After the initial shock wore off, it was time to get down to business. I drew upon years of experience with making lists and planning things. At times, this passion of mine has almost crossed the line into obsession, but at this point, it was a skill that would serve me well. Trust me, when an event like this happens, you have a LOT of information coming at you from all directions. A handy-dandy little notepad or day planner proves to be extremely useful. So I armed myself with planners, folders, binders and other such accouterments and set off to meet my destiny.
The next few months were a whirlwind of tests, exams, and doctor visits. I was poked at so many times with so many needles, I was beginning to resemble a street junkie with a serious heroin addiction. And oh, the paperwork. For every new doctor, comes new paperwork. I actually got a little sarcastic and slightly ridiculous a couple times filling them out. I do hope some overworked, stressed out, medical receptionist enjoyed my attempt at humor. Maybe not. And there were a lot of questions. Being so young, with what is normally considered an "old-person" disease, naturally the medical field was very interested in my case, so there were a few odd inquiries. For instance, I had one doctor who just came right out and asked me bluntly if I had ever had anal sex. Not that there's necessarily any medical data that would link anal sex to ass cancer, but hey, I guess he was either just nosy or thought maybe he had stumbled upon something perhaps revolutionary. I took a DNA test to see if there was a genetic link predisposing me to certain types of cancer, including colorectal cancer. Nope. Not that either.
What they did know was that the tumor was large and aggressive. I don't remember exactly how large; I did see scan results with the exact centimeter size, but it just didn't mean much to me. (According to one doctor, any tumor over the size of your fingernail is considered significant.) Which meant, I didn't have time to waste as far as beginning treatment. They wanted to act just as aggressively. Not long after, about mid-October I began a combo of radiation therapy and chemotherapy. For five days a week, for five straight weeks, I underwent radiation with two oral chemo pills to be taken morning and night. I can't lie. It was five long weeks of pure hell.
Radiation as they described it to me was like getting a bad sunburn. And yeah, I guess that's kind of what it felt like. Of course, having a sunburn on your bottom is no fun if you can imagine. I can literally say my ass was pretty chapped! It hurt to sit. Hell, it hurt to lie down. Everything hurt. Diarrhea was back with a vengeance, I was dropping weight to the point of anorexia, I was in constant pain, dehydrated, and just overall about as miserable as a person can be. I was starting to look forward to a colostomy. No joke. Anything was better than this. As for the colostomy, the reality was setting in. The hope with radiation and chemo was to shrink the tumor as much as possible, but the chances of radiating it completely were very slim. And because the tumor extended down into my anus, reconstructing the colon wasn't very feasible either. I received the maximum amount of radiation allowed. The chemo pills were no fun either, but honestly, it was hard to tell what the Devil in the situation was. People ask what was the worst part, or what caused the most discomfort. But the truth is, when you go through so much at once (don't forget our old friend C-Diff or the abscess) you really have no idea what is causing what. Everything in your body is screaming in agony and you can't point the finger at any one particular cause.
And yes, the abscess that triggered that first doctor appointment had returned. Actually, it never fully left. Combined with the high doses of radiation, it basically turned into the nuclear, Godzilla of abscesses. During my last week or two of radiation, I finally had it surgically drained. That was no barrel of monkeys either. (So sorry to keep being the bearer of bad news but I'm just being honest.) After the surgery, my poor, dear Mother had the unfortunate job of having to pack my butt cheek every day with fresh gauze strips. It did eventually heal after much trial and tribulation. Thank heavens. That was a pain unlike any other, that I never care to experience again.
November 20, 2014 - After five excruciating weeks, I was done with that phase. I did live through it. And my testimony is that a person can endure a lot more than they think they can. Sometimes you just have to bite down on the belt strap so to speak and hang in there until it's over. But, whew! Just looking back on it, it brings me to shivers. For the next couple of months, my only real job in life was to recover. Give my body time to heal. And I did just that. I started a few projects around the house I hadn't really had much time before to do; to keep my mind occupied. I meditated and prayed, quite often. I renewed my faith and my inner determination to get through this and come out on the other side a stronger person. I wasn't done yet. I still had a major surgery looming in my future. But for the time being, it was a time of rest.
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Monday, May 18, 2015
Monday, May 4, 2015
Deep Thoughts...
...by Jack Handey. Nope. Just kidding. It's just me.
I've learned a lot while having cancer and more importantly, I've learned a lot about myself. Not long after my diagnosis someone gave me an AARP magazine with an article featuring Melissa Etheridge and Sheryl Crow and their battles with cancer. In the article they talked about how cancer changed their lives, and at least to some extent, for the better. They revealed how they used their diagnosis as a time of reflection, a time to reevaluate their lives, and the strength they gained from it. They are quoted referring to cancer as "A gift".
