So, I've been sitting on this one since Monday; and am just now getting around to sharing these thoughts with you. A funny thing happened this weekend- I flew to Toronto for a wedding. The wedding of my best male friend. And here's what happened- I felt like absolute HELL. From the fucked up 12 hours it took to get from Seattle to Toronto; from landing at some crazy gate L in O'Hare and then not knowing just where in the Hell I was supposed to go from there; to finally arriving THERE only to be snapped at by some shitty shoe wearing gate attendant that I was to simply "read the board" to confirm my location. (To which I replied: "Hey, if the board had the right location written on it, do you really think I would have taken the time to bother to talk to you?" Yes, the asshole was implied.) And then being cut off by every WHITE man in the airport who apparently had someplace important to be...I mean, really. I was there FIRST and I'm a lady, dammit.
I really don't know why I worried about getting my cardio in on Friday. Because seriously, I walked the length of the entire Great Wall. And don't even get me started on the arrival in Toronto. JESUS. Who designed that asinine airport? Seriously...the walk from the gate to the terminal was like some scene out of Amy Tan's film The Joy Luck Club. Old people and kids were just falling by the wayside. And really- in my defense, I held up rather nicely- or so I thought- as I hauled my ass from here to there.
Wedding stuff aside, things fell apart big time for me on Sunday. I was about 2.5 hours into a five hour flight when I realized my heart was pounding away in my rib cage and I wasn't breathing well. And you know me- I assumed it was, well gas. I had eaten some pretty amazing food in Toronto. Seven course brunch. Dinner at a place called "Hey Meatball" followed by some killer crepes. Let's just say there wasn't a lot of "roughage" in the diet. But I DID exercise while in the hotel- because let's be honest- it was STUPID cold outside and I don't really like TV that much.
So, I did what any normal person would do. I got up and used the restroom. I walked the aisle. I did all kinds of things- because it dawned on me: "Uh-oh, I may need them to land this damn plane if I can't get this shit under control." And honestly, I just didn't want to be "that girl." I also looked on the plane map and saw that we were over Fargo, ND. And I just don't know much about their emergency facilities. Do you? While struggling to breathe, I did manage to get angry at myself for not catching this shit sooner, cuz then I stood a chance of getting an emergency landing in Chicago.
I'll readily admit it. I was scared. I kept checking my fingernails to make sure they hadn't turned blue. Because that was the deal I made with myself- if my nails turned blue, I would call the flight attendant and ask them very, very kindly to land the plane. Yes, even in Fargo.To pass the time, I knitted a whole hat. Knitting calms my ass down. And it worked. It took my mind off of my struggle to breathe.
Obviously, I made it home. And once safely on the ground, my breathing returned to some semblance of normal. I felt better. Not great. But certainly better.
Monday I was still a bit rocky. But I attributed that more to jet lag than anything else. My lungs were still burning a bit. But again, I figured it was because I put them through a bit of Hell. And my lung team confirmed that honestly, this type of thing will happen until I get healed up. Apparently to the normal lung person, the crappy cabin air they fill the plane with is fine. But for more sensitive folk like myself, we will basically asphyxiate. You know, that would have been good information to have going into all of this, don't you think? Doctors make me crazy. They really do. And I told them that- and didn't bother smiling either. She felt bad- and I think she felt bad for a couple of reasons.
1) She is empathetic. She knows how much this sucks.
2) She pities me. She knows what the road to recovery- if there is one at all- looks like.
So we talked about the future. She told me that if the steroids don't heal me up, then it looks like I'm on the road to something called fibrosis- for which there is no cure. Now, let's not get ahead of ourselves here. I have no reason to believe I won't get better like the last two times. But it is curious to think that I may find myself praying for a well-timed motorcycle accident- to get momma her new set of lungs. Morbid even. But I figure as long as there's places like oh, I don't know, Florida, where folks don't wear their helmets, I stand a good chance of coming out on top...So, there's hope.
3:30 PM arrived finally. I picked my kids up from school. Lungs burning and everything. I still had a shit ton of responsibilities in front of me. And I looked over at my boys. I explained very patiently: "Hey, I'm having trouble breathing right now. So I'm going to go take a nap for about 30 minutes. Then we'll tackle everything else. Don't kill each other or burn the house down."
My oldest son replied: "You know mom, if you said something like that to anyone else, they probably would insist on calling 911. Instead we just say: "Alright. Have a good nap." because we've been down this road with you before. We don't panic."
Yes. You see. The kids are alright.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Monday, March 10, 2014
CANCER: What a difference a date makes...
Lung update is that well, they flunked. AND more importantly, I FLUNKED them. But there was some interesting twists and turns that got me to this moment...
Last week I started off pretty happy, as already I had dropped 5 LBS from the prednisone taper. That was getting me back in the zone of my normal weight range. (Old girl in the MD office tried to add a .4 to the end of that number...I called bullshit on that and told her to round that shit down like we learned in grade school. She did. AWESOME!) But that happiness was short-lived....
