fact. It's nearly impossible to find a dental office open on a Friday. I find one, Berkley Lake Dental (has fantastic reviews on Yelp), his office is in-network, but I have to wait until Saturday. The pain is strange, and I'm having a hard time deciding between dentist or doctor, I reach out to my hygienist friend. She finds it odd as well, but wants me to keep the appointment. Seriously. It never ends. I'm in a constant state of what crazy health thing will happen next?!

Note:  I have not been to a dentist in YEARS. I hate dentists. As a kid, I had a lot of crazy stuff done. Never had cavities, but I was always walking away in pain. Always! As an adult, if dental anxiety is a thing I have it! At the very least, I'm expecting two cavities. 

The hygienist does her thing. Counting plaque and taking X-rays. The dentist comes in to review the X-rays. Four cavities, a root canal and "deep" cleaning. Now it's been a while, but every time I've been to a dentist when diagnosing they point out the problem on X-ray. This dentist did not. Fearing the cost, the treatment plan isn't bad. He even offered additional discounts. 

We schedule the root canal for the week after Thanksgiving. And as we leave he prescribes an antibiotic. Now, I'm incredibly thorough when it comes to filling out medical history and all things medication. I'm already taking an antibiotic for the infection, an additional antibiotic isn't necessary. 

My hygienist friend already warned me about the "deep" cleaning. If you haven't been to a dentist in a while, it's basically code for schedule a deep cleaning and typically unnecessary. She also explained "good" dentists don't do root canals themselves, but refer you to an endodontist. An endodontist specializes in root canals, they have the specialized equipment so it's faster and pain free. The are the dental pro red flags. 

My personal red flags. Not showing me the X-ray at diagnosis. And most important, he wasn't very thorough with my medical history & medication. My point in going was to find out if this was medical or dental pain. My medical history didn't seem like a consideration. Quite honestly, the pain was around the lymph node area and my greatest fear was the cancer had spread. 

After the appointment I call my friend, and go over the details. Something just doesn't seem right. He's nice enough, but the discount starts to feel less about being nice and more his way of making up for sticking it to the cancer patient. Trust your gut! My friend wanted me to visit her dentist for a second opinion. 

By Sunday, the pain that was once severe starts to lessen. By Monday, I only take pain meds to manage the drain tube pain and even that seems minimal compared to Saturday's pain level. 

My friend was able to get me squeezed in for an appointment Monday after the CT. My insurance would not cover additional X-rays, but the dentist eats the cost. (wow) He does a little plaque check. He pulls up the X-ray on the screen in front of the chair. Hello! Four cavities, no deep cleaning, no root canal. Not so much as a cavity in the tooth nutbag dentist at Berkley Lake Dental in Duluth GA diagnosed the root canal. The pain was most likely a hematoma. 

My dear friend just saved me $1500 & some serious PAIN!

As far as nutbag dentist at Berkley Lake Dental in Duluth GA, he can eat my cancer. Yeah. He knew I had cancer. He knew I had been through chemo. And surgery. And so much pain this year. And just because he wanted to earn an extra buck, he was prepared to put me through even more pain. 

More importantly, he very well could have caused delayed diagnosis of something much more severe. This guy is dangerous!

How on Earth do you begin to feel good about yourself? You, Dr. Duc Huynh, are a jack ass! Did offering discounts make you feel better about yourself? You know, I never say eff cancer because I'm quite thankful for the experience and things I've learned, but Dr. Duc Huynh DDS at Berkley Lake Dental in Duluth GA...eff YOU!!!

So yep, I haven't felt this miffed in a long time. Don't mess with the cancer patient! When you exploit their pain to fill your pocket, it is you, Dr. Duc Huynh DDS at Berkley Lake Dental in Duluth GA that will get what you deserve. Don't want to mess with the cancer patient that has some SEO skills. 

Treatment plan from Dr. Duc Huynh DDS at Berkley Lake Dental in Duluth GA:

Treatment plan from the honest dentist:

Drained

Dr. V has no explanation for the fluid return. He thinks it could be possible Dr. S perforated my bowel during surgery, and if that's the case I would need surgery to make repairs. Another surgery!? He orders a CT with barium to check for any "leaks" (his word). 

This is where I fall more deeply in love with Dr. H's office staff. When Dr. H orders a CT, it's scheduled at check out within minutes. When Dr. V orders a CT, I have to call and bark at his office staff to get it scheduled. After multiple calls, over several days, the CT with barium is scheduled for Friday. 

Later, as I'm drinking the blasted barium, I learned the scheduling delay was because the radiologist argued the procedure wouldn't show what Dr. V wanted so he changed it to a CT for better imagery. Yeah. You don't want to tell someone drinking barium the test may not work. Especially someone in my mental state...

Mindset:

What is a word for worse than miserable? My birthday is around the corner. I never make birthday plans, but this year I wanted to do something special. The last two months have been full of hospitals and doctors offices. I desperately needed time for myself. A moment to live. To forget C and celebrate another year lived. 

Now there is a possibility of an additional surgery, which would kill our vacation plans. A vacation that was planned a year ago, months before C re-entered our world. And who cares about me, Fred needs this vacation. He deserves a break from a being caregiver. Good grief. I know that stress. I know that heartbreak. And it kills me that I can't do anything make it better. He has given of himself so much, and I haven't been able to do anything in return. But I can make sure he has a fun & relaxing vacation. Please, sweet Jesus, let me give him this one thing!

The number of tears I have shed during this infection are innumerable. Its winning on so many levels and I hate it! I mean, loosing my hair and identity was a low point...but I still had a life. This is not a life. 

---

The Monday following the CT. We arrive at Dr. V's office for the regularly schedule supply pick. And wait...

"Oh, can you guys come back later today? Dr. V wants to meet with you and go over the CT results."

Dude. I'm pretty sure it's a miracle Fred didn't jump the woman. Sure lady. We don't have jobs like you. He explains to the woman that he has taken off work in order to be there, and now she's asking him to take more time. She looked at him as though he was speaking Mandarin. Consideration of others time, what is that?! And now I officially HATE this office.

We return. And wait all over again. Finally some good news. (Good news usually gets an exclamation point, but I'm so drained at this point my cheer is broken.) The fluid is clearing three more weeks of antibiotic, and if the drain is clear it can be pulled this week. He orders a CT for the week of Thanksgiving to check progress. And it's that fast. From scaring me with surgery to all is well. The C roller coaster is super fun guys!