It really struck me. Here were two women I admired and respected talking about surviving cancer and how it had really been, in many ways, a blessing. It inspired me. It gave me hope, and helped to change my perspective. Instead of looking at this as the end-all, be-all most terrible thing ever, I could look at as a second chance. A second chance to live. To live the way I wanted to. To do the things I wanted to do. To make changes in my life so that I was living a more fulfilled life. And that's not to say I had a bad first half. On the contrary, I have been very fortunate thus far and have lived quite a great life I think. I have had the chances to travel to many places and see a lot of this country, and small parts of other ones. And traveling is one of my passions in life. But, due to whatever circumstances, I haven't really done as much traveling as I would have really liked over the last few years. I've also only come to really realize how unhappy I was in my former career. A career that I had worked hard at for over fifteen years, pushing myself to continue down that career path, inching my way up further in the pecking order of things, making a little more money each time, but only now understanding that's just not that important anymore. And the truth is, the real honest truth, I was never even that good at it. I mean, I was good, I'm not gonna sit here and self deprecate for humility's sake. I worked my butt off during long hours in the studio in college, to long hours sitting behind a desk - only to photoshop someone else's idea of what was good for business. I was selling someone else's dream. But I wasn't GOOD at it. I didn't love it. I didn't spend my off hours perfecting my craft or trying to stay abreast of the latest trends and new tools. In theory, it even goes against my personal thoughts on the misconception that advertising portrays and my distaste for the over photo enhanced world that surrounds us, and the message it sells, most especially the body image/false sense of beauty, it reinforces in impressionable young people.
I always knew I wanted to go into a creative field. I dabbled with four different college majors, starting in liberal arts just to get some basics, moving on to photography for a bit, and did a brief stint in interior design, before settling on graphic design. A decision that was made, in large part, thanks to a young cutie I met at UNA during orientation, who by the way, kept peeking at my class schedule selection so he could arrange his classes to match some of mine. We later sat beside each other at an 8:00 am Art History 101 class, on those days in which I decided to actually show up. (I had figured out I didn't actually have to be there to memorize the necessary slides with paintings, artist's names and dates in order to ace the exams. This is also why, as an art history minor, I am not very good at trivia games involving art history.)
So here I am now, 37 years old, medically unable to work and using it as a chance to try and figure out what it is that I want to do when I grow up. Taking inspiration from women who have been where I am. Because I know that one day this whole cancer thing will all be over. I want to be able to step away from it having learned something - to grow from the experience. I want to become a better person, with better habits and a greater consciousness about how precious each day is. To have the courage to pursue my own dreams and live the life I was meant to live. I want to live life knowing that at any moment it can be taken from us, so treasure the good moments and let go of the bad. One of the many things I have learned is that most problems in life can be fixed; certainly most of the problems that keep us lying awake at night, losing sleep due to useless worry. And most of them we have created for ourselves anyway. And sometimes it takes a tragedy to appreciate that.
I've learned a lot while having cancer and more importantly, I've learned a lot about myself. Not long after my diagnosis someone gave me an AARP magazine with an article featuring Melissa Etheridge and Sheryl Crow and their battles with cancer. In the article they talked about how cancer changed their lives, and at least to some extent, for the better. They revealed how they used their diagnosis as a time of reflection, a time to reevaluate their lives, and the strength they gained from it. They are quoted referring to cancer as "A gift".
It really struck me. Here were two women I admired and respected talking about surviving cancer and how it had really been, in many ways, a blessing. It inspired me. It gave me hope, and helped to change my perspective. Instead of looking at this as the end-all, be-all most terrible thing ever, I could look at as a second chance. A second chance to live. To live the way I wanted to. To do the things I wanted to do. To make changes in my life so that I was living a more fulfilled life. And that's not to say I had a bad first half. On the contrary, I have been very fortunate thus far and have lived quite a great life I think. I have had the chances to travel to many places and see a lot of this country, and small parts of other ones. And traveling is one of my passions in life. But, due to whatever circumstances, I haven't really done as much traveling as I would have really liked over the last few years. I've also only come to really realize how unhappy I was in my former career. A career that I had worked hard at for over fifteen years, pushing myself to continue down that career path, inching my way up further in the pecking order of things, making a little more money each time, but only now understanding that's just not that important anymore. And the truth is, the real honest truth, I was never even that good at it. I mean, I was good, I'm not gonna sit here and self deprecate for humility's sake. I worked my butt off during long hours in the studio in college, to long hours sitting behind a desk - only to photoshop someone else's idea of what was good for business. I was selling someone else's dream. But I wasn't GOOD at it. I didn't love it. I didn't spend my off hours perfecting my craft or trying to stay abreast of the latest trends and new tools. In theory, it even goes against my personal thoughts on the misconception that advertising portrays and my distaste for the over photo enhanced world that surrounds us, and the message it sells, most especially the body image/false sense of beauty, it reinforces in impressionable young people.
I always knew I wanted to go into a creative field. I dabbled with four different college majors, starting in liberal arts just to get some basics, moving on to photography for a bit, and did a brief stint in interior design, before settling on graphic design. A decision that was made, in large part, thanks to a young cutie I met at UNA during orientation, who by the way, kept peeking at my class schedule selection so he could arrange his classes to match some of mine. We later sat beside each other at an 8:00 am Art History 101 class, on those days in which I decided to actually show up. (I had figured out I didn't actually have to be there to memorize the necessary slides with paintings, artist's names and dates in order to ace the exams. This is also why, as an art history minor, I am not very good at trivia games involving art history.)
So here I am now, 37 years old, medically unable to work and using it as a chance to try and figure out what it is that I want to do when I grow up. Taking inspiration from women who have been where I am. Because I know that one day this whole cancer thing will all be over. I want to be able to step away from it having learned something - to grow from the experience. I want to become a better person, with better habits and a greater consciousness about how precious each day is. To have the courage to pursue my own dreams and live the life I was meant to live. I want to live life knowing that at any moment it can be taken from us, so treasure the good moments and let go of the bad. One of the many things I have learned is that most problems in life can be fixed; certainly most of the problems that keep us lying awake at night, losing sleep due to useless worry. And most of them we have created for ourselves anyway. And sometimes it takes a tragedy to appreciate that.
