I returned to Billings in February of 2004. After spending the holidays with my dad and stepmother, I saw they needed help. My stepmother has highly progressive Multiple Sclerosis and, at the time, was buckling under a barrage of new and diabolical symptoms. It was a scary and uncertain time for her: would she be able to walk? How bad is her vision getting? Why isn't her digestive system working correctly? How long will her hands be clamped shut? MS is an evil, relentless disease and Sonjah was getting bitchslapped.
My father was a red-hot mess as well. He almost died from an aneurysm in 1993 and was never quite the same after that. He broke his ankle, which led to his 6'3" frame lumbering unevenly on his hips. Eventually, hip replacements were necessary. To spice it up, he acquired a staff infection in the hospital that required intravenous antibiotics. He also had heart disease and hypertension. Because this was more stress than any one human can handle--and dad was not great at handling stress to begin with--he also suffered from horrible anxiety. In the middle of the night, I would hear him vomiting into the kitchen sink. The inability to relieve Sonjah's pain; the fear that his own health was critical; and just the general worry he carried at any given time would catch up with him, and he would, quite literally, expel the emotions the only way his body knew how. He would stand over the kitchen sink for 30-45 minutes vomiting bile when there was no food left in his stomach. One night, it got so bad I drove him to the emergency room. I sat next to him in a fluorescent room and held a pink basin under his chin. Nurses administered medication that didn't help. Even when his body was weak from continuous vomiting, his internal worry and turmoil continued to rack his guts. I was helpless; he was powerless. I read almost all of The DaVinci Code in that hospital room. Doctors scolded and pleaded with him to care for himself and learn to manage his stress. But his job, and caring for Sonjah in any way he could left little time to--ya know, meditate and find inner peace.
So he found his peace with alcohol.
Dad struggled with drinking since his days as a musician. There were times he struggled longer and harder with it, each time snowballing from the previous. That summer, he was a reclusive drunk. He would drink in his office when no one else was there, or, he would pour a glass and sequester himself in the bedroom. Normally chatty and animated, he preferred silence or the white noise of television. We could look at his face and know that the "DON'T POKE THE INEBRIATED BEAR" sign had been turned on above his head. Sonjah and I kept our distance unless absolutely necessary, because there was a real possibility of him telling us exactly what he thought about his life and/or us. And trust me, when he was in pain, he could level pride and self-esteem in one biting verbal punch. It's this contradiction that continues to be the hardest aspect of his death. Anyone that met him talked of his charming and likable ways. He was a storyteller, a bit of a philosopher, and he could play the hell out of any Gordon Lightfoot song ever written. He was loving, insightful, and could say the perfect thing to lift me out of sadness or defeat. When people tell me I remind them of him, it's a compliment. How could someone so awesome have this destructive and tragic flaw?
In between working, playing at the local theater, and having a secret fling with one Mr. D.R. Edmonds ("Oh, it's nothing really. We adore each other, but he's moving to Los Angeles and I'm moving to Chicago. We don't really have a shot."), I got to know my father better--the good, the bad and the ugly. On my 24th birthday, I asked him what he was doing when he was 24. Amanda and I had not yet rocked his world, so I knew there were some good stories. He was a little fuzzy on the details, but he told me he was traveling with some buddies in a van to Washington in pursuit of a woman named Ruth. It's possible there may have been some mind-altering substances in said van. His eyes sparkled and he chuckled at the old memory. I smiled, grateful for the new memory. It was those moments and exchanges--learning about him as a man, and not just as my father--that built a connection that only comes in adulthood, and only comes through the realization that I am more like him than unlike him.
Before I left for Chicago in September, one of dad's oldest and best friends, Grant Sears, came to Billings. Grant knew, through recent conversations, that dad was hanging on by some very thin sanity threads, so he came on a sort of rescue mission. He arrived on a very large, very shiny motorcycle and my father was immediately seventeen years old. He circled the bike, stroking his chin and rubbing his head, conjuring ways to lovingly swindle Grant out of this gorgeous machine. Grant offered a ride and dad couldn't get on the bike fast enough. I am grateful that the last image I have is my father holding onto his best friend, riding a few moments in a dream to forget his wounds and his worry.
Dad continued drinking after I left. I would call to tell him of my latest adventures in Chicago, and, while enthusiastic and proud, there were long pauses and slurred words. Finally, Sonjah--having had one too many encounters with him in addition to her already delicate health--called a friend who was in AA. I was absolutely supportive of him joining, but I had my reservations. Previous attempts to get him help had been unsuccessful, but I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. We all were.
One Sunday, in December, I was putzing around my apartment when he called . . . to apologize. He sobbed as he acknowledged for the first time that he had been wrong and hurtful at times, and that I was on the receiving end of those episodes more times than he wanted to admit. I was so stunned and emotional, all I could say was, "It's okay." We bawled together and promised that we would revisit and rebuild what had been broken between us--between all of us. We would have conversations and be honest about feelings and circumstances. No more of this sweep-it-under-the-rug-and-ignore-the-pain--a cornerstone of the Dunn-family mission statement. He told me he would call me next week to update his progress. As always, when we hung up, he told me how proud he was of me and that he loved me. He sounded renewed. He sounded committed.