Another Day, Another Drain

Three weeks pass. I'm feeling better, and am able to get out and drive myself for the first time since the liver surgery. Dr. V orders a CT to check the fluid has/is clear. The results are not good. The fluid has returned, and needs to be drained. An additional two weeks of IV antibiotics. 

Just as I start to feel better, this infection knocks me back down. And sure enough by the weekend I'm feeling the pain again. 

By this point I'm an old friend with all the nurses at the outpatient center, I walk in and one of the nurses sees me and gives me a hug. (50 points!) Today my nurse is Cletus (Janice...she has lots of names). 

Cletus was with me when the first drain was placed, so she knows how much pain I went through. And the same doctor for the procedure, so based on the previous pain he picks a different route for the catheter. No under boob this time! 

It is much easier going in blind not knowing the pain you're about to experience. Once you know, nerves and anxiety take over. Cletus held my hand the entire procedure, and anytime I started to squeeze her hand she pushed a little more sedative. Thankfully going through my back was much less painful than the under boob. Shocking, I know. 

The drain is left in place, and I get to go home with a bag wrapped around my leg. It's painful to move, but I can walk upright vs hunched over with the under boob drain. Small blessings. But the drain makes me miserable. I feel good, but it's too painful to get out and live, and I know once it's removed I can live again. 

I spend the next two weeks at home in bed only getting out for our weekly IV supply run. The drain is clear, but week two the abscess fluid returns. Before the drain was place, we had planned a get together with my dad's family. I was desperately hoping the drain would be pulled & I could enjoy that time pain free. But no, the infection wins again. 

Boob Rigged

So you'd think once a drain tube is removed the pain goes away, but this is not the case. The morning after being released from the hospital, I have an appointment with the Russian's office for IV training. Recall the drain tube site was basically my under boob. Right where underwire or elastic of a sports bra hits. You get where I'm going. I was going bra-less. To some no big deal. To others...

Pain. Walking hunched over with my right arm bent to support my boob. The Russian's staff looks at me like I'm a complete idiot. "Girrrrl! Why you walking like that? What's going on wich your boob?" I explain. "Well girl, we gotta rig that mess up. Can't have you walking around like that!" They grab a roll of gauze and get to work. When finished, I have a figure 8 wrapped from boob to neck. And it worked. 

Then they get to the business of teaching me the IV routine. The process itself isn't a problem, but the whole scheduling life around the IV schedule...not so fun. I get my first infusion in his office, and other than leaving a funky taste in my mouth that made me a little nauseous all goes well. 

We return home, and as scheduled I start the second infusion. Nausea is worse. By the time I complete the third infusion, I'm reaching for a barf bags. (By now Fred keeps them strategically placed around the house, I typically don't get much warning when nausea hits.) We call the 24-hour nurse line. She tells me to stop infusions until further notice. 

The next morning Dr. V's office calls. We need to go back to his office and pick up supplies, he wants me to switch back to the first antibiotic I received in the hospital. Recall he switched meds in the hospital, but I only got one infusion in because he forgot to put in the orders. So if he had done his job, we would have known antibiotic #2 makes me sick. Fantastic! 

This is a Thursday. I can't drive myself, and by this point Fred has taken off far too much work, so we make an appointment to pick up the new antibiotic/supplies Monday. We get to his office around 9AM, and wait. And wait. And wait some more. They finally call my name...

"Oh, I'm sorry antibiotic #1 is on back order you'll have to stick with what you have." 

Guys. We about lost it. First, Dr. V's office is not what I would consider a convenient drive. Second, they had since Thursday to figure out the back order situation AND call us. More importantly why did we have to sit for 45 minutes in the waiting room for nothing! They may have rigged my boob, but I'm otherwise thoroughly unimpressed with Dr. V's office. 

About Nurses

The nursing staff at Gwinnett Medical Duluth deserves some praise. While I was terribly miserable in the gerbil cage, they kept me laughing and entertained. I guess it comes with being young and not a complainer, but fairly often they would come into my room just to chat. So see terrible-awful Emory GenPop nursing staff, it's not me - it's YOU! 

It's here that, try as I may, I have accepted I'm never going to be able to connect with Asian nurses. The older the more difficult. Its cultural. You are their job. Filipino totally different. I recognize the accent. Talk about lumpia and throw out the only Tagalog word I know and I've got 'em! Yep, totally made it a game at this point. 

-10 points:  make the Asian nurse smile

-100 points:  make the Asian nurse laugh

-1 billion points:  Asian nurse gently removes a bandage

[Note:  Filipinos are Pacific Islanders not Asians, but I know...white people have difficulties distinguishing the two. If you're going to call them Asian, call them happy Asians. Watch Manny Pacquiao enter a boxing ring and you'll understand.]

It's here the nurses share hilarious stories about other patients. Like the guy that, not even kidding, asked the nurse for a back rub. I nearly laughed out the drain tube from that one. Or the man (not elderly, not paralyzed, no broken bone, or so much as a scratch on one arm) asked if the nurse was going to feed him his lunch. I was in such shock I couldn't even laugh. Either his wife does everything for him including wipe his butt, or the man is watching way too much porn!

It's here, that although I've heard it over and over, I start to accept that yes I am a positive person. And I can't quite understand why they tell me this. They always ask (because I'm young), I share my story (caregiver turned cancer patient), and they tell me I have a good attitude. Is it a feeling I project? Is it because I smile and make jokes? Or simply that I don't break down in tears? And in fact, on occasion, my story brings them to tears. Basically, show me the opposite so I can understand what a bad attitude looks like. 

It's here I get my first hug from a nurse because, while happy for me, she was sad to have me leave. And it's here I make it a challenge, 50 points per hug. 

Hospital for Days

Weekend hospitalists. Those in the know...KNOW! They don't understand your personal case, and they don't bother, so they give orders to take the most random junk meds that cause more harm than good. 

This time the hospitalist had a genius idea. I was anemic, so he ordered iron pills. Pills. Recall my visit with Dr. H, before all this started, was for an iron infusion. Well, I was stupid and took them knowing exactly what would happen. Stomach cramps, metal mouth, and because everything tastes like metal I loose my appetite. 

After three doses, I refuse to take anymore iron, but my appetite is already dead. And then the hospitalist freaks out because I'm not eating, so genius orders Ensure & sends in the hospital nutritionist. 

