Home is Where the Heart Is

I have spent the days before my cancer surgery tidying the house. I went through piles of mail that have sat untouched on the kitchen table for as long as a year. I washed loads of laundry until I had nothing left to wash. I returned things to their proper place in the house. I discarded old magazines and mail-order catalogs. I purged drawers and files. I swept down the cobwebs shadowing the corners of the ceiling. I found the carkeys missing since last summer. I threw out dysfunctional, broken down things. I wasn't thinking as I was doing all this. I was just moving. The more trivial the chore, the more I felt the need to get it done.

The process was gratifying not only in that I could see what I had accomplished, but also that I could see my space. Of course I mean the physical spaces of the house, but I also mean the vast room left in my heart and soul. Somehow by clearing my physical space, I created room to breathe, room to thrive. I hung my pink flamingo patio lights over my windows. I thumbtacked pictures I liked wherever I liked. Tonight, the night before my very scary surgery, I look around and finally recognize what I have done. I have obviously kept fear at bay with mundane simple tasks. I have more subtly and unconsciously created a healing environment for my body and my soul. And I symbolically have laid the groundwork for my surgeon, Dr. Lim. As I have cleaned out the debris and dross from my house, the home of my body, Dr. Lim can clean out the cancer from my body, the home of my soul. I feel strenghth tonight.

The Holycrap! Look

I tackled all my pre-op tests today. I have been swept up into the current healthcare system. I now recognize the Holycrap! Look from some healthcare professionals. The Holycrap! Look is an expression of surprise, fear, pity and basic "OMFG! I'm glad it's not me". It's hard to maintain dignity and confidence after receiving one of these glances. I felt my protective cocoon waver and wobble. I took a moment in the ladie's room to breathe. Three times. The pre-admitting clerk gave me the Look when I told her I will be staying for 14 days. The case manger gave me the Look when I verified what procedures will be performed and then again when she verified my age. I am beginning to hate that expression on their faces. It reminds me of my vulnerability.

Pharmgirll, MEC

I've been watching too much tv this week. Probably because I have been forced to sleep on my back during my recovery and the only place I can do that comfortably is on the couch. Don't get me wrong, I can sleep on my back on the bed, but I can't get OUT of the bed....

One of my favorite shows is a medical show and the writers got some drug info wrong tonight...again. How hard is it to verify medical information? When writing a medical drama? Surely there is at least one consultant on staff? Maybe that will be my new profession...Pharmgirll, Medical Entertainment Consultant.

The Other Side of the Counter

I have tried to share with y'all some of the most humorous tidbits of my days behind the pharmacy counter. My stories will now move to the other side of the counter as I move from the role of the pharmacist to the role of the patient. I was diagnosed with ovarian cancer on Wednesday. How does one go from a seemingly healthy productive member of society to a (whisper) cancer patient in 6 months? I can't really answer that question. Shouldn't I have known that I was that sick? Maybe not. I can't place blame on anyone, even myself. The symptoms of ovarian cancer are vague and attributable of other things.

Ovarian Cancer Symtpoms:

*bloating and/or feeling of fullness
*Frequent urination
*indigestion/gas or constipation/diarrhea
*fatigue and/or back pain
*Pelvic or abdominal pain
*Shortness of breath
*abnormal bleeding

If any of these symptoms last more than 2 weeks, see your gynecologist.

80% of ovarian cancer cases are diagnosed at Stage III. The goal of treatment is aggressive cytoreductive surgery to reduce the mass of the tumors to a microscopic size, then chemotherpy to kill the cells left behind. Only 30% of patients survive 5 years beyond diagnosis.

Me? I am scheduled for this surgery on April 19 where the oncologist will remove my uterus, ovaries, fallopian tubes, omentum and part of my bowel. He might have to resection my diaphragm and/or spleen if he finds any tumors at those sites. There is a chance that I will wake up with a colostomy. I will definitely wake up with a intraperitoneal port for my future chemotherapy treatments which will last at least 6 months. I will have a huge nasty scar.

I can't look back and search for "what if?" moments. I have to look forward into treatment and fighting the battle of my life. My life has changed forever. I feel the worst for my family and friends. It's hard to look at the fear and pain on their faces and hear it in their voices. It's hard to believe that I am that sick. I feel kinda blah, not (whisper) cancer-stricken. I vacillate between spurts of productivity, grief, clinical planning, and staring out the window. This week before this surgery will seem so long. It has only been 72 hours since I got the news and my world was turned upside-down, inside-out and singularly focused on this thing, this (whisper) cancer.