I did get a call the following Sunday. It was the call to tell me that he had died in the night due to heart disease complicated by chronic alcohol abuse. I remember Sonjah begging to have the "chronic alcohol abuse" removed from his death certificate. It wasn't that she wanted to deny and ignore it. She wanted, as a final gesture to her husband, the certifiable acknowledgment that he was taking the steps to value his own life even though his body gave out. Unfortunately, an autopsy is an autopsy, and the truth is written in 10pt capital letters.
Almost seven years have passed since that devastating day, and my grief changes. It began as a constant weight with no respect for time and place. Break down over the cantaloupes in the produce aisle? You betcha. It was heavy and hard to carry, but I adjusted my stride, and carry it I did. For the past few years it's been certain moments or memories that get me: the way his ankles cracked when he walked up stairs; how he scraped every jar of JIF peanut butter clean; how he struggled to sing sad songs because he was so emotional about music.
But, today--Father's Day--I realize I miss him differently than ever before. Today, I miss the man he was going to be. I picture what he would look like now: almost 65 years old, clear eyes and a strong, settled heart. I picture him and Sonjah finding peace and comfort in their life together. I picture him holding Isla, his only grandchild, who looks so much like him it's eerie. I picture him and me sitting on a sunny porch, drinking iced tea and tinkering on guitars. We would play "Early Morning Rain" for the 107th time (and cry for the 107th time), then I would say, "Dad, let me introduce to you 'Mumford & Sons'." He'd be impressed and intrigued by the guitar arrangements. He would still have the uncanny ability to say the exact sentiment that Amanda and I need to hear when our lives get overwhelming. He would give us the insight that can only come from a man that has walked that road and come out the other side.
Because I believe he did come out the other side. He is proud and confident that the souls left down here will carry his life and his memories. And he is calm and joyful somewhere in the heavenly whirls.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Dunnshine's Favorite Things
In an effort to take my writing down a road not populated by thoughts of cancer, recovery, and medication, I am shamelessly stealing this idea from . . . a number of blogs that I read. It's no schnitzel with noodles, but here are a few of my favorite things:
1. My Bookmark
I visited the Art Institute of Chicago once during the two years I lived there. I love wandering the galleries of an art museum just as much as the next person, but I don't find my soul awakened by gazing upon a canvas painted entirely one color by a one-bristled brush made from the hairs of a rare amphibious creature that only comes on land at 11:33am on Thursdays. An art aficionado I am not. That said, I completely fell in love that day.
She was on a wall near the exit, kind of bunched in with some others. Maybe it was the tilt of her head; maybe it was the look on her face; maybe it was her heavy-handed rouge application. Regardless, I had to know her name. According to the placard nearby, it is Woman with a Necklace, 1917, by Modigliani. At the time, I couldn't tell you anything about Modigliani other than I thought he needed to jazz up his painting titles. My goal was to snag a print from the gift shop and feel very smug that I had a real piece of art on my wall. My checkbook, however--all $12.56 of it--had other ideas. I bought the largest print I could. A postcard.
Since I left Chicago (almost five years ago) I have searched for a print online. Nothing. I told D.R. it was my favorite painting, and in a sweeping gesture of romance, he said, "I will find you a print." He's still sweeping. I've called the Art Institute for suggestions. The "art authority" I spoke with didn't even remember the painting being a part of the collection. Nice. All the while, I've carried her around as my bookmark. The white stress lines at the top are from poking out the top of books that are thrown into my purse or luggage. A couple years ago, she lost her red bouffant hair and I lovingly swaddled her in packaging tape. She's taken a couple swims because I like to read in the bathtub. She's still lovely, but I would like to get a larger print before she is lost or disintegrates.
2. The Green Monster Smoothie
I discovered this concoction last year while training for my half-marathon. It makes a great post-run recovery meal (protein), and--well, it's just damn tasty, so have it whenever. All that cancer-fighting spinach isn't bad either. Just sayin'.
There are numerous recipes to finagle, but my favorite is:
Add all ingredients to the blender in order listed. The amount of spinach will depend on the size of your blender. I pack mine down a bit to get more in. If you are so inclined, add a glug of honey or agave syrup for sweetness. Turn on the blender and wait for the smooth bright green gorgeousness to appear.
I would post a picture, but it is in my belly.
3. Bootcamp H2O
Sometimes I get burned out on running and have to spice up my fitness routine. For the month of June, I joined these crazies. This endeavor is accomplishing a few things:
This time every year, Trader Joe's is stocked with these gorgeous flowers. They start out in tight little balls that do not resemble anything even remotely floral. But, get them home into a loving container and they just open and bloom for days. I am compelled to smell them almost every time I walk by. De-lic-ious.
5. "Unctuous"
I often fantasize I am a guest on "Inside the Actors Studio". James Lipton is somewhat creepy, but I do love the end-of-show questionnaire. Currently, my answer to "What is your favorite word?" is "unctuous". Defined as an oily or soapy quality, it describes any number of things from people ("She was unctuous in her pursuits of his fortune.") to cuisine ("The clams gave off their unctuous aroma."). I love it because it sounds somewhat sexual, but it also could be a new band (The Unctuous Monkeys!) Also, I challenge anyone to use the word in a sentence and not lay down some shoulder action or make a strange face. "Unctuous" is not for the faint of vocab.