Ensure. Not sure if you've ever tried Ensure, I myself have only attempted the "juice" version. They should have named it Liquid Sand. It sucks all the moisture from your mouth and leaves behind a delicious gritty feeling. Lovely, right? Refused that asinine order without batting an eyelash. 

Oh, the poor nutritionist...

Before this tale you need to fully understand my mindset. I was admitted into the semi-ICU. At Gwinnett Medical Duluth, that means a room with windows for a door and a privacy curtain that no one fully closes when they exit. Basically an introvert's version of Hell. The drain tube made it terribly painful to move, so simply getting up and closing the curtain wasn't so simple (especially when attached to an IV pole). Hell I tell you. Visitors walking by looking into your room like you're a caged monkey. Pure Hell. Add in some nutty hospitalist's orders, and now the scene is fully set. 

I was not wearing my wig, so even if she hadn't reviewed my chart, it's pretty clear I've been on chemo. She asks why I'm not eating. Because everything tastes like metal. Because doc ordered iron pills that my personal doc wouldn't even think to prescribe. Oh boy, I gave her some attitude. She asks if I've lost weight recently. I'm not sure how I didn't bust out laughing, but I do turn and give Fred the "bitch lost her damn mind" look. (Sorry. That's what it's called. And you know that look because you have one yourself!) Eventually she leaves, probably thinking I'm pretty much the rudest person. Ever. Grace hit the escape button that day. 

Monday comes. Monday I'm told I'll get out Tuesday. Tuesday I'm told Wednesday. I'm getting frustrated. Stuck in a gerbil cage of a room with zero privacy loosing my mind. Tuesday night the social worker comes in and tells me Dr. H's office told her Friday. TEARS! Fred fills her in on why I'm crying. 

[We later find out the social worker flat out lied, and Dr. H's office never said Friday. In fact, she told them Friday because of paperwork she would need to file.]

Wednesday comes. Dr. H says it's up to the Russian (Dr. V, the infectious disease doctor). The Russian says I'm good to go, but wanted me to try a new antibiotic. One he wanted me to be using for several days, but never put in the order. 

My Aunt comes in for a visit, I get one IV bag in, the drain tube gets removed, and I'm out the door within maybe forty-five minutes. I'm scheduled to visit the Russian's office the next morning to pick up supplies, and learn the IV routine. 

Abscess Treatment Plan:  

IV antibiotic, 3 times/day, every 8 hours for four weeks. 

Meaning no chemo for at least six weeks. Meaning while I had everything perfectly scheduled, and my 12 rounds of chemo & reversal surgery would have been completed by year-end, that perfect schedule just blew up in my face. I wanted so desperately to start 2016 fresh. And more importantly, before our insurance deductible reset. So, after some tears, I edit my thought process:  I'll get my 12 rounds in & start 2016 chemo free!

The Infection

The day after liver surgery I had a blood clot and right lung collapse. No chest tube. They sent me to ICU, gave me high flow oxygen, and let it "reinflate" itself. This meant when I left the hospital, I still had fluid around the lung. 

Two weeks later I returned for a follow up MRI. The fluid was still there, but Dr. S's thought was it would clear itself naturally. And natural is always better than shoving a catheter into someone's back to drain and risk infection...hahaha. Ha. Infection. Funny story. 

Another two weeks pass, I'm cleared for chemo and knock out round #7. The following week the pain is worse. It's painful to breathe. I cannot hold my breath more than 10 seconds. Just getting to my doctor is a feat. Fatigue is one thing. I can push through the loss of breath...because I can breathe. When you're working with one and one third lung, walk 15 feet without stopping and you're a darn hero!

I had mentioned the pain was a little worse during my pre-chemo chat with Dr. H, but this appointment I complained more and was sent for a chest x-ray. I was also anemic, so while waiting for x-ray results the plan was to get some iron through IV. That didn't happen. The finding was an abscess, and I was immediately admitted to the hospital. 

And then the talking heads got together. Dr. H was generally uncomfortable making decisions about the abscess. (It's another doctors work, they know the area, what they did, blah, blah, blah.) So he calls Dr. S (liver surgeon), who explains only 10% of his patients need draining and he still thinks natural is best. And the infectious disease doctor (Dr. V, aka The Russian) says no temp, no infection. So while I'm still in pain, and after two days of waiting in the hospital, they decide to release me. If I run a temp, I go to the ER. 

Fun fact. It seems every time a doctor throws out a percentage, I am that stupid fun percentage. Hours after I get home I start running a low grade temp. And by that night we're minutes from going to the ER, and then the temp drops. I was taking Loratab with Tylenol and didn't realize it was causing the temp drop. The next morning another fever, so I call Dr. H's office and we're off to the ER. 

I'm admitted around 9:30 AM, and by 2:30 PM we finally get rolling and the abscess is finally drained. Up until this point I thought the abscess was in the lung area, but I find out it's actually located where the liver surgery was performed. Upper liver. Hard to get to..remembering the first biopsy. 

Thankfully they kept me pretty sedated for the drainage, but it was still painful. The catheter was inserted right under my boob, practically going through breast tissue. Yeah, pain! And then I see the syringe of fluid they are pulling. It's not fluid. It's blood tainted white gunk. Like "light chocolate milk" according to one of the nurses. And these are not small syringes that are being used. The doc instructs the nurse to admit me into ICU. 

Five gigantic syringes later, I'm moved to my side, and they start to drain the fluid in my lung. There was a problem with the catheter so they only remove 100cc, but it's all clear. Basically the abscess was causing the fluid build up in my lung, it was unrelated to the lung collapse, and would naturally clear now that it had been removed. 

The drain tube is left inside. It's about 2 feet of tubing that is shoved under my boob & ribs. This thing is painful. I learn as long as I don't move the pain isn't bad. Bathroom visits required a shot of morphine to manage to pain of moving. 

Dr. H stops by for a visit during his evening rounds. He's shocked that I was walking around with all that gunk, and not really complaining when I had every right to complain. "Oh, here's Heather with a football of abscess fluid...it kinda hurts here Dr. H." Before he leaves we ask when I'd be released, he said Monday. 

Liver Surgery

To be completely honest, my memory of this hospital stay is hit or miss. I went into surgery praying they would use my port, but then they "didn't have the right needle". Emory University Hospital. Didn't have the right needle!? The same hospital the CDC sent Ebola patients. Rrright!? We made a deal, as long as the IV could be switched to port after surgery. It took 9 pokes before they even found a vein. Then as each vein failed during surgery, they had to find another. I awoke from surgery with an IV line in my wrist, elbow, and neck. Ever had an IV in your neck? 