Monday, April 27, 2015
Just another shitty day
So I promised myself I would make every effort to update my blog at least once weekly, and strive to keep it on a fairly regular schedule; aiming for every Monday. It's been a long day of errands and chores, and quite frankly, I'm tuckered out. BUT, I promised. So, here goes. I thought we could take a slight detour from the previous posts and go for a slightly more amusing story.
Throughout the entire pre-cancer diagnosis and in the months to follow, I can't stress enough just how bad my bowel situation was. Now for anyone who is squeamish or uncomfortable hearing poop stories, you should probably just stop reading. But, for the rest of you, you have to consider that my cancer was in my colon, so a large majority of my stories revolve around pooping, or the lack thereof, or the overabundance thereof. Depends on which day, or sometimes hour, we are specifically discussing. This particular story takes place during a diarrhea stage. In addition to the abscess, and the cancer, I also endured an unfortunate bout of C-Diff. Twice, actually, but this was the first occurrence. If you are unfamiliar with c-diff - to sum up what I know about it - it's a naturally occurring bacteria found in the digestive tract of healthy, normally functioning digestive systems, with a much longer, harder to pronounce official scientific name. However, large doses of antibiotics kill off not only harmful bacteria in your system, but also the good ones. And sometimes, during such times, the normally harmless c-diff hanging out in your body all of a sudden turns into the kudzu of bacteria taking over and wreaking havoc on your body. Left unchecked, it can lead to hospitalization, and in rare cases, even death. The most obvious symptom is severe diarrhea. I was unaware at this point, that I even had c-diff, it wasn't diagnosed until later on. I just knew everything down there was completely screwed up and it made life miserable, and quite frankly, I never knew what to expect from day to day. It seemed to range from constipation to diarrhea and at times, within the same day.
On this particular day, I had both a CT Scan and MRI scheduled. My mom, being the absolute trooper that she is and has been, had driven me to the hospital, as was usually the case. We get there. They give me some large, 32 oz. cup of pre-CT liquid prep to drink and we get settled into the waiting room. You have to wait approximately one hour from the time you start drinking before you can do the CT. So, we are in there for awhile. They call me back for my CT. Everything goes fine, no hitches. Afterward, they take me back to a separate, kind of private waiting room, while I wait to get my MRI. It was cold, so they gave me a nice, warm blanket to wrap up in. I'm sitting in this room, alone, that was, eh, maybe bigger than your standard walk-in closet. There's a TV on the wall across from my chair and a bathroom about 10 feet or so to my right. I'm sitting there, wrapped in my blanket, purse in my lap, watching whatever was on the tube, patiently waiting. THEN IT HITS ME. My stomach rolled over on itself. I panicked. I was wrapped up all snugly, and I couldn't move. I am frantically trying to unravel myself, finally manage to get the blanket off me, flinging my purse in the floor, and make a mad, insane dash to the bathroom door. It's no more than ten feet. Ten small feet. I can make it.
I didn't make it. I barely managed to even get the door slammed behind me, when it's already starting to run down my leg. I half trip over the toilet and finish what has already begun. I finish my business and start to assess the situation. Without getting into anymore graphic detail than necessary, all I can say is that my lower half is pretty much shit soaked. Fortunately, my socks and shoes were spared, though two more seconds in that blanket would have most likely ruined them too. My panties and yoga pants are covered in poop. My legs are covered in poop. Watery, watery poop. First order of business, remove pants/panties and clean myself up. So I strip down to nothing but my t-shirt and hobble over to the sink where I clean up with soap, water and paper towels. Okay, I'm clean, now what? I look at my pile of clothes. There is no way they are salvageable. This is not a case of a spot or two here or there, I'm telling ya, they are covered. I hear shuffling feet in the small waiting room outside, most likely someone looking for me, I think. And probably wondering what the hell happened outside to cause such an Armageddon of blanket and purse. Perhaps I was kidnapped. I crack the door slightly and poke my head out. There's a male nurse standing in the room. "Ummmm, I'm gonna need some assistance." He asks me if I would like for him to get a female nurse. "Yes. That would be great." I close the door. And I stand there. In my t-shirt and socks that I had put back on.
A few minutes later, there's a knock on the door, and she asks if she can come in. "Yes." She opens the door and there I am. T-shirt and socks. Just standing there. Feeling a bit shell-shocked and of course, completely embarrassed. "I shit myself." Now, there may have been more eloquent ways of explaining the situation, but that's honestly the only thing I could to say. I mean, well, that's what happened. No two ways about it.
God bless medical professionals. They have seen it all, and absolutely nothing seems to faze them. She never even blinked twice; just asked me if I would like a pair of hospital pants (scrubs). Hospital pants!!!!!! YES, YES, and More YES. I had never even thought about hospital pants as a viable option to my current predicament. I tell her yes, please, and thank you. Just a few moments later, I was dressed again. Granted, hospital pants are a one-size-fits-all kind of deal, and these easily could have fit a 300 pound grown man, and at this point, I'm not even a buck-oh-five soaking wet. But whatever. They are clean and they cover my bare bottom. I'm thrilled. I dispose of my old clothes in the trash and go in for my MRI. All ends well, and I gather my purse, and walk out to the main waiting room to meet my mom.