1. My Bookmark
I visited the Art Institute of Chicago once during the two years I lived there. I love wandering the galleries of an art museum just as much as the next person, but I don't find my soul awakened by gazing upon a canvas painted entirely one color by a one-bristled brush made from the hairs of a rare amphibious creature that only comes on land at 11:33am on Thursdays. An art aficionado I am not. That said, I completely fell in love that day.
She was on a wall near the exit, kind of bunched in with some others. Maybe it was the tilt of her head; maybe it was the look on her face; maybe it was her heavy-handed rouge application. Regardless, I had to know her name. According to the placard nearby, it is Woman with a Necklace, 1917, by Modigliani. At the time, I couldn't tell you anything about Modigliani other than I thought he needed to jazz up his painting titles. My goal was to snag a print from the gift shop and feel very smug that I had a real piece of art on my wall. My checkbook, however--all $12.56 of it--had other ideas. I bought the largest print I could. A postcard.
 |
| I like to call her Beatrice Firecheeks. |
Since I left Chicago (almost five years ago) I have searched for a print online. Nothing. I told D.R. it was my favorite painting, and in a sweeping gesture of romance, he said, "I will find you a print." He's still sweeping. I've called the Art Institute for suggestions. The "art authority" I spoke with didn't even remember the painting being a part of the collection. Nice. All the while, I've carried her around as my bookmark. The white stress lines at the top are from poking out the top of books that are thrown into my purse or luggage. A couple years ago, she lost her red bouffant hair and I lovingly swaddled her in packaging tape. She's taken a couple swims because I like to read in the bathtub. She's still lovely, but I would like to get a larger print before she is lost or disintegrates.
2. The Green Monster Smoothie
I discovered this concoction last year while training for my half-marathon. It makes a great post-run recovery meal (protein), and--well, it's just damn tasty, so have it whenever. All that cancer-fighting spinach isn't bad either. Just sayin'.
There are numerous recipes to finagle, but my favorite is:
- 1 1/2 cups of milk (I use unsweetened vanilla almond milk, but any milk will do.)
- half of a frozen banana (frozen fruit eliminates the need for ice.)
- 1/3-ish cup of some other frozen fruit (I've used blueberries, strawberries, mango, pineapple, nectarines, really anything works here. Although, I did not have good luck with avocados.)
- 1 scoop of protein powder (optional)
- 1 scoop of greens powder (I buy mine at Trader Joe's, but it's available online or at health food stores. Again, optional.)
- 2-3 cups of washed baby spinach (must be fresh, frozen spinach does not blend properly.)
Add all ingredients to the blender in order listed. The amount of spinach will depend on the size of your blender. I pack mine down a bit to get more in. If you are so inclined, add a glug of honey or agave syrup for sweetness. Turn on the blender and wait for the smooth bright green gorgeousness to appear.
I would post a picture, but it is in my belly.
3. Bootcamp H2O
Sometimes I get burned out on running and have to spice up my fitness routine. For the month of June, I joined these crazies. This endeavor is accomplishing a few things:
 |
| Photo by, Igor Porciuncula |
- Renewing my love of swimming.
- Renewing my fear of drowning.
- Knowledge that my classmates are jealous of my bright blue floral swim cap.
- And bright yellow swim fins.
- Thanks to Bossypants by Tina Fey, a new appreciation for my crotch biscuits--"the wobbly triangles on one's inner thigh".
- Thanks to my long torso, high-cut leg holes, and the placement of my tattoo, a new appreciation for my hip biscuits.
- A sense of wellness and freedom as I move through the water, building strength and stamina each time I attend class. Of course.
 |
| These are in my living room right now. |
5. "Unctuous"
I often fantasize I am a guest on "Inside the Actors Studio". James Lipton is somewhat creepy, but I do love the end-of-show questionnaire. Currently, my answer to "What is your favorite word?" is "unctuous". Defined as an oily or soapy quality, it describes any number of things from people ("She was unctuous in her pursuits of his fortune.") to cuisine ("The clams gave off their unctuous aroma."). I love it because it sounds somewhat sexual, but it also could be a new band (The Unctuous Monkeys!) Also, I challenge anyone to use the word in a sentence and not lay down some shoulder action or make a strange face. "Unctuous" is not for the faint of vocab.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Hormone Drama
My doctor started me on 100mcg of Levothyroxine after radiation. Even then, he was sure that dosage was too low, but he wanted to see how my body responded after the trifecta of surgery, radiation and hormone replacement. Last week, he called with the results of my latest blood test. Very bluntly, he asked, "Umm, are you even taking the medication that I prescribed for you? Your levels are really high."
Confused and defensive, I answered, "Yes I am. Why, what's wrong?"
I know that prattling off a bunch of medical lingo is a fast way to make friends, but I prefer to dramatize what I believe to be the discussion Levothyroxine is currently having with my brain. In this scene, I picture Ed Asner playing my brain, and Rob Lowe playing Levothyroxine.
Levothyroxine: Good afternoon, Brain. First, I just wanna say that I'm a huge fan of your work. Unfortunately though, we've had some complaints about your performance.
Brain: Complaints? About what?
Levo: Did that neuron come by and let you know Samantha doesn't have a thyroid anymore?
Brain: It's possible. I can't recollect exactly. As you can see, I've got a lot on my hypothalamus today.
Levo: No worries. It's just that--well, ummmm . . . how do I put this diplomatically? . . . it's possible that you gave Samantha cancer.
Brain: What!? I would never do such a thing.