The most. 

UNCOMFORTABLE. 

IV placement. 

Ever!

[Not even going to mention the super fun part when they removed the neck IV and the adhesive from the tape pulled my skin off.]

They were nice enough to start my IV drip for pain early, so I awoke from surgery in much less pain than usual. (I'm usually in non-existent tears "screaming" barely a whisper 10...it's a TEN!) By that evening I was able to comfortably sit in a bed side chair, and the next day I was out walking working hard toward a quick recovery.

And then it happened...

In every caregiver story, there is a moment that occurs that scares you to death. It's the moment you truly realize you hold someone else's life/death decision making powers. This was Fred's moment. And most of this comes from Fred...

The second night I fell asleep around 8:00 pm. The nurse tech came in an started taking my vitals. She notes my O2 levels dropped dramatically to around 35%. Normally they don't want O2 to fall below 90%. My right lung had collapsed. Fred quickly went to get help. I was hooked up to high capacity oxygen and moved into the ICU, where I awoke to another barrage of needles. I counted 26 pokes. "We only poke twice." Per nurse! (I can only imagine the call for backup and a line of nurses, 26/2 = 13 nurses.) I was out of it, I completely forgot I had been through surgery, and kept asking them (terrified) if this would change my surgery date. 

By the time the ICU doctor started asking the basic questions I was still out of it. Typical who is President, where did you go to school, do you have pets/what are their names. Snuggles & Seven. No...Seven & Dexter (Snuggles had passed a good five years ago). I looked at Fred terrified and in tears. 

Fun story. This doctor is the sister of an old high school friend. The Laird sisters have unmistakable piercing blue eyes. I could recognize that, but not recall my pets names. I think asking if she was who I thought she was put her at ease medically. 

My stay in ICU continued with more tests until they finally found the collapse was caused by a clot in my right lung. Just earned myself six months on blood thinner meds. After three days in ICU, I was moved to a regular room with regular nurses. In prison terms, general population. And in hospital terms, I'm pretty sure the experience is the same. 

I was going to go into a bitter diatribe about my stay and care in "general population", but I prefer not to go there. If you're stuck at Emory, you want the specialty floor & nurses. In general, my stay at Emory taught me to fight. I will not be poked another 26 times in a row while someone searches for a vein and refuses to use my port. It taught me I know my body better than anyone else, and it's okay to refuse meds. I will not take ridiculous meds that I know do more harm than good. 

Of course, when you're drugged, the fight gets harder, and that's where always having someone present to help you fight becomes necessary...

At one point our AC went out at home, and Fred had to leave to get it repaired before I was released. Enter our dear friend J. A friend that had her own health issues she had been fighting through the last two years (TWO YEARS!), but she dropped everything to stay with me while he was away. And fight we did! When the doctors made their rounds the next morning, I told them I was leaving that day and didn't care if it was AMA. I couldn't put up with the nursing staff one more day. 

Usually I don't make such a ruckus, and later apologized to the doctor. I explained the nurse care was frustrating, and the doctor really didn't seem too surprised. The day I was released, the nurse was fighting with the doctor in front of me. I mean, I don't know hospital policy, but fairly certain that's a no-no. In the very least it's classless, but a testament to the care I received in GenPop. 

Chemo Vacation

In preparation for the upcoming surgery, and to make sure my blood levels were normal, my last round of chemo (#6) was July 13th. My pre-op & colonoscopy are scheduled this week. Chemo free for nearly a month?!! Hello vacation!!! 

The FOLFOXIRI was so rough I decided to throw a halfway party for myself as reward. I needed desperately to acknowledge and celebrate my success. To all my dear friends and family that made the drive (and those that were there in spirit), thank you! 



The past two weeks I've spent my time visiting with friends that I haven't found time, or I had to cancel plans due to chemo. And getting some time in with the nieces and nephews while I had energy. No joke. The last time I played puzzles with Brooklynn I was so weak I had to tap out after two. Add chemo brain to the mix. I got schooled by a four year old! It wasn't pretty. 



TMNT with Rylan. Candyland with Brooklynn. A carousel ride with Jackson. Mother's blueberry cobbler. My spirits are fully recharged. I'm feeling strong and ready for the next surgery. 



In other news, I took the cue ball out in public for the first time. The wig is too hot and miserable to wear outside in the summer. I honesty forget I'm walking around bald, at least until I notice the stares and double takes. It's okay. Everyone has a cancer story, right? I convinced myself I reminded them of their loved one or friend with cancer. 

You know what would be great, if those stares were followed with a word of encouragement. Being on this side has made me rethink my own reaction. Tell her she's beautiful. Tell her she's strong. Change her story. Imagine. If someone had the courage to reach out, my story would be completely different. Our words have power, use them well. 

Cancer

A dear friend recommended a NetFlix special on Tig Notaro called "Tig". It felt like someone was telling pieces of my own story. And if she thought her story was funny, well, mine is down right hysterical! If you're filling in the blanks, you already know what's coming next.

I've got the cancer.

I was diagnosed at then end of February, and decided to fight silently. But for some reason, in the last few weeks, I've felt like it is time to share my story. I've been weak. Mentally. Physically. But as I started writing, I started feeling stronger. And that was one of my goals. So here we go...

Note:

•Most of this has been written at night while experiencing pain med induced insomnia and recovering from an intestinal virus. Don't judge too harshly. 

