Anatomy of a Meltdown . . .

So, my sister, Jill, told me the other day that she was talking with a young student of hers whose father was diagnosed with a sarcoma, only after undergoing five back surgeries resulting from months of being misdiagnosed . . . he's now undergoing chemotherapy, etc., has been in a similar, excruciatingly painful condition that Bob has been in . . . I don't recall the details of her story, but the parents of this young woman are our age, early 40s, and mom decides to leave dad because "he's no fun any more." Seriously. Dude gets cancer and suddenly, he's no fun any more. There's gotta be a special place in hell (hopefully here on this earth, while she's still living), for people like this woman. . .

When we say, "for better or for worse," we never really know what we're getting in the deal, what exactly it is that we're signing up for, do we . . . but can I walk away? Would I walk away, given an out? My god, no. Not ever. Bob has jokingly said to me, "Please stay with me until this is all over, then you can dump my sorry ass." I joke back, "Are you kidding?!? You're not getting out of this that easily—you owe me big time, Mister . . ." We're far from the perfect couple, we've had our rough times in our marriage, like anyone. I mean, when two people who are about as polar opposites as two can be, the married version of Felix and Oscar, decide to spend the rest of their lives together, in the same house, as husband and wife, there are likely to be little issues that arise—what? Shoes belong in a closet?. . .

Like so many things in life, though, how well we get through things depends greatly on our choices, what we decide to do or not do . . . do we take the path of least resistance and bail when the going gets tough, when things aren't fun anymore? Or do we tough it out, the fun with the not-so-fun, with all the rough spots, all the heartaches, all the bumps and bruises, scratches and gouges, and hopefully come through stronger than ever . . . oh sure, wouldn't it be great to just up and leave, because this is "no fun any more?" But my god, there's one person who would love for all of this this to be done much more than I do . . .

Throughout this journey that we're on, people ask, "But what about you, Jen? You need to take care of yourself, too." See, the thing is, I can take care of myself, and I do. It ain't always easy and some days, it's a huge effort, but I do. I can be a part of the rest of the world, I can eat whatever I want, I can sleep without pain, I don't have to take a truckload of pills, I can take my dogs on a walk, I can meet my friends for an impromptu lunch and a drink, I can get together with family, I can hop in the car and drive to Target or the grocery store, to work . . . I can do whatever I want, whenever I want. I know what I need to do and I am doing things to take care of myself . . .

But, see, Bob can't. He hasn't been able to do much of anything for six months and counting. Yes, it's been six months, peeps, in case you haven't been paying attention or have lost interest in this little life drama . . .Six months of a life on hold, six months of enduring excruciating physical pain in his right leg that never goes away (with the strongest doses of heavily-regulated opioids, only gets to about a 2 or 3 on that pain scale, at best, but never goes away). Six months of not being able to sit in a chair, or a car, or at the kitchen table to eat a meal. Four months of debilitating chemotherapy that has made Bob so sick and thin and weak, has robbed him of his strength, his appetite, his hair, has reduced him to a shadow of his former self, who sleeps much of the day (never in long stretches—maybe an hour at a time, at the most), sleep and awake time punctuated by pill-taking. He has been unable to work for six months; so six months of crap TV, very little physical activity, due to the pain and other physical limitations . . . disconnected from the world, disconnected from friends, family and colleagues who can go to work, go out for beers, take vacations . . . sporadic e-mails, text messages and the even rarer phone call are his only connections to a world he used to belong to . . .six months of solitary confinement, with no end to the sentence in site. . .

So, maybe you can see why that trying to eat well, exercise, walk the dogs, see family and friends, sleep as I can—all of that does nothing to ease the heaviness in my heart, the knot in my stomach, the thoughts in my head. At no point in my day are my thoughts and heart separated from Bob and what he's going through. Sometimes, I feel like a jilted lover who just can't let go. I find myself constantly saying or thinking things like, "Bob always did that," or "Bob and I used to . . ." Yeah, this ain't no fun for anyone . . .

You're so strong, I'm told over and over. How can you keep it together? I don't know what I'd do in your shoes . . . Strong isn't the right word for it. Numb is more like it. I've told many people that, until someone sits down and tells us point blank that what we have on our hands is a very grave situation, I will try very hard to not worry about the unknown. I. Will. Not. Freak. Out. Freaking out helps nothing, and does nothing for Bob—he cannot have a wife buckling every time we go through a rough patch. Until someone gives me a more definite reason to be worried, I'm gonna hold it together the best I can, for all of us.

So, Monday was that day. Doc S shared some concerning information regarding Bob's CT scans that was surprising, at best, alarming, at worst. Doc S said that while others who have seen the tumor on the scans say it hasn't changed, he feels it has grown slightly. "Oh, and about that spot on your left kidney and lungs that were on the February scan and now appear more prominent on the most recent scan . . ." W. T. F.???? This was news to us—we've never been told about suspicious spots on the kidney or lungs . . . He went on to say that the lung spot appears to be an infection, that it's not characteristic of metastasized cancer, but they'll see what the next chest xray shows, after being on antibiotics for a week. That spot on his left kidney. . . he'll wait to see what the surgeon says before deciding what to do with that. . .