Her first words to me? "Where are your pants???"
"Weeeeellllllllll....... it's a long story."
Throughout the entire pre-cancer diagnosis and in the months to follow, I can't stress enough just how bad my bowel situation was. Now for anyone who is squeamish or uncomfortable hearing poop stories, you should probably just stop reading. But, for the rest of you, you have to consider that my cancer was in my colon, so a large majority of my stories revolve around pooping, or the lack thereof, or the overabundance thereof. Depends on which day, or sometimes hour, we are specifically discussing. This particular story takes place during a diarrhea stage. In addition to the abscess, and the cancer, I also endured an unfortunate bout of C-Diff. Twice, actually, but this was the first occurrence. If you are unfamiliar with c-diff - to sum up what I know about it - it's a naturally occurring bacteria found in the digestive tract of healthy, normally functioning digestive systems, with a much longer, harder to pronounce official scientific name. However, large doses of antibiotics kill off not only harmful bacteria in your system, but also the good ones. And sometimes, during such times, the normally harmless c-diff hanging out in your body all of a sudden turns into the kudzu of bacteria taking over and wreaking havoc on your body. Left unchecked, it can lead to hospitalization, and in rare cases, even death. The most obvious symptom is severe diarrhea. I was unaware at this point, that I even had c-diff, it wasn't diagnosed until later on. I just knew everything down there was completely screwed up and it made life miserable, and quite frankly, I never knew what to expect from day to day. It seemed to range from constipation to diarrhea and at times, within the same day.
On this particular day, I had both a CT Scan and MRI scheduled. My mom, being the absolute trooper that she is and has been, had driven me to the hospital, as was usually the case. We get there. They give me some large, 32 oz. cup of pre-CT liquid prep to drink and we get settled into the waiting room. You have to wait approximately one hour from the time you start drinking before you can do the CT. So, we are in there for awhile. They call me back for my CT. Everything goes fine, no hitches. Afterward, they take me back to a separate, kind of private waiting room, while I wait to get my MRI. It was cold, so they gave me a nice, warm blanket to wrap up in. I'm sitting in this room, alone, that was, eh, maybe bigger than your standard walk-in closet. There's a TV on the wall across from my chair and a bathroom about 10 feet or so to my right. I'm sitting there, wrapped in my blanket, purse in my lap, watching whatever was on the tube, patiently waiting. THEN IT HITS ME. My stomach rolled over on itself. I panicked. I was wrapped up all snugly, and I couldn't move. I am frantically trying to unravel myself, finally manage to get the blanket off me, flinging my purse in the floor, and make a mad, insane dash to the bathroom door. It's no more than ten feet. Ten small feet. I can make it.
I didn't make it. I barely managed to even get the door slammed behind me, when it's already starting to run down my leg. I half trip over the toilet and finish what has already begun. I finish my business and start to assess the situation. Without getting into anymore graphic detail than necessary, all I can say is that my lower half is pretty much shit soaked. Fortunately, my socks and shoes were spared, though two more seconds in that blanket would have most likely ruined them too. My panties and yoga pants are covered in poop. My legs are covered in poop. Watery, watery poop. First order of business, remove pants/panties and clean myself up. So I strip down to nothing but my t-shirt and hobble over to the sink where I clean up with soap, water and paper towels. Okay, I'm clean, now what? I look at my pile of clothes. There is no way they are salvageable. This is not a case of a spot or two here or there, I'm telling ya, they are covered. I hear shuffling feet in the small waiting room outside, most likely someone looking for me, I think. And probably wondering what the hell happened outside to cause such an Armageddon of blanket and purse. Perhaps I was kidnapped. I crack the door slightly and poke my head out. There's a male nurse standing in the room. "Ummmm, I'm gonna need some assistance." He asks me if I would like for him to get a female nurse. "Yes. That would be great." I close the door. And I stand there. In my t-shirt and socks that I had put back on.
A few minutes later, there's a knock on the door, and she asks if she can come in. "Yes." She opens the door and there I am. T-shirt and socks. Just standing there. Feeling a bit shell-shocked and of course, completely embarrassed. "I shit myself." Now, there may have been more eloquent ways of explaining the situation, but that's honestly the only thing I could to say. I mean, well, that's what happened. No two ways about it.
God bless medical professionals. They have seen it all, and absolutely nothing seems to faze them. She never even blinked twice; just asked me if I would like a pair of hospital pants (scrubs). Hospital pants!!!!!! YES, YES, and More YES. I had never even thought about hospital pants as a viable option to my current predicament. I tell her yes, please, and thank you. Just a few moments later, I was dressed again. Granted, hospital pants are a one-size-fits-all kind of deal, and these easily could have fit a 300 pound grown man, and at this point, I'm not even a buck-oh-five soaking wet. But whatever. They are clean and they cover my bare bottom. I'm thrilled. I dispose of my old clothes in the trash and go in for my MRI. All ends well, and I gather my purse, and walk out to the main waiting room to meet my mom.
Her first words to me? "Where are your pants???"
"Weeeeellllllllll....... it's a long story."