•Though this has all been written over the last month, I've post dated everything to correspond with the correct date. I've provided links to posts in chronological order below.

~~~

Everyone hears the word "cancer" and has the same reaction. I still remember when my dad's cousin, Barbara, told me he had cancer. The shock. The tears. The fear. But when I was given my own diagnosis, I felt peace. Cancer has worn out its shock value. The only thing going through my mind was "Okay Schiller, put your heels on, it's your turn to fight." [Cue 'Eye of the Tiger'] Yep, I could hear the 'Bam! Bam Bam BAMs!' in my head. 

And then came the hard part. Friends. When you were your dad's primary caregiver, and you find yourself walking in his shoes two years after he passed, the places your mind goes aren't so fun. But those thoughts will remain between me & God. Words have power, and I choose not to give them that power. At the same time, I want to acknowledge that I went "there". And occasionally, on the hard days, I find myself "there" again. 

My lowest point was when I started loosing hair. My chemo regiment (FOLFOXIRI) is aggressive, but hair loss isn't a side effect. I was told my hair would thin, and it would start midway through treatment. But by the second round, I was shedding hair. Shedding! I had held on to the idea of being sick but not "looking" sick. Lady with bald head screams "I HAVE CANCER!" 

Fred tried to make the shave fun, but I was miserable. I closed my eyes as the long hairs fell to the floor and felt my identity slip away. I look in the mirror at a body full of scars and face that I simply don't recognize. And that's on a good day. The bad days it's straight up Uncle Fester. (No, I haven't tried the light bulb trick...yet.) 

So I write. I write in hopes I'll find strength in giving this story a voice, and with that strength I'll find my reflection. I write because I want to recognize the lovely friends and family that encourage and lift me up when I am weak. I write because, once again, my husband finds himself being a caregiver to a cancer patient. I write because I want people to know cancer doesn't always come with a warning. I write because my treatment is so rare I haven't found much information, and hopefully others facing the same treatment will find this and go in little more prepared. 

Cancer type:  Colon...just like my dad. The kind that "older" people get. Typical reaction from anyone in the medical field is "oh, you're so young". Yep. Story of my life! 

Symptoms:  ZERO. I went to the ER because I was vomiting & dehydrated. I thought it was food poisoning. It was a bowel obstruction, and that's the only reason the cancer was found. I thank God every day for that bowel obstruction!

Family History:  It's recommend that with family history you get a colonoscopy 10 years prior to family member's diagnosis. That would have been 50 (52 to be exact), the typical age you start getting checked. I had planned on 40 to be extra precautions. Ha! If Fred & I are able to have children, their screenings would need to start at 24. 24?!!

Fun Fact:  I'm the second youngest patient my oncologist has treated for colon cancer. The other person was 18, and genetically predisposed. My genetic test came back negative. 

Warning:  Being colon cancer there may be things some find a bit TMI. I'll give a TMI warning!


Chronological Order:

1. Diagnosis*
2. Recovery
3. CT MRI Biopsy, Oh My!*
4. Treatment Plan & Chemo Round 1*
5. Chemo Round 2
6. Shots! Shots! Shots!
7. Chemo Rounds 3-5
8. MRI Check Up*
9. Chemo Round 6*
10. Digging Deep (pun intended)
11. Inspired

*Diagnosis & Treatment Updates

Inspired

Last night I randomly decided to watch Bryant Gumble's sports thingy on HBO. Yes, pretty sure that's the actual name of the show. (Probably not.) It was a segment about the domestic violence rate within the MMA. They interviewed Christy Mack who was beaten by her ex and sporting a bald head. And the reason she gave for being bald, it signified a rebirth. 

Well, isn't that a lovely way to think about chemo and going bald!?

I have never watched Bryant Gumble's sports thingy. I have never watched more than 30 seconds of a MMA fight. I have never heard of Christy Mack and something called a War Machine. A quick Google search and I learned she's apparently a porn star. The ex hacked her hair during the attack. She shaved the rest. And she too struggled with her new look, "It's hard to look in the mirror every day and see someone you don't know." 

My goodness! I'm always fascinated by how and whom God speaks through. So many would ignore her simply because of her occupation, but I deeply thank her. I have struggled with my hair loss. I needed desperately to rethink my situation. I needed hear those words. From a porn star beautiful human being. 

So here I am

Fighting

Proud 

Strong

Being reborn

And I know one day

me and this bald head

will feel beautiful again

Digging Deep (pun intended)

Another day. Another doctor. 

Dr. T is my GI doctor that I've never actually met. Dr. E (Surgeon #1) wanted to personally do the first colonoscopy, so Dr. T got the boot. The only difference between the two colonoscopies (besides the doctor) is drinking the fun juice. This appointment was basically to meet and prescribe the medication. 

The one thing Fred and I noticed was how uncomfortable he seemed. We've noticed this with every first meeting of each new doctor. They don't seem to know how to handle someone my age having this particular cancer. 

Dr. T must have thought I needed some hope. He kept telling us about a friend of his with the same cancer/same stage/same mets (older, of course) that is doing well over five years later with maintenance chemo. I think they expect me to be afraid, or nervous about the future. 

What they don't know is that I've had an amazing life. Every new experience has perfectly prepared me for the next. The night before my dad passed, as he made his final transition, was the hardest thing I had ever experienced. Honestly, it left me terrified. I knew it was preparation for the next hardest thing, and what could be harder than watching someone you love pass away while being responsible for their care?  

Well, here I am. Facing down the same disease. Knowing all the statistics (that I push to the back of my mind and ignore). Knowing what the end stage looks like. But also knowing wherever this experience takes me, I have the strength to push through. Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. I entered this world made to be breakable, but repairable. And after everything I've been through, I like to think of myself as bendable. 

"The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief."

-Shakespeare 

Chemo Round 6

While getting blood work Fred & Dr. H had a chat, and this is why I love my oncologist. I need for them to have a relationship. And the truth is, we both had a relationship with him through caring for my dad. So while it's been strange literally walking in my dad's footsteps, getting chemo from the same chair he once sat. It's also refreshing being truly comfortable with my oncologist from day one. 

During their conversation, Fred had apparently expressed our concern with Dr. S and the MRI debacle. And Dr. H was quick to put me at ease. "I would tell you if I didn't think he was a good fit, but he is your surgeon." The relief was immediate. 

Going forward chemo is changing. We were in fight mode, throwing everything I could physically manage to shrink the lesion, and now we are in maintenance mode. Instead of being knocked out for a week+, Dr. H wants to get it down to three days. So new treatment is FOLFOX with a biologic (and I can't remember the name)...it's the one that hinders growth of new blood vessels to feed any cancer lesions. And we will reevaluate after 12 rounds. Yes, I expected this. Many people with stage IV continue with maintenance chemo. 