After we left that Monday appointment, all the questions I should have asked at the office came to me later, as usual. I called Doc S's office, relayed all my concerns to his nurse, and he called back, while I was in PetCo, getting a new leash, collar and harness for Rocco, who had chewed through his old ones. I had to step outside, because I knew, just knew I could likely get a tad emotional with this call. Doc S. basically said, once again, that he's reserving to expound on the situation until he knows how the surgery will proceed.

Well, I'm kind of freaking out about all this news, we'd never heard anything about any "spots" before. He said most everyone has "nodules" on their lungs; they're just monitoring Bob's more closely, given his condition. And, with the "spot" on his kidney—we never knew about that before, either. I asked, what if it is more cancer? He said to not jump to conclusions yet, but if it is, well, then, that wouldn't be good . . . I asked him to stop, to not tell me any more, because I could feel my head pounding, my breathing quicken, my chest tighten and I'm standing outside PetCo, 20 minutes away from home and I just need to get home, just need to get home. Like a bad movie, I kept hearing Doc S's voice repeating in my head, "That wouldn't be good, that wouldn't be good, that wouldn't be good . . ."

Wednesday, March 14, 2010

Had the appointment with the orthopedic surgeon in the morning, to get the lowdown on Bob's pending surgery, what's all involved, what are the potential obstacles, what does he need to do to prepare for it, what needs to be in place, what exactly is proposed to be done, what's the worst case scenario, what's the best case scenario, what is the time frame of the surgery, and what about recovery . . . I had my li'l notebook with three pages of questions scribbled up and down the pages and tucked in my shoulder bag as w headed out the door, once again, the U.

We got to the Fairview campus in record time, despite Bob's warning that he'd seen on the news that traffic was at a standstill on 94. Silly boy, he forgets my amazing traffic-maneuvering abilities and once again, we're almost 1/2 hour early for the appointment. We hadn't been to this clinic since January, when we'd first met the surgeon, but all was very familiar. Parked in the underground ramp, took the elevator up to 2nd floor and were at the orthopedic office. Didn't have to wait too long to get called into the exam room. Before long, Dr. O., the orthopedic oncologist, came in, and we started rehashing all that had happened in the past several months. He had a model of the pelvic girdle, and the CT scan results up on the computer in the room, and dug right in, showing us where the tumor is, what bones are impacted by it, what nerves are affected by it and the plan of attack to remove it.

As he talked we mostly listened, because the surgery sounds like it's going to be a complicated, 2-part deal, complete with a long recovery period. When pummeled with such information, I can't even begin to form a coherent question or comment, and as usual, I'm sure I'll be calling back to his office for clarification on some of this . . . Several nerve roots are impacted by the tumor, in varying degrees, and each serves special functions, from bladder and bowels, to leg mobility, to sexual function. To what degree each will be affected by the removal of the tumor is uncertain. Doc O said he's seen both sides of the spectrum—from people who have catheters and colostomies and loss of leg function, to people who come out with very little effects and go on to lead a relatively unimpaired life. Sometimes the functional impairments are temporary, while the body heals from the surgery, sometimes they're permanent. He was blunt, straightforward but also very thorough; in fact, as he talked, I checked off each question I had written down. It was as though he had somehow managed to anticipate each and every question and concern we had before we arrived, and left me with few other questions to ask.

I asked about the spot on the kidney. He pulled up the CT scan and found the area in question. He said he will meet with Doc S. on Thursday morning (today), and discuss what should be done. A needle biopsy, likely, to determine what it is. It was his opinion that surgery will still be done first, no matter what the biopsy outcome, because once chemotherapy is stopped, they want to get in there ASAP and remove the tumor. It's possible that the spot on the kidney is simply a cyst (they're quite common, we're told), but the biopsy will tell us for sure. Few hours later, after another chest scan and an MRI (Doc O needed that for a more detailed pic of the area that would be affected by the surgery), and a stop at Palliative Care for Rx refills, we were heading home.

A few nights later, Bob shared all of this with his parents . . . a tough, tough few nights, indeed. . .

Friday, April 16, 2010

Well, we're told that the spot on the lungs turned out to be just an infection. {{{{{{{LETS OUT HUGE SIGH OF RELIEF}}}}}}}}} It didn't show up on the latest chest xray, so Bob's nurse said he could discontinue the antibiotics because they had been causing constant diarrhea for the past week, which isn't good, given his condition. Now, we're waiting for confirmation on the biopsy appt., and the details of the surgery. Lots of things to put in place before surgery will happen: cardiology pre-op physical to clear Bob for surgery, biopsy on the kidney, general surgeons lined up, Doc O.'s schedule lined up . . . so much to process, so much to digest . . . and I apologize for another long and rambling post, but once I start, I often can't quit . . .

A quick little aside: I get these little e-mails in my Hotmail account almost daily, called eHow of the Day—they're short little random blurbs on how to do just about anything; not even sure how or why I get them. But the one that arrived in my inbox yesterday was titled, "How to Stop Swearing Like a Sailor." hmmmmm . . .