It's a wonderful Thanksgiving Day with family.
If I could bottle up my twenty-two year old niece, Bailey, she's the best medicine of all. She's absolutely tiny, petite in proportion. Has yet to hit 20 pounds and shouldn't yet be in a front-facing car seat because she's so little. But there's something so entertaining about such a little package who's got such a personality and is learning all of the intricacies of this world.
Her newest discovery? Owls. She loves owls, and I just happen to have a cream wooden one sitting on a shelf as a winter decoration. She quickly claims it as her own and insists on tucking it under one arm (even though it's rather hefty wooden piece) and dragging it with her all over the house.
Laughter and being entertained by Bailey and all of my young nephews and nieces truly is the best medicine. It's a great day.
That night, I'm a little sobered when I express my most recent thoughts to Dale.
"Love? Out of the past five Thanksgivings, how many have we spent while dealing with cancer or the effects of a bone marrow transplant to cure the cancer?
We both come to the same conclusion. Four. Four out of the last five Thanksgivings have been spent with the dreaded C word hanging over our heads.
Drat! We need some new holiday plans!
Purple Everywhere
Daily Herald picture
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Blood Transfusion and PICC Line
We leave for Timpanogos Regional Hospital a little early, knowing that they might have a little trouble starting an IV for the transfusion, and arrive at 12:30 p.m.
After checking in to Same-Day Surgery, they tell us that they're moving us to one of the floors to give us a room that's larger. Sounds good to me.
However, I start laughing when it ends up being the pediatric unit that I'm escorted to. And it's decorated so cute, with Dr. Seuss sayings and bright vinyl cut outs everywhere. I get the Dandelion Wishes room. And there's only one other patient on the floor--a two month-old baby, so I pretty much get a dedicated nurse to myself also. Cool.
Hmmmm. Maybe not so cool.
Thirteen large-bore needle sticks that each sting, six different people poking my veins and poking through my veins, and three hours later, we still aren't any closer to having a working IV. Each attempt has been on my right arm, and it's black and blue from end to end now. This is not working.
What other options do we have? They've called up the nursing team from radiology--the same nursing team that helped place and pull the port. They can't find a working vein even with the ultrasound machine, but they do have another suggestion--a PICC line.
Okay, let's do a PICC line. I agree quickly and eagerly to any other idea that will help us accomplish the transfusion goal and get me out of this hospital. It's almost Thanksgiving Day. I have family coming in from St. George. Not just any family, my sister. My closest sister that has been there for me through all of it--even before Dale was in the picture.
"No sedation?"
"Nope."
About thirty minutes later, we have a working PICC line (an IV inserted into my left arm and leading directly to my heart). Hooray! Now we can start the transfusion at 3:30 p.m.--close to the time originally that I was told I'd be finished.
I call my sister and invite her up to the hospital. I feel terrible that she's at my house for the holiday weekend, and I'm in the hospital. She hates hospitals though, so I know she's making a sacrifice just to walk in the doors for me.
She does manage to find quite a bit of humor in the doors to the unit though. Plastered on the wall is the familiar quote "A person's a person, no matter how small."
"There you go, Trish. They were matching your room according to your height. No wonder you ended up in pediatrics!" At least she can find some humor in today's ordeal.
The two units go rather smoothly, and we're finally released around 8:30 p.m. to start celebrating the Thanksgiving weekend.
After checking in to Same-Day Surgery, they tell us that they're moving us to one of the floors to give us a room that's larger. Sounds good to me.
However, I start laughing when it ends up being the pediatric unit that I'm escorted to. And it's decorated so cute, with Dr. Seuss sayings and bright vinyl cut outs everywhere. I get the Dandelion Wishes room. And there's only one other patient on the floor--a two month-old baby, so I pretty much get a dedicated nurse to myself also. Cool.
Hmmmm. Maybe not so cool.
Thirteen large-bore needle sticks that each sting, six different people poking my veins and poking through my veins, and three hours later, we still aren't any closer to having a working IV. Each attempt has been on my right arm, and it's black and blue from end to end now. This is not working.
What other options do we have? They've called up the nursing team from radiology--the same nursing team that helped place and pull the port. They can't find a working vein even with the ultrasound machine, but they do have another suggestion--a PICC line.