Monday, April 20, 2015
The Evolution of My Ass Part 2
September 5, 2014
I am scheduled for a colonoscopy. If you've never had one, they are horrible. The procedure itself is no big deal. They put you to sleep, you wake up, it's over. It's the day before that sucks. You can have nothing but clear liquids all day, and you must drink the most gawd awful tasting drink to cleanse yourself. Then the cleansing begins. Liquid, explosive, uncontrollable diarrhea for the next few hours. Rule #1: stay close to the bathroom. Like, just get a pillow and get comfortable in the bathroom. You're not going anywhere too far. Forget wearing pants. You will just ruin them.
I go in for the procedure. They put me to sleep. And then, poof, it's all over! I sort of half wake up on the ride home. I am starving, so we (my mom, dad and me) go to a nearby Chinese buffet. I stumble around the buffet looking like I've been on a three day drunk. My mom walks behind me to keep me from falling. I notice a few strange glances from other customers. I don't care. I weeble wobble my way back to the table. I dig in.
"Oh, yeah, so what did the doctor say? Did he tell y'all anything after my procedure?" It's all a blur. I still feel quite loopy from the anesthesia.
The exact exchange is still blurry. All I really remember hearing is the word CANCER. "You have a tumor. They want to start chemo and radiation immediately."
Time stops. What? Me? A tumor? Cancer? Radiation? Chemo? Oh My God, my hair is gonna fall out. ....I swear that was my first real thought. I've been on some heavy drugs that are still floating around my system, clouding my brain. I start to cry - right there at the table of a Chinese restaurant. I can't stop it. The tears just start flowing. This can't be right. But for some reason, I am not as surprised as maybe I should have been. I think I already knew. I don't know, I think the subconscious knows more than it lets on at times. Denial is not a river in Egypt.
We finish lunch; well, sort of. My appetite is suddenly gone. The car ride home is a quiet one. I get home, exhausted from the procedure and the anesthesia. I make myself comfortable and start sending messages to my friends. A few even come over to visit, and tell me how much they love me. I don't fully understand what is happening, but I am determined to accept my fate and face it head on. No worries, right?
Later that evening, my mom and I are talking about the cancer and what it means. She is trying to explain that according to the doctor I will need to undergo radiation and chemo, followed by a surgery. I am not thrilled about the idea of radiation or chemo. "Why can't we just skip right to the surgery part?" She doesn't really answer. I press on. So now I am being stubborn. "But I don't want chemo! I don't want to go through that!" I am getting frustrated. So is my mom. We start to argue. She is getting more and more agitated, which is only infuriating me further. Finally, she explodes. "You don't understand, Jennifer!" She is practically yelling and visibly tearing up. "If they can't shrink the tumor with radiation and chemo, you are going to have to have a colostomy!" "Permanently!!!" At this point, she completely breaks down and is completely sobbing.
The words hit me like a Mack truck. I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't think. If hearing I had cancer earlier in the day stopped time, hearing the word colostomy completely froze it. It was like being punched in the gut; you can't get oxygen and your whole body is paralyzed briefly. I think I yelled at her. I am not really sure. What I do know is that I bawled my eyes out. It all came crashing down on me as the gravity of the situation started to hit me. This was not going to be one of those easy fixes in life. No. This was some serious shit. No pun intended. I still did not know what lie ahead down the road, but I knew for certain it was going to be a rough ride.
Time stops. What? Me? A tumor? Cancer? Radiation? Chemo? Oh My God, my hair is gonna fall out. ....I swear that was my first real thought. I've been on some heavy drugs that are still floating around my system, clouding my brain. I start to cry - right there at the table of a Chinese restaurant. I can't stop it. The tears just start flowing. This can't be right. But for some reason, I am not as surprised as maybe I should have been. I think I already knew. I don't know, I think the subconscious knows more than it lets on at times. Denial is not a river in Egypt.
We finish lunch; well, sort of. My appetite is suddenly gone. The car ride home is a quiet one. I get home, exhausted from the procedure and the anesthesia. I make myself comfortable and start sending messages to my friends. A few even come over to visit, and tell me how much they love me. I don't fully understand what is happening, but I am determined to accept my fate and face it head on. No worries, right?
Later that evening, my mom and I are talking about the cancer and what it means. She is trying to explain that according to the doctor I will need to undergo radiation and chemo, followed by a surgery. I am not thrilled about the idea of radiation or chemo. "Why can't we just skip right to the surgery part?" She doesn't really answer. I press on. So now I am being stubborn. "But I don't want chemo! I don't want to go through that!" I am getting frustrated. So is my mom. We start to argue. She is getting more and more agitated, which is only infuriating me further. Finally, she explodes. "You don't understand, Jennifer!" She is practically yelling and visibly tearing up. "If they can't shrink the tumor with radiation and chemo, you are going to have to have a colostomy!" "Permanently!!!" At this point, she completely breaks down and is completely sobbing.
The words hit me like a Mack truck. I can't breathe. I can't move. I can't think. If hearing I had cancer earlier in the day stopped time, hearing the word colostomy completely froze it. It was like being punched in the gut; you can't get oxygen and your whole body is paralyzed briefly. I think I yelled at her. I am not really sure. What I do know is that I bawled my eyes out. It all came crashing down on me as the gravity of the situation started to hit me. This was not going to be one of those easy fixes in life. No. This was some serious shit. No pun intended. I still did not know what lie ahead down the road, but I knew for certain it was going to be a rough ride.