Levo: Well, it's a delicate situation and we have teams working all the time to figure out what exactly went wrong. She does breathe that Los Angeles air, but it could also be something in the milk she drinks. There does seem to be a family history so it could be you were working with contaminated information to begin with. Of course there is her penchant for sugar--
Brain: Levo, your point, please? I've got a progress meeting with the Amygdala in a few minutes.
Levo: Certainly. As I was saying, I've sent some messages your way letting you know that you can stop pumping out so much hormone. I'll take it from here.
Brain: Well, I just sent some hormones down there a while ago. Nothing out of the ordinary has been reported. None of this "Samantha doesn't have a thyroid" that you speak of.
Levo: Yes, that's where I come in. I've been called in to sort of . . . revamp the landscape, if you will? Samantha requires some specialized attention. I'm taking over this particular project so you don't have to devote so much time to it. I mean, I know the heart and lungs keep you busy. Listen, Brain, you will always be a part of this. I appreciate you laying the groundwork for me and I'll be sure to keep you updated on her progress, but it's time for you to back off a little and let me do my job.
Brain: And what if I don't back off?! What are you gonna do then, huh?! You replacement hormones come in here with your well-timed sparkly transmitters thinking you own the place. You know, I've been doing this job for almost 32 years and Samantha has been operating just fine. I don't believe your hippy voodoo replacement hormones are any better than what I'm pumping out up here. So, what do you think about that? Levothyroxine schmevothyroxine . . .
Levo: I know this is hard to wrap your brain around, but you are pumping out too much hormone. The bottom line is, if you don't stop, there's a chance the cancer could come back. We all just want what's best for Samantha, so I'm asking you--one chemical compound to another--to lay off. Right now, I'm keeping it low key; I'm asking you nicely. But, if you don't start cooperating, I'm gonna have to bring in more of my boys and we're gonna have to get rowdy, OK?
Brain: OK . . . fine.
Levo: Thanks, Brain. Hey, by the way, that dream last night with Samantha and Julie Andrews running a tannery--some really good stuff in there.
Brain: Aww, thanks. REM sleep and I were pretty proud of that one.
Levo: OK. Good talk.
So, my doctor has upped my dosage and we'll see what transpires from here.
Confused and defensive, I answered, "Yes I am. Why, what's wrong?"
I know that prattling off a bunch of medical lingo is a fast way to make friends, but I prefer to dramatize what I believe to be the discussion Levothyroxine is currently having with my brain. In this scene, I picture Ed Asner playing my brain, and Rob Lowe playing Levothyroxine.
(Curtain Up)
Levothyroxine: Good afternoon, Brain. First, I just wanna say that I'm a huge fan of your work. Unfortunately though, we've had some complaints about your performance.
Brain: Complaints? About what?
Levo: Did that neuron come by and let you know Samantha doesn't have a thyroid anymore?
Brain: It's possible. I can't recollect exactly. As you can see, I've got a lot on my hypothalamus today.
Levo: No worries. It's just that--well, ummmm . . . how do I put this diplomatically? . . . it's possible that you gave Samantha cancer.
Brain: What!? I would never do such a thing.
Levo: Well, it's a delicate situation and we have teams working all the time to figure out what exactly went wrong. She does breathe that Los Angeles air, but it could also be something in the milk she drinks. There does seem to be a family history so it could be you were working with contaminated information to begin with. Of course there is her penchant for sugar--
Brain: Levo, your point, please? I've got a progress meeting with the Amygdala in a few minutes.
Levo: Certainly. As I was saying, I've sent some messages your way letting you know that you can stop pumping out so much hormone. I'll take it from here.
Brain: Well, I just sent some hormones down there a while ago. Nothing out of the ordinary has been reported. None of this "Samantha doesn't have a thyroid" that you speak of.
Levo: Yes, that's where I come in. I've been called in to sort of . . . revamp the landscape, if you will? Samantha requires some specialized attention. I'm taking over this particular project so you don't have to devote so much time to it. I mean, I know the heart and lungs keep you busy. Listen, Brain, you will always be a part of this. I appreciate you laying the groundwork for me and I'll be sure to keep you updated on her progress, but it's time for you to back off a little and let me do my job.
Brain: And what if I don't back off?! What are you gonna do then, huh?! You replacement hormones come in here with your well-timed sparkly transmitters thinking you own the place. You know, I've been doing this job for almost 32 years and Samantha has been operating just fine. I don't believe your hippy voodoo replacement hormones are any better than what I'm pumping out up here. So, what do you think about that? Levothyroxine schmevothyroxine . . .
Levo: I know this is hard to wrap your brain around, but you are pumping out too much hormone. The bottom line is, if you don't stop, there's a chance the cancer could come back. We all just want what's best for Samantha, so I'm asking you--one chemical compound to another--to lay off. Right now, I'm keeping it low key; I'm asking you nicely. But, if you don't start cooperating, I'm gonna have to bring in more of my boys and we're gonna have to get rowdy, OK?
Brain: OK . . . fine.
Levo: Thanks, Brain. Hey, by the way, that dream last night with Samantha and Julie Andrews running a tannery--some really good stuff in there.
Brain: Aww, thanks. REM sleep and I were pretty proud of that one.
Levo: OK. Good talk.
(End Scene)
So, my doctor has upped my dosage and we'll see what transpires from here.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
At Attention
I'm guilty . . . of the very thing my doctor warned me about.