Okay, let's do a PICC line. I agree quickly and eagerly to any other idea that will help us accomplish the transfusion goal and get me out of this hospital. It's almost Thanksgiving Day. I have family coming in from St. George. Not just any family, my sister. My closest sister that has been there for me through all of it--even before Dale was in the picture.
"No sedation?"
"Nope."
About thirty minutes later, we have a working PICC line (an IV inserted into my left arm and leading directly to my heart). Hooray! Now we can start the transfusion at 3:30 p.m.--close to the time originally that I was told I'd be finished.
I call my sister and invite her up to the hospital. I feel terrible that she's at my house for the holiday weekend, and I'm in the hospital. She hates hospitals though, so I know she's making a sacrifice just to walk in the doors for me.
She does manage to find quite a bit of humor in the doors to the unit though. Plastered on the wall is the familiar quote "A person's a person, no matter how small."
"There you go, Trish. They were matching your room according to your height. No wonder you ended up in pediatrics!" At least she can find some humor in today's ordeal.
The two units go rather smoothly, and we're finally released around 8:30 p.m. to start celebrating the Thanksgiving weekend.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
Fifth Adcetris Dose
Oh yay! It's that time again--time to load my body with more poison to kill off more cancer cells (and healthy ones too).
I get to hear the results of the CT scan first, but I'm not expecting much.
Wait. What is this? Much better than I'd hoped for. Maybe I should have scans on my birthdays more often--as long as the results are this good.
So, the seven other places that had Hodgkins in them? Gone. Gone! All gone. Whew! And the largest tumor keeps shrinking bits at a time. Not as much shrinkage there as I'd hoped for, but still continued progress and shrinkage. Now we're down to one 22mm x 13mm mass that started as a 38mm x 23mm mass. Progress is good. And having only one area to worry about now is very good.
Unfortunately, that one mass is shrinking so slowly that Dr. Wendy estimates that I'm probably in for another seven doses of chemo--12 altogether. 12 doses x 3 weeks = 36 weeks of chemo this time. But it's not the full 16 doses and almost full year that it could have been, so I'll take my 12.
Another two needle sticks and attempts and blood is collected and an IV is placed again. Dr. Wendy mentions that we might have to insert a PICC line at some point to give chemo through, but that day isn't today.
Again, my blood hemolyzes and they have to stick me one more time to draw additional blood. No biggie!
About twenty minutes later, they're trying to tell me something; but my brain isn't focusing correctly and getting it. Something about white blood cells being too low. Oh no? More waiting before they can treat me? No, they're not so low that they can't treat today; and they're counting on the Neulasta shots to make up the difference over the next few weeks. Cool.
Wait. There's still a problem? Oh, now my red blood cells and platelets are too low also--low enough that I need to have two units transfused tomorrow. Okay. I've had blood before. My body tolerates it well, so they tell me to show up at Timpanogos Regional Hospital (again!) tomorrow at 1 p.m. It should take three hours to transfuse the two units and we should be on our way out by 4 p.m.
Chemo goes smoothly and quickly again, so I'm free for another three weeks (with the exception of the transfusion tomorrow).
I get to hear the results of the CT scan first, but I'm not expecting much.
Wait. What is this? Much better than I'd hoped for. Maybe I should have scans on my birthdays more often--as long as the results are this good.
So, the seven other places that had Hodgkins in them? Gone. Gone! All gone. Whew! And the largest tumor keeps shrinking bits at a time. Not as much shrinkage there as I'd hoped for, but still continued progress and shrinkage. Now we're down to one 22mm x 13mm mass that started as a 38mm x 23mm mass. Progress is good. And having only one area to worry about now is very good.
Unfortunately, that one mass is shrinking so slowly that Dr. Wendy estimates that I'm probably in for another seven doses of chemo--12 altogether. 12 doses x 3 weeks = 36 weeks of chemo this time. But it's not the full 16 doses and almost full year that it could have been, so I'll take my 12.
Another two needle sticks and attempts and blood is collected and an IV is placed again. Dr. Wendy mentions that we might have to insert a PICC line at some point to give chemo through, but that day isn't today.
Again, my blood hemolyzes and they have to stick me one more time to draw additional blood. No biggie!
About twenty minutes later, they're trying to tell me something; but my brain isn't focusing correctly and getting it. Something about white blood cells being too low. Oh no? More waiting before they can treat me? No, they're not so low that they can't treat today; and they're counting on the Neulasta shots to make up the difference over the next few weeks. Cool.