With surgery around the corner, and because chemo causes blood levels to drop, Dr. H wants chemo to stop three weeks prior. Meaning #6 will be my last round, and it will pick back up four weeks after surgery. He doesn't want me drinking colonoscopy "fun juice" while on chemo, so trying to squeeze that in the week before surgery. 

My blood levels were still a little off from the intestinal virus, so Dr. H let me decide if I felt strong enough for this round. While I still felt a little weak, I was okay to push forward knowing it would be easier than previous rounds. 

I struggled through this round a little bit, but nothing like previous rounds. The infusion only took three hours. (Previous rounds took six-seven hours, depending on what side effects decided to show up.) A little nausea, a lot of fatigue, but by day five I felt well enough to get out of the house. For the first time since March, I'm able to enjoy every weekend. Holy moly I can manage this chemo! Especially knowing it will be even easier when my blood levels improve. 

By the way, I struggled with that intestinal virus for three weeks. That thing completely knocked me out! This virus is something healthy people recover from in 2-5 days. Having a weakened immune system is no joke!

MRI Check Up

Most people tend to get nervous before their MRI check ups, but because I had a CT that showed clear shrinkage I was feeling pretty good. At least until we started driving, and then nerves kicked in anyway. 

Dr. S (Surgeon 2) scheduled a consultation immediately following the MRI. I was expecting good news. What I got was the exact opposite. 

I have one lesion on the liver that measures 1.5 cm. What I was told is now I had four lesions. Four! (Somehow I remained fairly calm, fairly certain it was shock.) We were told I have one lesion in the middle, three surrounding. 

Then Fred asked about the markers he had placed during the MRI assisted biopsy. Blank face. "You had markers placed? How many?" (Um, yeah...three and YOU ordered them!) "Well, the radiologist is having a hard time reading the MRI." (Well, how about you & the radiologist read my damn chart before you unnecessarily scare a patient to death!) "I want to see you again after the radiologist has more time, I prefer in-person consultations." 

And then he started asking me questions about my ostomy surgery. He couldn't read the surgeon's handwriting. Totally get that, but maybe call the surgeon and ask him. (The questions were far too technical for a patient to answer, and others I simply didn't know.) 

Surgeon 2 questioning me about the ostomy and not Surgeon 1. The fact that he clearly hadn't read my chart and refreshed himself on my case before the consultation. I was left with a bad feeling about this surgeon, and if there is one thing I've learned it's trust my instincts! I went home that night and started searching for a second opinion. If he didn't straighten himself out by the next appointment, I was moving on!

The next appointment. He immediately starts talking surgery. We had to ask him for the MRI results. "It's shrunk 50%." (Okay, what about the other "lesions".) "They were reading the markers as lesions." (Thank you Jesus! ...MORONS! Next time read the chart!)

That's it. Very matter of fact. No excitement or fist-bump like Dr. H (my oncologist). But at least he had a conversation with Surgeon 1 and could clearly talk surgery and recommendations. 

Going Forward:  [TMI'ish Warning]

Liver resection surgery is planned for August 18th. Because of the location it will NOT be laparoscopic. I had already assumed that based the difficult biopsies. Recovery time is 4 weeks (I'll be in the hospital at least 5-days). 

The original colonoscopy didn't get past the bowel blockage. As a precaution, he wants to close the gap and get the other half checked. (I already had a consultation scheduled with Dr. T, a GI doctor.)

Chemo Rounds 3-5

#3

With about an hour to go with my infusion the nausea came on strong & fast. I needed a barf bag STAT. The in-house pharmacy tends to complain when they have to dose meds late in the day, but they took one look at me and shut the hell up! Needless to say, Fred had to wheelchair me out again. 

This is round I start to understand why my nurses tell me I have reason to complain. I've never seen anyone have to use a wheelchair after chemo. Never. Including when my dad was getting his chemo infusions. This chemo regiment is tough, but I'm tougher.

#4

Other than nausea, my side effects are neuropathy (numb/tingling) in my fingertips and ankles & chemical like burning in my eyes. After round 3 my ankles were terribly sore. I typically didn't note side effects unless they make life unbearable, but the eye thing made me scared and I started noting all side effects. 

Chemo adds pressure to your eyes, so they thought the eye pain could be glaucoma. They scheduled an eye exam. No glaucoma!

This round took place at the Lawrenceville office. The nurse asked if I had any side effects and I just laughed. Lady get ready to see something you've never seen! 

Sure enough chemo drunk (numb tongue) and nausea came on with an hour to go. She was quick to address the nausea so it never got out of control. But the neuropathy in my ankles was so bad I couldn't walk, and once again I needed the wheelchair. The nurse was shocked that I couldn't walk. Just a couple hours earlier I walked to the bathroom no problem. Yep. That's how I do chemo. 

I was so incredibly weak when we got home. I had to hold on to Fred just to walk from the car to our house. For the next three days I had to stabilize myself to walk around the house. Enter scary side effect number two. 

#5

I still had neuropathy in my fingertips, and with the difficulty walking Dr. H held off on the Iritotechan and upped the other drugs. This meant getting a push of the 5-FU. 

Nausea was a little harder to control this round, but I didn't have any ankle or eye pain. I had asked the nurse if it was possible to experience neuropathy in the eyes, sure enough it was the Iritotechan that caused the pain. 

I started experiencing an odd pain in my upper abdomen just under my ribs on the left side. I went in for a check and Dr. H decided to allow whatever was happening to "define itself". By that night I was cramping, and it felt like something was off in my intestines. The next morning I was sent for a CT. I could tell everyone was concerned. Anytime there's a new odd pain, they worry about new growth. 

By the time I made it back to the office, Dr. H was so excited to give me the results he didn't even wait for me to get into a room. Chemo is working! The lesion on the liver is shrinking! There was some swelling around my intestines, and I had an intestinal virus. No treatment, it simply had to run its course. 

When you have a weakened immune system, "run its course" is much harder. I was in/out of the office three times for fluids. And the third time, just getting myself ready left me breathless. I'm used to the fatigue, but getting out of breath from getting dressed was reaching a whole new level of pathetic! 

Needless to say chemo #6 was delayed. 

My chemo pal. She never leaves my side on the bad days. This is how we chemo!

Shots! Shots! Shots!

Shot #1:  Neulasta is the most painful. It's purpose is to produce more white blood cells to help fight off infection during chemo. But holy bone pain! 