It's been over two months since my radiation treatment, and I show my gratitude by going radio silent. Classy.
Four days after my last blog entry, I returned to my doctor for the results of, what I lovingly refer to as, "being lit". Anxiety was immediately upon me when I woke up. What if the scan isn't clean? What if it has spread? What if they have to do another round? I took a few attempts at optimism, but was brushed back by waves of uncertainty and--well, just bleeeeech. Even if the scans are clean, I have to visit this damn hospital practically every month while they regulate my hormones. I have to be back in three months anyway for another scan. I am going to spend way too much of 2011 in the bowels of Cedars-Sinai hospital. Bleeeeech! Not even my turquoise sweater--if I'm getting bad news, I'm going to get it looking good!--was enough to make me feel better. It was a quiet drive to the hospital.
I sat cross-legged on the exam table while D.R. sat patiently in a chair next to me. My doctor came in carrying my chart.
"As we expected, your scans look good. All of the traces were localized in your neck, which is where we want them. We seem to have removed all the cancer with surgery; it has not spread."
Ooooo, I think I just heard a choir and lots of tambourines. "I need to schedule another scan in three months, right?"
"Actually, no. We need to do a scan in 6-12 months to see if it has recurred or spread. We'll do an ultrasound instead of the radiation scan, and we'll do some blood work. Those two things will give us the answers we need."
"Wait . . . 6-12 months seems like a wide range of time." I need hard and fast numbers, people!
I saw him scrunch his chin and smile slightly. "Let's split the difference and have you back here in 9 months. How's that?"
I felt a tiny bit foolish. I was so caught up in numbers and levels and protocols that I lost my ability to do simple math, nor did I recognize that he was giving me flexibility as an offering of comfort and reassurance.
"I thought I had to come see you, like, every month for--I don't know--stuff that requires tourniquets and needles?"
"We will need to periodically check your hormone levels to get that regulated, but that requires a simple blood test every few months. I don't even need to be there." He was enjoying a moment of ironic satisfaction that I was ecstatic about not seeing him for a while.
And just like that, it was kinda . . . over. Along with my test results, my doctor gave me back the proverbial breath that I had been holding for four months. I don't remember what I did next. I have a vague recollection of D.R. and I taking Alice B. to the dog park later that afternoon. I may have eaten a sandwich.
I just went . . . on.
It is here that I must apologize because I did the very thing my doctor warned me about. He begged me not to Google thyroid cancer when I was diagnosed because he knew that for every horrible account I read online, there were many more healthy and grateful survivors living healthy and grateful lives. Why aren't they sharing their stories? Because they are busy living their stories. I wanted to be the person that shared my triumph and my overcoming! I wanted to send my light of hope over a sea of gigabytes! I wanted to detail all the wonderful ways that my life and perspective have changed! But that's the thing . . .
It's not really all that different.
Don't get me wrong, it hasn't been all skipping and Skittles since March. I had a horrible taste in my mouth for about a month that made everything I ate or drank taste like a penny. I have varying degrees of boob pain that--best-case scenario--have me slapping D.R.'s hands away, and--worst-case scenario--had me convinced I was pregnant and would have to terminate the pregnancy because of radiation (scary, awful, and I've never been more grateful for my period). I've had back and joint pain that no amount of stretching or massage can alleviate. My skin is dry, and there are days when eight full glasses of water don't quench my thirst. These are all symptoms that, I'm told, will go away as my hormones are regulated.
Any time D.R. walks around without a shirt (wahoo!) I am stealthily inspecting his freckles. I am incessantly reminding my sister to get her thyroid checked (she finally went to a doctor this week), and quizzing family members about their medical history. A few of my female friends have been on the business end of lectures about thyroid health--pointing fingers and all. Old episodes of Grey's Anatomy make me cry more than they used to (that could just be because I miss when it used to be a good show. Ya know, before Izzy started sleeping with a dead guy?). These are all symptoms that, I'm told, will go away once my emotions catch up with my brain.
It's all a matter of healing, and we all have a different process. I'm not skydiving. I'm not learning foreign languages. I'm not writing my autobiography (yet). I'm not dying my hair green, going vegan and moving into a yurt.
I am, however, listening more. I am crying more. I am running faster. I am standing up for myself. I am letting the laundry pile up higher than I used to. I am keeping cookies in the house even though there is a chance I could eat them all in 3.5 minutes. I am writing things down that I want to write about later. I am teaching my momma the ways of the iPhone. I am having conversations with my stepmother that we normally wouldn't have had. I am taking chances and stretching muscles that haven't been stretched in a while. I am telling more people in my life that I love them.
I am, once again, finding the life in the every day.
Maybe that's the secret: life can change in an instant, but sometimes that instant isn't grand and booming. Sometimes it's small and quiet and just gives a wee nudge to the left or right. Sometimes it takes a tornado; sometimes it takes a conversation. Maybe it's a new old dream; maybe it's a new old couch. Could be tears and laughter; could be scotch and soda. I love when life changes my point of view and gets my attention. 'Cause life, my friends, deserves attention.
It's been over two months since my radiation treatment, and I show my gratitude by going radio silent. Classy.