Wait. There's still a problem? Oh, now my red blood cells and platelets are too low also--low enough that I need to have two units transfused tomorrow. Okay. I've had blood before. My body tolerates it well, so they tell me to show up at Timpanogos Regional Hospital (again!) tomorrow at 1 p.m. It should take three hours to transfuse the two units and we should be on our way out by 4 p.m.
Chemo goes smoothly and quickly again, so I'm free for another three weeks (with the exception of the transfusion tomorrow).
Friday, November 16, 2012
Happy 45th Birthday To Me
The weeks continue to pass. That's a good thing, but hard too. I have good days when I have a little more energy and can actually accomplish something other than trying to hold down three bites of solid food.
However, if I've being brutally honest, I have more bad days now than ever before. I just feel sick. Sick to my stomach, pain deep in my bones that continually escalates throughout the day and only narcotics touch it (which I hate taking).
Worst thing? I'm realizing that in a very real way this battle with cancer has somewhat changed me. I'm generally a very optimistic person, full of hope and plans for the future. A recent blessing said "I was blessed with a happy heart and optimistic spirit, and those gifts will serve me well throughout the trials of cancer."
So what's the problem, Trish? The problem is that, with all of the past three occurrences of cancer, I've fought hard in my war against cancer. I knew it wasn't going to beat me, so I put all of my hope and faith into the battle and KNEW I would beat it.
This time? I know I will beat it again. I do. I've been given that assurance several times. So what's different? Why do I end almost every day in tears? Because, darn it, this time I know with equal assurity that this is not my last battle with Hodgkins. It's going to come back. So why fight so hard only to end up in the same place? I'm really struggling with that idea this time. I feel like I've lost some innocence or hope or faith or something, and I don't like it. This is not who I'm used to being, but it is the new me.
A blessing promised that this treatment would far exceed all expectations. Silly me. I was thinking that it meant that I wouldn't need very many doses of chemo, that it would work extremely quickly, or that I wouldn't be troubled with side effects, or something easier this time. Nope, nope, and nope. So I'm assuming that specific promise applies to the length of time that the cancer will stay away this time. Dr. Wendy is betting on about a 3 year window, so I'm hoping for at least 7-10 years before it comes back and probably, finally kills this weakened body of mine. Stay tuned.
In the meantime, today is my 45th birthday. And where do I get to spend part of it? At the imaging center for a CAT/CT scan to see if there's any measurable progress. The last report said the biggest tumor was shrinking somewhat, but the other seven places hadn't been touched. I hope this scan shows more positive results.
However, if I've being brutally honest, I have more bad days now than ever before. I just feel sick. Sick to my stomach, pain deep in my bones that continually escalates throughout the day and only narcotics touch it (which I hate taking).
Worst thing? I'm realizing that in a very real way this battle with cancer has somewhat changed me. I'm generally a very optimistic person, full of hope and plans for the future. A recent blessing said "I was blessed with a happy heart and optimistic spirit, and those gifts will serve me well throughout the trials of cancer."
So what's the problem, Trish? The problem is that, with all of the past three occurrences of cancer, I've fought hard in my war against cancer. I knew it wasn't going to beat me, so I put all of my hope and faith into the battle and KNEW I would beat it.
This time? I know I will beat it again. I do. I've been given that assurance several times. So what's different? Why do I end almost every day in tears? Because, darn it, this time I know with equal assurity that this is not my last battle with Hodgkins. It's going to come back. So why fight so hard only to end up in the same place? I'm really struggling with that idea this time. I feel like I've lost some innocence or hope or faith or something, and I don't like it. This is not who I'm used to being, but it is the new me.
A blessing promised that this treatment would far exceed all expectations. Silly me. I was thinking that it meant that I wouldn't need very many doses of chemo, that it would work extremely quickly, or that I wouldn't be troubled with side effects, or something easier this time. Nope, nope, and nope. So I'm assuming that specific promise applies to the length of time that the cancer will stay away this time. Dr. Wendy is betting on about a 3 year window, so I'm hoping for at least 7-10 years before it comes back and probably, finally kills this weakened body of mine. Stay tuned.
In the meantime, today is my 45th birthday. And where do I get to spend part of it? At the imaging center for a CAT/CT scan to see if there's any measurable progress. The last report said the biggest tumor was shrinking somewhat, but the other seven places hadn't been touched. I hope this scan shows more positive results.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)