Friday, April 17, 2015
The Evolution of My Ass Part 1
2014 will probably always be remembered as the worst year of my life. At least, I hope it is. It started innocuously enough, but even then at the very precipice of the freshest of moments, a la January 1, 2104 it was already off to a shaky start. While I was just getting my sea legs about me in my new role as marketing manager, the company I had just started work for a mere 5 months prior was sinking. By early April, it was over. The company dissolved, clamored upon by vultures waiting in the wings. Bankruptcy was declared and I was out of pocket 10 weeks of unpaid wages. No job. No insurance. No freaking clue what I was going to do. I have been gainfully employed for my entire adult life, barring a few job hops here and there along the way and a few moves around the country. For the last few years, I had been living independently, bought my first house and couldn't afford to not have a job. Not even for a little bit. After my divorce, I had used all my savings in order to purchase my house and make necessary home improvements and replace some of the furniture I had left behind. Homes are very expensive to own. And this one needed a bit of work from the get go.
I was just getting comfortable again, arriving at that point I could start setting some money aside in an effort to rebuild my small nest egg. But then, BAM!, just like that the rug came out from under me. I told myself not to panic. I would get by. I would figure something out until I could find another permanent position. I filed for unemployment. I'd like to go on record to say that unemployment benefits in the state of Mississippi are laughable. I drew the max amount available and I think it was somewhere around $275 a week. How is anyone supposed to live on this? I started waiting tables at a nearby restaurant. The money was nowhere near what I needed, but my parents helped out and I managed to get by with God's Grace.
Amid this, some time around early February, a rail-thin, scraggly looking hound dog showed up on my doorstep, cold and hungry. I, being a sucker for animals, especially rail-thin, scraggly dogs, started feeding her. So she came back. I announced her as being found on social media sites, but nobody claimed her. Surprise! I'm the proud new owner of a hound dog. Already having a nine year old Boxer and a kitty cat, I was not in the market for a new pet, however, we would make it. A few weeks later, another dog followed the hound home. Another dog abandoned by her former owners. So, naturally, I started feeding her too. Henceforth, they were dubbed Thelma and Louise. I am now up to three dogs and a cat. My house was getting crowded. My dog food budget and vet bills were going up while my income was going down. This is not good math. But the fun was just starting in the soon to be The Great Dog Invasion of 2014. Thelma brought a little something extra to the party...puppies!!!!! That's right. She was the proud mama to 11 healthy pups. Eleven. Eleven of them. One poor pup met his demise in the middle of the road, and nine found new homes. That left one, Max. His story? Well, only a couple of months old, he had wandered into the road and was hit by a truck. His leg was broken. Fortunately, it was only a fracture, and could be healed by just splinting it and keeping him as inactive as possible for a few weeks. He made it through and I knew he was forever mine. He is the baby in the family. I love my pets, but dog food gets expensive, and I'm barely getting by as it is.
It wasn't long until the mild changes in certain, um, normal bodily functions began to become much more evident. My stomach was in knots. My bowels were completely unpredictable. Oh, and the pain. I started noticing a pain in my lower back, near my tailbone. Having had lower back problems in the past, I wasn't too worried. Years of cheerleading and some kick boxing classes in college, with a few minor injuries along the way had taken their toll. I was alternating between diarrhea and constipation, and the pain just got worse. Surely, not connected though, right? Are they? Maybe I have a pinched nerve near my spine. I will get it seen about just as soon as I land a full time job with insurance benefits. Spring turned to summer. The pain was excruciating. My bowels were no longer trustworthy. I feared eating out in public, knowing I may have to make a trip to the bathroom soon after. I was losing a lot of weight too. Not surprising considering I went from mostly sitting at a desk all day to running my butt off waiting tables in the summer heat. Lifting heavy chairs and being on my feet all day surely wasn't helping the back pain either. The stress from the situation is clearly giving me stomach problems, hence the irregular bowel movements. Now an abscess has formed in my right butt cheek. Hurts like hell. What is this new horror? Wake up one morning, abscess is so swollen and painful, I can't walk, sit, lie down. I've never felt a pain like this. Okay, I will go see my family doctor. I explain the situation. The abscess ruptures on it's own and I feel some relief. He is concerned about my list of symptoms. He starts me on antibiotics and urges me to get a colonoscopy just to check things out. It's probably a case of hemorrhoids causing some problems. Yes, hemorrhoids have also been a problem for the last few months. Yes, they are bleeding. Okay, I will make an appointment. I schedule a consultation.
I meet with a gastroenterologist, he examines me, and decides most likely, the abscess didn't fully drain and has now walled itself off, presenting a troubling situation. He starts me on four more (4!!!) strong antibiotics in an effort to break through the wall and keep this thing from becoming very serious. I'm a little concerned about it. The antibiotics make me sick. The diarrhea becomes worse. I have no appetite and feel like run over dammit. He calls a surgeon and sets up an office visit for me. He wants to get a second opinion. I meet the surgeon. I like him. He's very friendly and easy to talk to. He does a rectal exam. At this point, more people have poked and prodded my glory hole than is entirely appropriate. He tells me he feels a mass. A mass? Yes, but don't worry, it could be nothing. But you need a colonoscopy just to be sure. So I set it up with the gastroenterologist. And I wait.