Four days after my last blog entry, I returned to my doctor for the results of, what I lovingly refer to as, "being lit". Anxiety was immediately upon me when I woke up. What if the scan isn't clean? What if it has spread? What if they have to do another round? I took a few attempts at optimism, but was brushed back by waves of uncertainty and--well, just bleeeeech. Even if the scans are clean, I have to visit this damn hospital practically every month while they regulate my hormones. I have to be back in three months anyway for another scan. I am going to spend way too much of 2011 in the bowels of Cedars-Sinai hospital. Bleeeeech! Not even my turquoise sweater--if I'm getting bad news, I'm going to get it looking good!--was enough to make me feel better. It was a quiet drive to the hospital.
I sat cross-legged on the exam table while D.R. sat patiently in a chair next to me. My doctor came in carrying my chart.
"As we expected, your scans look good. All of the traces were localized in your neck, which is where we want them. We seem to have removed all the cancer with surgery; it has not spread."
Ooooo, I think I just heard a choir and lots of tambourines. "I need to schedule another scan in three months, right?"
"Actually, no. We need to do a scan in 6-12 months to see if it has recurred or spread. We'll do an ultrasound instead of the radiation scan, and we'll do some blood work. Those two things will give us the answers we need."
"Wait . . . 6-12 months seems like a wide range of time." I need hard and fast numbers, people!
I saw him scrunch his chin and smile slightly. "Let's split the difference and have you back here in 9 months. How's that?"
I felt a tiny bit foolish. I was so caught up in numbers and levels and protocols that I lost my ability to do simple math, nor did I recognize that he was giving me flexibility as an offering of comfort and reassurance.
"I thought I had to come see you, like, every month for--I don't know--stuff that requires tourniquets and needles?"
"We will need to periodically check your hormone levels to get that regulated, but that requires a simple blood test every few months. I don't even need to be there." He was enjoying a moment of ironic satisfaction that I was ecstatic about not seeing him for a while.
And just like that, it was kinda . . . over. Along with my test results, my doctor gave me back the proverbial breath that I had been holding for four months. I don't remember what I did next. I have a vague recollection of D.R. and I taking Alice B. to the dog park later that afternoon. I may have eaten a sandwich.
I just went . . . on.
It is here that I must apologize because I did the very thing my doctor warned me about. He begged me not to Google thyroid cancer when I was diagnosed because he knew that for every horrible account I read online, there were many more healthy and grateful survivors living healthy and grateful lives. Why aren't they sharing their stories? Because they are busy living their stories. I wanted to be the person that shared my triumph and my overcoming! I wanted to send my light of hope over a sea of gigabytes! I wanted to detail all the wonderful ways that my life and perspective have changed! But that's the thing . . .
It's not really all that different.
Don't get me wrong, it hasn't been all skipping and Skittles since March. I had a horrible taste in my mouth for about a month that made everything I ate or drank taste like a penny. I have varying degrees of boob pain that--best-case scenario--have me slapping D.R.'s hands away, and--worst-case scenario--had me convinced I was pregnant and would have to terminate the pregnancy because of radiation (scary, awful, and I've never been more grateful for my period). I've had back and joint pain that no amount of stretching or massage can alleviate. My skin is dry, and there are days when eight full glasses of water don't quench my thirst. These are all symptoms that, I'm told, will go away as my hormones are regulated.
Any time D.R. walks around without a shirt (wahoo!) I am stealthily inspecting his freckles. I am incessantly reminding my sister to get her thyroid checked (she finally went to a doctor this week), and quizzing family members about their medical history. A few of my female friends have been on the business end of lectures about thyroid health--pointing fingers and all. Old episodes of Grey's Anatomy make me cry more than they used to (that could just be because I miss when it used to be a good show. Ya know, before Izzy started sleeping with a dead guy?). These are all symptoms that, I'm told, will go away once my emotions catch up with my brain.
It's all a matter of healing, and we all have a different process. I'm not skydiving. I'm not learning foreign languages. I'm not writing my autobiography (yet). I'm not dying my hair green, going vegan and moving into a yurt.
I am, however, listening more. I am crying more. I am running faster. I am standing up for myself. I am letting the laundry pile up higher than I used to. I am keeping cookies in the house even though there is a chance I could eat them all in 3.5 minutes. I am writing things down that I want to write about later. I am teaching my momma the ways of the iPhone. I am having conversations with my stepmother that we normally wouldn't have had. I am taking chances and stretching muscles that haven't been stretched in a while. I am telling more people in my life that I love them.
I am, once again, finding the life in the every day.
Maybe that's the secret: life can change in an instant, but sometimes that instant isn't grand and booming. Sometimes it's small and quiet and just gives a wee nudge to the left or right. Sometimes it takes a tornado; sometimes it takes a conversation. Maybe it's a new old dream; maybe it's a new old couch. Could be tears and laughter; could be scotch and soda. I love when life changes my point of view and gets my attention. 'Cause life, my friends, deserves attention.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Safety Dance
I was released from the hospital this afternoon. My discharge papers suggest I "indulge in creativity during this time" and "get some exercise, but not enough to make you tired." Since I am too tired to cook, bake, or run, I am calling today's writing my creative cardio. I'm so efficient.
When I was admitted on Monday, I was chalk-full of information on radiation, exposure, and contamination. After the email, followed by the written explanation, followed by the hour and a half long meeting with a nuclear safety officer, I was confident I knew exactly what to expect and execute during my 48 hours in bio-hazard-dome. My admitting nurse seemed to have skipped the training.