This shot is given on my 3rd day post infusion (when I return the 5-FU bag). The bone pain starts within hours and lasts 3 days. These are the days I feel like Uncle Fester. Hunched over, barely wanting to move. If you stay in one position you're good, the second you move it feels like you've aged 50 years. 

The nurses told me Claritin & Benadryl can help, but you have to start it the day before the shot and by then they stopped administering the shot. The only time I didn't have pain was after returning my 5-FU bag a day later than usual, so the shot fell on 4th day post infusion. 

Shot #2:  Lupron is the most annoying. It's purpose is to put me into early menopause in hopes of maintaining fertility after I'm done with chemo. And holy hot flashes! Chemo alone causes hot flashes, so hot flash on to of hot flash. There are nights I wake up to a wet pillow. It's disgusting. 

It does have one positive affect. Having endometriosis I usually have to battle hormonal skin breakouts, but my skin has never looked better. At the same time it's darkening sun damage I received as a kid, so freckles and sun spots are loud & proud. But I'll take freckles over breakouts any day!

Chemo Round 2

Dr. H decided to drop my 5-FU (the chemo bag I carry for 46 hours) down to the European or American dosage (whichever is lower). I gave a little fight. I didn't want to drop dosage. I want to kick this cancer's butt. I can do this! He reminded me: slow and steady wins the race. 

Even before the chemo I started out with associative nausea. By this round they had prescribed the kitchen sink of nausea meds, and I started taking them. Seriously I'm a walking pharmacy. I still got chemo drunk, but no nausea, and no wheelchair means a successful infusion. With the new meds I was able to keep the nausea under control, and felt better after day 7 vs 14!

And then the hair thinning started. Best way to describe it is imagine taking a brush through a shedding pet, and being left with a brush full of fur. That's exactly what was happening. Hair was constantly falling out. I was getting tired of them falling into my food and having to pull them out of my mouth. Just seeing the hair all over my clothes was breaking my heart.

I had been trying to get a chemo cut for months, but we just couldn't find time. I finally made an appointment with a place that does both cuts & wig consultations. Before the appointment I took a photo of the top of my head. It was terrible. A haircut would be a complete waste of money.

It was time to shave. 

I wish I could say I was strong, but this was by far my most mentally breaking moment. I wasn't expecting to shave. I was told thin. Later rounds. Not after two rounds! When the unexpected happens, I sort of lose it. I've always been that way. I desperately wanted to be sick without looking sick. 

The following week I found my wig, and was working up some courage for the big shave. My aunt had planned on coming over and helping, but it got to the point I couldn't stand looking at all my stray hairs. Fred took over. I could tell he was ready to help me have fun with it, but I just couldn't. My hair was my crown. My most favorite accessory. My identity. I closed my eyes and fought the tears as I felt myself disappear. 

I look in the mirror and see someone I don't recognize. On the bad days she looks like Uncle Fester. On the good days she's the toughest damn chick I've ever met. But for the first time in her life, she doesn't feel confident or beautiful.

I've learned I'm most uncomfortable with pretending the wig is my hair. I get compliments, but I don't know how to handle them. I shrug a thank you, but my insides scream 'IT'S NOT YOU'! When I get compliments in the hospital, I'm quick to explain it's a wig. And then I get "oh, that's a nice wig - you spent money on that one!" And somehow that makes me feel better. A little confidence booster. Being myself. Being authentic. 

It's a strange struggle between wanting to be authentic and hide the fact that I'm sick. The truth is I hate feeling/looking weak, and I haven't accepted this new version of myself. When your body changes so vastly, over such a short period of time, it's harder to accept. Fred does everything imaginable to help, but he can't fix this. 

I've cried over the hair loss a lot. One night I was expressing my fear of loosing eyebrows & eyelashes, it feels as though they are the last feminine features I have. Fred looks at me and says you'll always have your eyes, so I laughed through the tears and added boobs to the list. I love him for always helping me laugh through my sorrows. 

Treatment Plan & Chemo Round 1

My oncologist (Dr. H) has me on an aggressive treatment. Most with colon cancer are treated with either FOLFOX or FOLFIRI. I'm getting FOLFOXIRI. Three different chemo drugs (Oxaliplatin, Irinotecan, and 5 FU) at +20% the normal dosage. 12 rounds. 6 hour infusion, and a take home chemo bag that infuses 5-FU over 46 hours. It's a harsh treatment, but attitude is EVERYTHING!

We went over side effects:  nausea, diarrhea, anorexia/loss of appetite, metal mouth, and hair thinning in later rounds. The diarrhea thing was the most emphasized side effect, and this is where I learned to be thankful for my tummy gremlin (stoma). Some people on chemo end up wearing diapers or having to apply a little butt paste. Thankfully that wouldn't be my experience. 

Round 1:  I wasn't expecting it to be hard. Everything I've read and experienced with my dad told me the first round was the easiest. Chemo compounds and gets harder over time. 

With about two hours to go the neuropathy started affecting my speech, and then the nausea hit. My tongue was half numb, so my speech was slurred. I refer to it as being chemo drunk. I was so nauseous I needed a wheelchair to get to the car. By that evening the neuropathy & nausea subsided, and I thought I was home free. 

Nope. The infusion was Tuesday, and by Saturday the nausea returned. I had Zofram and Ativan to help with nausea. Zofram is hit or miss. Ativan knocks me out. The more I moved the worse it got. Fred ran out and got ginger gum, Dramamine, and an essential oil based product to rub behind my ears. Anything he found for nausea, he bought!

I had a newborn photo shoot scheduled, and I had to leave the shoot early. I was struggling with fatigue, a hormonal hot flash on top of chemo hot flash, and nausea every time I moved. It was awful. I hate failure. I promised to return the following weekend. 

By Sunday I was weak & dehydrated. I waited until Dr. H's office opened to go in an get some fluids. I was feeling pretty terrible, and Dr. H decided to admit me for a "tune-up". He explained early on to expect 24-hour tune-ups. He'd rather me go into the hospital for a day vs. trying to tough it out and be admitted for a week. 

Once we got the nausea under control and I was able get some food down, I was ready to be released. I had gone in just before my blood levels started to drop, so the upside was now I had an idea of when I needed a "tune-up" before my levels got out of control. 

I continued through the rest of the week struggling to eat. Loss of appetite is such a strange feeling. Your body is hungry but nothing is appealing. Nothing. And sometimes trying to force food brings on nausea. I downed a protein shake so I had enough energy to get through the make-up photo shoot. (I'm truly grateful that family was so incredibly understanding.)

My appetite returned the day before Round 2 was scheduled. Needless to say Round 2 was delayed a week. But the upside is I had Biopsy #2 scheduled, and based on the first biopsy I needed time to recover without chemo. In all honesty I wanted to push through, but Dr. H's saying is slow and steady wins the race. 

CT MRI Biopsy, Oh My!