I was just getting comfortable again, arriving at that point I could start setting some money aside in an effort to rebuild my small nest egg. But then, BAM!, just like that the rug came out from under me. I told myself not to panic. I would get by. I would figure something out until I could find another permanent position. I filed for unemployment. I'd like to go on record to say that unemployment benefits in the state of Mississippi are laughable. I drew the max amount available and I think it was somewhere around $275 a week. How is anyone supposed to live on this? I started waiting tables at a nearby restaurant. The money was nowhere near what I needed, but my parents helped out and I managed to get by with God's Grace.
Amid this, some time around early February, a rail-thin, scraggly looking hound dog showed up on my doorstep, cold and hungry. I, being a sucker for animals, especially rail-thin, scraggly dogs, started feeding her. So she came back. I announced her as being found on social media sites, but nobody claimed her. Surprise! I'm the proud new owner of a hound dog. Already having a nine year old Boxer and a kitty cat, I was not in the market for a new pet, however, we would make it. A few weeks later, another dog followed the hound home. Another dog abandoned by her former owners. So, naturally, I started feeding her too. Henceforth, they were dubbed Thelma and Louise. I am now up to three dogs and a cat. My house was getting crowded. My dog food budget and vet bills were going up while my income was going down. This is not good math. But the fun was just starting in the soon to be The Great Dog Invasion of 2014. Thelma brought a little something extra to the party...puppies!!!!! That's right. She was the proud mama to 11 healthy pups. Eleven. Eleven of them. One poor pup met his demise in the middle of the road, and nine found new homes. That left one, Max. His story? Well, only a couple of months old, he had wandered into the road and was hit by a truck. His leg was broken. Fortunately, it was only a fracture, and could be healed by just splinting it and keeping him as inactive as possible for a few weeks. He made it through and I knew he was forever mine. He is the baby in the family. I love my pets, but dog food gets expensive, and I'm barely getting by as it is.
It wasn't long until the mild changes in certain, um, normal bodily functions began to become much more evident. My stomach was in knots. My bowels were completely unpredictable. Oh, and the pain. I started noticing a pain in my lower back, near my tailbone. Having had lower back problems in the past, I wasn't too worried. Years of cheerleading and some kick boxing classes in college, with a few minor injuries along the way had taken their toll. I was alternating between diarrhea and constipation, and the pain just got worse. Surely, not connected though, right? Are they? Maybe I have a pinched nerve near my spine. I will get it seen about just as soon as I land a full time job with insurance benefits. Spring turned to summer. The pain was excruciating. My bowels were no longer trustworthy. I feared eating out in public, knowing I may have to make a trip to the bathroom soon after. I was losing a lot of weight too. Not surprising considering I went from mostly sitting at a desk all day to running my butt off waiting tables in the summer heat. Lifting heavy chairs and being on my feet all day surely wasn't helping the back pain either. The stress from the situation is clearly giving me stomach problems, hence the irregular bowel movements. Now an abscess has formed in my right butt cheek. Hurts like hell. What is this new horror? Wake up one morning, abscess is so swollen and painful, I can't walk, sit, lie down. I've never felt a pain like this. Okay, I will go see my family doctor. I explain the situation. The abscess ruptures on it's own and I feel some relief. He is concerned about my list of symptoms. He starts me on antibiotics and urges me to get a colonoscopy just to check things out. It's probably a case of hemorrhoids causing some problems. Yes, hemorrhoids have also been a problem for the last few months. Yes, they are bleeding. Okay, I will make an appointment. I schedule a consultation.
I meet with a gastroenterologist, he examines me, and decides most likely, the abscess didn't fully drain and has now walled itself off, presenting a troubling situation. He starts me on four more (4!!!) strong antibiotics in an effort to break through the wall and keep this thing from becoming very serious. I'm a little concerned about it. The antibiotics make me sick. The diarrhea becomes worse. I have no appetite and feel like run over dammit. He calls a surgeon and sets up an office visit for me. He wants to get a second opinion. I meet the surgeon. I like him. He's very friendly and easy to talk to. He does a rectal exam. At this point, more people have poked and prodded my glory hole than is entirely appropriate. He tells me he feels a mass. A mass? Yes, but don't worry, it could be nothing. But you need a colonoscopy just to be sure. So I set it up with the gastroenterologist. And I wait.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Don't Worry
To the inhuman human that left your dog to fend for itself, don't worry, I took him in. I didn't want to, as I have responsibilities too, and really didn't want the extra burden. But I did anyway. I know it won't matter to you that he/she now has food to eat and a warm bed to lay on, but he does. Because, let's be honest, if it mattered to you in the first place, you wouldn't have abandoned him on the side of the road, or left him behind when you moved. I'm sure you are sleeping soundly without any thoughts of the animal you left to die. But don't worry, I cared. I cared enough that I bathed him and gave him medicine to provide relief for his poor body from the fleas, ticks, and worms that plagued him.
Was he that much a bother for you? Did he get into the trash? Did he pee on the floor? Did he chew your favorite shoes? Would it have taken so much of your precious time to train him? Could you not possibly spare a few minutes every day to teach him manners? He wanted to please you, he wanted to learn, but you didn't have the time. But don't worry, I'm trying to find the time to fix your problem.
He loved you. He worshipped you. He would have fought for you. He would have given his life to protect you. And how did you return such unconditional love? You discarded him. You left him to die. Alone and scared, he would have eventually starved to death, given over to sickness and disease, or been hauled off to the pound to face his fate, wondering where his master is. But don't worry, he has a new home now.