Things weren't right from the jump. Lab tests were missing, so they had to draw more blood and get a urine sample before they could administer the iodine. Even as the nurse repeatedly sighed and clicked her tongue at me for having "small veins"; and blamed my recent sip of ice water for her failure to get an accurate read of my body temperature. Really, after 10 minutes of no ice water, you still can't get it?; and forgot the kinda-vital-to-recording-vital-signs blood pressure cuff, I remained calm and compliant. When she put me on the bed, which doubles as a scale, and announced my current weight, I said, "Um, that's incorrect."
She gave me a patronizing look and said, "Oh, ok honey, I'll subtract five pounds because of your street clothes and shoes, and what appears to be a very heavy hospital bracelet."
Listen here! I will unleash five pounds of Kiss My Ass if you don't shut your--! "Actually, what I meant is, that weight is too low. If that is, in fact, my current weight, I have miraculously lost 35 pounds in about two weeks."
"Oh. Well, are you at least close to that weight?"
"Uhhhh, not since about 6th grade."
Finally, all tests and vital signs were logged and I was ready for transition to my bio-hazard garb. The safety officer had been very explicit about this part of the process: I would change out of my street clothes into a hospital gown. All items I wanted to take home--wallet and cell phone--would be placed in plastic bags in a closet, safe from contamination. Once all of that was completed, I would be administered the iodine. I waited for my nurse to return with gowns and plastic bags. Instead, my doctor arrived pushing a trolley with what appeared to be an overgrown paint can. He explained that the radioactive iodine pill, encased in yet another internal steel cylinder, was inside. I brought his attention to my lack of hospital gown and general unpreparedness. He just kept repeating, "It's OK, it's OK." His impatience was growing (understandable, in the presence of a radioactive substance), as the process had already been delayed. "We need to give this to you right away." So, I washed the pill down, and, as if his ass was on fire, he left the room with one final instruction. "Start drinking water immediately!"
The water thing: during this type of radiation treatment, the iodine is sucked up by any remaining thyroid and cancer cells. These iodine-saturated blobs then show up on a scan indicating if and where there is any remaining cancer. The rest of the iodine leaves via bodily fluids. Since they don't want radioactive iodine hanging out any longer than necessary, you are given one job during the 48 hours of isolation: drink yourself silly. More specifically, drink enough water that you are peeing every hour. Again, I was given very explicit instructions beforehand, and assured by my safety officer that before I am even administered the pill, I would have my own personal refrigerator in my room stocked with water and juice to swill until my bladder's content. I opened the refrigerator in my room. Empty.
So, recap: In my street clothes. No hospital gown. No plastic bags. Wallet sitting on the end of my bed. No hydration in sight. Radioactive.
Awesome.
I express my concern to the nurse that some safety protocols may have been overlooked. She apologized, but in light of the fact that I was now radioactive, there was not much to be done. Everything was contaminated and would have to remain at the hospital after I left. Honestly, I was fine with my clothes not coming home with me. And, I had the foresight to put my phone in a Ziploc, per the safety officer's instruction, so I knew it would be alright. Also, as one who hears and understands safety instructions (am I tooting my horn, here, too much?) I did not bring any reading material or comfort items that I was not prepared to leave there. I didn't even bring my purse. Now, I admit, I could've left my wallet at home and brought only my ID and insurance card. But, those would've been in the contaminated pocket of my contaminated pants. The point is, regardless if I brought in my wallet, my purse, or the frakkin' Die Hard movie collection, all of these items were supposed to be in a plastic bag far away from me while I built a fort out of empty water bottles.
Do you hear that? It's the sound of someone dropping the ball.
It took an HOUR for my hospital gown to show up. It wasn't until another nurse came on at 7pm that I was brought a large jug of water to get me through the night. And, when I woke up the next morning with pain in my jaw and neck (to be expected, as the iodine is also picked up by the salivary glands) and asked for more water, I was kindly reminded that I was in isolation for a reason, and every time the nurse walked in, she was exposing herself to radiation. Really!? Boy, that sounds unsafe. Perhaps steps could've been taken to prevent having to come in here so many times.
At 1:00, my nuclear safety officer--my guardian of sanity--came in. He mentioned that the nursing staff alerted him that I might have some "questions about my treatment". When I described the events of the previous day and the morning, he confirmed I was not crazy; safety protocol had not been followed. When I got to the part about the water he said, "You're supposed to have two dozen bottles of water in the room upon your arrival. That prevents the nurse having to enter except for meals and emergencies."
"Thank you!" I said.
"Miss Dunn, I'm sorry this happened at such a strange and scary time for you. It must've been frustrating given everything we went over beforehand." Whether it was real or just good acting, I never thought sincerity could be achieved by a man standing 6 feet away, in a yellow paper safety gown and rubber gloves, while holding a Geiger counter. But this guy nailed it.
Five minutes after he left, my nurse returned with a case of water and six hospital buckets of ice. "Is there anything else I can get you Miss Dunn?"
"No, thank you. That should hold me for a while."
The nuclear safety officer was also kind enough to scan my clothes and wallet for radiation levels. All items were safe to take home. Sadly, there was one casualty: a tube of chap stick I'll never see again.