Five weeks after surgery I was finally healed enough to lay flat for thirty minutes, and able to get a new MRI. The previous MRI showed a possible spot on the liver, but it wasn't a good scan because it was post-surgery. This was a big one. The one that would confirm stage III or IV. 

•I have a tiny 1.5 cm lesion on the liver.

•I'm officially diagnosed as stage IV.

A biopsy followed to confirm colon cancer. 

Enter the most painful thing I've experienced to date. Biopsy #1. Going in I knew there was a 50/50 chance it would be painful, and because of the location they didn't allow much sedation. I felt the crunch as the needle passed through my tissues. I was crying on the table. Crying! I am not a crier. I breathe or moan through pain. When I cry, it's bad. And the pain didn't go away after the procedure. Two rounds of morphine did nothing. Dilaudid finally got the pain under control. And then I spent the next five days drugged, attached to a heating pad. 

When you label something #1, there has to be a #2. Yep. All that pain and it wasn't a good sample. Just the thought of having go through that all over again had me in tears. But the second would be done at Emory, and I made them well aware of the pain I experienced during the first biopsy. The first was CT guided, but the Emory biopsy team came in and based on the location they wanted to do MRI guided. It meant I would have to reschedule, but if there was even a slight chance it would make the procedure less painful I jumped!

By the time the MRI assisted biopsy was scheduled, I had completed my first round of chemo. This time I was under twilight sedation. You can listen and complete tasks, but typically don't remember. Oh, I remember. I let out a good moan as the needle pushed through, the doctor was surprised that I was awoken by the pain and quickly increased the sedation meds. I was given a script for Percocet to manage any post procedure pain (I wasn't prescribed anything after the first biopsy). The team at Emory did a fantastic job, and I only had minor pain. Hallelujah! 

If your lesion is high, on the "top" of the liver, ask for a MRI guided biopsy. Seriously. No one needs to experience the level of pain I went through with the CT guided biopsy. 

Recovery

After being released, cancer took a back seat to recovery. And that's why we kept the diagnosis relatively quiet. I didn't have an exact diagnosis or treatment plan, and didn't want to face those questions. It was time to focus on healing. 

Two weeks after surgery I was having terrible back spasms. I had never experienced a back spasm. It was absolute misery! Percocet wasn't strong enough to ease the pain, so I just had to breathe through. Of course this started over the weekend, so we had to wait until Monday to revisit my surgeon's office.

Dr. E removed the staples and sent me off for a CT concerned a pulmonary embolism was causing the back spasms. It wasn't, but by the time I returned to the office 4" of my incision reopened and was bleeding profusely. It couldn't be stitched. The wound had to heal from inside out, so home health turned into wound care. The one positive. The nerves didn't have time to heal, so while it looked awful I felt nothing during bandage changes. 

The hardest part of recovery, and I seem to have this with every surgery, is maintaining an appetite so I can take narcotic pain meds. I learned to set alarms so I didn't miss a dose, because a mere 30 minutes late had me practicing Lamaz. After a month on Percocet, I was able to drop down to Loratab. 

Five weeks post-surgery the scans & biopsies started. Around this time I noticed the upper part of my scar getting tight, and assumed it was part of the healing process. Then a little scab came off with a stitch that didn't dissolve, and I noticed pus on the end. Within hours it was blistered and oozing. 

Enter infection & open wound number two. Back to the surgeon's office to have the infection drained. This wound was a little over 2" long, but it was deep and had to be packed. The nerves had healed, so this one was super painful. I took Percocet before bandage changes, and it barely took the edge off. Thankfully my wound care nurses stepped in, so I was only wet packing the wound for five days. We switched over to magical silver gauze and bandage changes became tearless. 

It took three months for the open wounds to close, and amazingly they both closed at the same time. 

Diagnosis

At the end of February, I was sick. Terrible stomach cramps, vomiting to the point of dehydration. Fred and I had tickets to Oysterfest and I was thinking I would meet up with him later, nope. By the time he got home I was deciding between urgent care or going to the ER. I let him sleep and when he woke up the next morning I had decided ER. 

I was given some fluids in the ER, and they did a CT scan. There was a spot on my colon, but the doctor assumed it was inflamed because I was sick. I was recommended a surgeon, but more of an "eh, if you get around to it". My symptoms continued, so we made an appointment. 

By the time we got to the surgeon, I just knew it was endometriosis related. From my last surgery, I know my uterus is stuck to my intestines. It had to be that it entered my intestines/colon. Even given family history my surgeon (Dr. E) kept assuring me it probably wasn't cancer. I was admitted to the hospital for a colonoscopy. 

Fast forward. I had a bowel obstruction & was wheeled into surgery. 

I awoke to a body that felt like a bomb had gone off. Eighteen inch vertical abdominal incision, 34 staples, and a temporary ostomy to boot. Yeah, the poop bag. Later on I would be grateful for my tummy gremlin (stoma), but in the beginning I truly hated my body. 

I was alone when I was given the cancer diagnosis. And that was the day I learned how much of a mental game I had ahead. That day I fell apart. It was student nurse day. I was breaking mentally, and my body reacted physically. The nurse & student nurse didn't notice. The patient care tech took one look and knew I needed to relax. She gave me my first bed bath, and helped me calm myself. I'll be forever grateful for her care. 

My brother and Fred arrived at the same time. How do you tell your husband we're about to start another cancer journey? Again?! So soon after we had lost my dad, to the same damn cancer? I whispered it to my brother first, and I guess that gave me enough strength to speak it into existence. Stage III Colon Cancer, possible spot on the liver. 

Recovering from surgery, cancer diagnosis, and having to learn how to manage this new body was impossible. Fred jumped in and learned everything. From helping the ostomy nurse, to sponge baths, to distracting me so I could push through the next pain med, Fred became my saving grace. At one point he was helping me shower and wash my hair, and I look down at myself naked, body ripped apart, belching like a man and just start laughing. I tell him I've never felt sexier. The truth is I have never felt more loved. This man is truly my super hero. 

We quickly learned I was given the worst care when I didn't have someone sitting with me, so Fred started lining up "babysitters". Friends that would stay with me, and give him time off to take care of our house, rest and wrap his head around what was happening. Friends that held my hand, rubbed my feet, and helped me feel human. I even had friends jump in and help the ostomy nurse. I have some GREAT friends, and words don't exist to express my gratitude. 

My hospital room smelled like a floral shop!

I was released from the hospital after 6 days, and I spent the next month recovering. Based on how easy it was to get up and walk after surgery I expected an easy recovery, it wasn't.