Now he has a new master. Now he loves me. Now he fights to defend me. And if fate ever has our paths cross, don't worry, I'm sure he will forgive you. But I won't.
Was he that much a bother for you? Did he get into the trash? Did he pee on the floor? Did he chew your favorite shoes? Would it have taken so much of your precious time to train him? Could you not possibly spare a few minutes every day to teach him manners? He wanted to please you, he wanted to learn, but you didn't have the time. But don't worry, I'm trying to find the time to fix your problem.
He loved you. He worshipped you. He would have fought for you. He would have given his life to protect you. And how did you return such unconditional love? You discarded him. You left him to die. Alone and scared, he would have eventually starved to death, given over to sickness and disease, or been hauled off to the pound to face his fate, wondering where his master is. But don't worry, he has a new home now.
Now he has a new master. Now he loves me. Now he fights to defend me. And if fate ever has our paths cross, don't worry, I'm sure he will forgive you. But I won't.
Monday, April 14, 2014
Things could always be worse. Or not.
One of my biggest pet peeves is to be standing in line somewhere, perhaps a gas station, looking at nothing in particular, mind wandering aimlessly, only to hear this, "Smile. Things could always be worse." I look up and sure enough some man is staring at me, expecting some kind of response. I said a man, because in every instance I can recall, a woman has never, ever, said this to me. It's always been a man. Chalk that up to another checked box in the 'women have more sense category'.
Now, I don't like to think of myself as someone who walks around with a scowl, and if you greet me with a "Hello" or "How are you?" in the checkout line, I will most likely smile and respond with a similar greeting. This particular interaction, however, is not going to illicit a pleasant response from me or a cheerful grin. Most days I bite my tongue, while contorting my face into the most disgusted look I can conjure at the moment, and try to shoot death rays from my eyes. But catch me at an inopportune time, and I may tell you where you can stick that smile you're looking for.
First of all, like I said, this is almost always said at some random moment whilst I'm staring off into space and standing in line somewhere. Who just stands around smiling for no reason? Unless, I'm having a funny internal thought, I don't just walk around smiling to myself. I'm even gonna go out on a limb and say most people in the world don't do this either, unless they're high.
Second of all, it's pretty damn presumptuous to assume to know anything about me or my life. I wonder how many times somebody has unloaded the "smile, it could be worse" to someone who had just been fired, or their spouse had just left them, or perhaps just got news they only had a short time left to live.
And for that matter, at what point is it appropriate to stop saying things could always be worse. I don't know, maybe you lost your job and consequently all your money, your car, your house and now you're homeless - - and for an extra cherry topping -- your entire family was just killed in a tragic accident. Is that when it doesn't get any worse? Is that when it's okay to say, hey you know, things really couldn't actually get much worse. Although I suppose, in theory, at least you haven't managed to accidentally set yourself on fire.
I understand that the idea is to remind ourselves that no matter our situation, someone out there probably has it worse. This is supposed to be some kind of solace, a reminder to count the blessings we do have. I get that. I often remind myself of this when times get tough. But sometimes, it's still bad. Whatever hell you are going through, will most likely pass, and eventually life will be brighter. But no need to hide behind a veil of fake smiles when things are shitty. Scowl if you want to. And when someone tells you things could always be worse, just punch them in the face, and say, "yeah, at least nobody has hit me today." Then smile and walk away.
Now, I don't like to think of myself as someone who walks around with a scowl, and if you greet me with a "Hello" or "How are you?" in the checkout line, I will most likely smile and respond with a similar greeting. This particular interaction, however, is not going to illicit a pleasant response from me or a cheerful grin. Most days I bite my tongue, while contorting my face into the most disgusted look I can conjure at the moment, and try to shoot death rays from my eyes. But catch me at an inopportune time, and I may tell you where you can stick that smile you're looking for.
First of all, like I said, this is almost always said at some random moment whilst I'm staring off into space and standing in line somewhere. Who just stands around smiling for no reason? Unless, I'm having a funny internal thought, I don't just walk around smiling to myself. I'm even gonna go out on a limb and say most people in the world don't do this either, unless they're high.
Second of all, it's pretty damn presumptuous to assume to know anything about me or my life. I wonder how many times somebody has unloaded the "smile, it could be worse" to someone who had just been fired, or their spouse had just left them, or perhaps just got news they only had a short time left to live.
And for that matter, at what point is it appropriate to stop saying things could always be worse. I don't know, maybe you lost your job and consequently all your money, your car, your house and now you're homeless - - and for an extra cherry topping -- your entire family was just killed in a tragic accident. Is that when it doesn't get any worse? Is that when it's okay to say, hey you know, things really couldn't actually get much worse. Although I suppose, in theory, at least you haven't managed to accidentally set yourself on fire.
I understand that the idea is to remind ourselves that no matter our situation, someone out there probably has it worse. This is supposed to be some kind of solace, a reminder to count the blessings we do have. I get that. I often remind myself of this when times get tough. But sometimes, it's still bad. Whatever hell you are going through, will most likely pass, and eventually life will be brighter. But no need to hide behind a veil of fake smiles when things are shitty. Scowl if you want to. And when someone tells you things could always be worse, just punch them in the face, and say, "yeah, at least nobody has hit me today." Then smile and walk away.
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