When I was admitted on Monday, I was chalk-full of information on radiation, exposure, and contamination. After the email, followed by the written explanation, followed by the hour and a half long meeting with a nuclear safety officer, I was confident I knew exactly what to expect and execute during my 48 hours in bio-hazard-dome. My admitting nurse seemed to have skipped the training.
Things weren't right from the jump. Lab tests were missing, so they had to draw more blood and get a urine sample before they could administer the iodine. Even as the nurse repeatedly sighed and clicked her tongue at me for having "small veins"; and blamed my recent sip of ice water for her failure to get an accurate read of my body temperature. Really, after 10 minutes of no ice water, you still can't get it?; and forgot the kinda-vital-to-recording-vital-signs blood pressure cuff, I remained calm and compliant. When she put me on the bed, which doubles as a scale, and announced my current weight, I said, "Um, that's incorrect."
She gave me a patronizing look and said, "Oh, ok honey, I'll subtract five pounds because of your street clothes and shoes, and what appears to be a very heavy hospital bracelet."
Listen here! I will unleash five pounds of Kiss My Ass if you don't shut your--! "Actually, what I meant is, that weight is too low. If that is, in fact, my current weight, I have miraculously lost 35 pounds in about two weeks."
"Oh. Well, are you at least close to that weight?"
"Uhhhh, not since about 6th grade."
Finally, all tests and vital signs were logged and I was ready for transition to my bio-hazard garb. The safety officer had been very explicit about this part of the process: I would change out of my street clothes into a hospital gown. All items I wanted to take home--wallet and cell phone--would be placed in plastic bags in a closet, safe from contamination. Once all of that was completed, I would be administered the iodine. I waited for my nurse to return with gowns and plastic bags. Instead, my doctor arrived pushing a trolley with what appeared to be an overgrown paint can. He explained that the radioactive iodine pill, encased in yet another internal steel cylinder, was inside. I brought his attention to my lack of hospital gown and general unpreparedness. He just kept repeating, "It's OK, it's OK." His impatience was growing (understandable, in the presence of a radioactive substance), as the process had already been delayed. "We need to give this to you right away." So, I washed the pill down, and, as if his ass was on fire, he left the room with one final instruction. "Start drinking water immediately!"
The water thing: during this type of radiation treatment, the iodine is sucked up by any remaining thyroid and cancer cells. These iodine-saturated blobs then show up on a scan indicating if and where there is any remaining cancer. The rest of the iodine leaves via bodily fluids. Since they don't want radioactive iodine hanging out any longer than necessary, you are given one job during the 48 hours of isolation: drink yourself silly. More specifically, drink enough water that you are peeing every hour. Again, I was given very explicit instructions beforehand, and assured by my safety officer that before I am even administered the pill, I would have my own personal refrigerator in my room stocked with water and juice to swill until my bladder's content. I opened the refrigerator in my room. Empty.
So, recap: In my street clothes. No hospital gown. No plastic bags. Wallet sitting on the end of my bed. No hydration in sight. Radioactive.
Awesome.
I express my concern to the nurse that some safety protocols may have been overlooked. She apologized, but in light of the fact that I was now radioactive, there was not much to be done. Everything was contaminated and would have to remain at the hospital after I left. Honestly, I was fine with my clothes not coming home with me. And, I had the foresight to put my phone in a Ziploc, per the safety officer's instruction, so I knew it would be alright. Also, as one who hears and understands safety instructions (am I tooting my horn, here, too much?) I did not bring any reading material or comfort items that I was not prepared to leave there. I didn't even bring my purse. Now, I admit, I could've left my wallet at home and brought only my ID and insurance card. But, those would've been in the contaminated pocket of my contaminated pants. The point is, regardless if I brought in my wallet, my purse, or the frakkin' Die Hard movie collection, all of these items were supposed to be in a plastic bag far away from me while I built a fort out of empty water bottles.
Do you hear that? It's the sound of someone dropping the ball.
It took an HOUR for my hospital gown to show up. It wasn't until another nurse came on at 7pm that I was brought a large jug of water to get me through the night. And, when I woke up the next morning with pain in my jaw and neck (to be expected, as the iodine is also picked up by the salivary glands) and asked for more water, I was kindly reminded that I was in isolation for a reason, and every time the nurse walked in, she was exposing herself to radiation. Really!? Boy, that sounds unsafe. Perhaps steps could've been taken to prevent having to come in here so many times.
At 1:00, my nuclear safety officer--my guardian of sanity--came in. He mentioned that the nursing staff alerted him that I might have some "questions about my treatment". When I described the events of the previous day and the morning, he confirmed I was not crazy; safety protocol had not been followed. When I got to the part about the water he said, "You're supposed to have two dozen bottles of water in the room upon your arrival. That prevents the nurse having to enter except for meals and emergencies."
"Thank you!" I said.
"Miss Dunn, I'm sorry this happened at such a strange and scary time for you. It must've been frustrating given everything we went over beforehand." Whether it was real or just good acting, I never thought sincerity could be achieved by a man standing 6 feet away, in a yellow paper safety gown and rubber gloves, while holding a Geiger counter. But this guy nailed it.
Five minutes after he left, my nurse returned with a case of water and six hospital buckets of ice. "Is there anything else I can get you Miss Dunn?"
"No, thank you. That should hold me for a while."
The nuclear safety officer was also kind enough to scan my clothes and wallet for radiation levels. All items were safe to take home. Sadly, there was one casualty: a tube of chap stick I'll never see again.
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