Last Wednesday the good Dr. Matdes phoned to let me know that I needed to jump back on prednisone, as the lung biopsy showed no infection. However, instead of pumping me full of all that crap, Matdes is taking a different approach. He's putting me on only 20 mgs of prednisone with a very small antibiotic chaser. Apparently when you mix prednisone with certain antibiotics the prednisone is more effective- but at a much lower dose. For that I say: thank YOU, because my poor body could use the break. But there was a catch. He asked me to hold off on taking the prednisone until Friday, because see, I was scheduled to take a lung test at 10:30 Friday AM. He wanted me drug free to allow us to establish a base line. Now of course, he DID say that I could take the drugs earlier if necessary. But you know me. I'm a BOSS and was all- "No...I GOT this. I can wait."
Now you KNOW I know better than that. And of course, I woke up Friday morning- literally panting like a dog because I couldn't get enough air into those stupid little sacks. I felt like one of my kids was sitting on my chest. They weren't. I checked. So, I did what any rational divorcee would do- I phoned my ex and asked for a ride to the ER.
Now look- there's a reason that dude is my ex. He literally drove me up to the doors of the ER- slowed down juuuuuuust enough for me to hop out and sped outta there like his ass was on fire. I wasn't the least bit concerned because well, my primary issue was breathing. And I figured I'd find a ride home eventually. (I did! Big love to Sharon Carroll and Laurie Coaston, btw!)
Due to my change in line-up, I now go to the UW Medical Center for my care. And their ER docs are so smooth! They took one look at my file, realized WHO they were dealing with and just let that shit flow. They figured out that I'll be a regular. They trust that I know what I'm panting about. And they know to call the big dogs in right away because shit is SERIOUS. They don't guess. They don't speculate. And more importantly- they don't waste my time. So, I got to hang out for about five hours. The lights were lowered. I was handed some oxygen and some microwaved macaroni and cheese- and left in relative peace. Eventually Dr. M was tracked down. He issued some orders. I followed them and was sent home on my own recognizance.
I am back on the steroids. Due to the lower dose, they aren't working as quickly. But I certainly have some more pep in my step- and cannot sleep for shit. Oh well.
But WAIT- I learned something else about all of this last week.
After dating this dude for about three whole weeks, he went in for the kill. He requested that I commit my dating self to him and only him, remove my online profile, blah, blah, blah....
And wouldn't you know- the very next day he broke up with me- via an email? Not just any email either- a SIX PARAGRAPH email detailing all of my failures and short-comings, not the least of which included my cancer. For REAL! His concerns- and really I got bored so didn't read the whole thing- stated something to the effect of: "Will I need to sit on the couch with you every weekend when you're sick?" And "What happens if you get cancer again? I'll need to say goodbye to you too soon and have to look for a new partner." The HELL? I was surprised and a little bit hurt. I mean- plenty of people told me they couldn't handle my disease when I was actively going through treatment. And I got that. But, I was blown away by someone predicting my future. And more importantly, betting against me.
But I digress. That guy was an asshole. And it was super easy to send him on his merry way.
However, there was another man in the ether. After taking a rest from his little emotional trip (WHAT? DATE? I've been single for five whole years...? What is this black magic called commitment??) he resurfaced. And I was actually pretty happy about it all. Because well, he's kinda special. And let me give you a little glimpse into this one.
While chatting, he saw my lymphatic sleeve poking out of my shirt. He remarked: "You know, that sleeve is kinda like your badge of success. It shows you beat it. You earned it. You're a bad ass." Now, I had never in my mind thought of it like that. It's more a pain in the ass to have to wear. It serves as a reminder of what I underwent. In short, I never took the time to feel empowered by it. However, this guy, (who by the way, in no way defines me) sees it so differently. I don't lose any dating points because of it. If anything my status is elevated. Now, of course I have no idea what any of this will mean or where it will lead. And well, who cares? He loves steak and so do I. So, I'll hang in there...
But I guess I blog all of this to say- human beings will continue to surprise the shit out of me. And for that reason alone I think this makes life worth living.
Last week I started off pretty happy, as already I had dropped 5 LBS from the prednisone taper. That was getting me back in the zone of my normal weight range. (Old girl in the MD office tried to add a .4 to the end of that number...I called bullshit on that and told her to round that shit down like we learned in grade school. She did. AWESOME!) But that happiness was short-lived....
Last Wednesday the good Dr. Matdes phoned to let me know that I needed to jump back on prednisone, as the lung biopsy showed no infection. However, instead of pumping me full of all that crap, Matdes is taking a different approach. He's putting me on only 20 mgs of prednisone with a very small antibiotic chaser. Apparently when you mix prednisone with certain antibiotics the prednisone is more effective- but at a much lower dose. For that I say: thank YOU, because my poor body could use the break. But there was a catch. He asked me to hold off on taking the prednisone until Friday, because see, I was scheduled to take a lung test at 10:30 Friday AM. He wanted me drug free to allow us to establish a base line. Now of course, he DID say that I could take the drugs earlier if necessary. But you know me. I'm a BOSS and was all- "No...I GOT this. I can wait."
Now you KNOW I know better than that. And of course, I woke up Friday morning- literally panting like a dog because I couldn't get enough air into those stupid little sacks. I felt like one of my kids was sitting on my chest. They weren't. I checked. So, I did what any rational divorcee would do- I phoned my ex and asked for a ride to the ER.
Now look- there's a reason that dude is my ex. He literally drove me up to the doors of the ER- slowed down juuuuuuust enough for me to hop out and sped outta there like his ass was on fire. I wasn't the least bit concerned because well, my primary issue was breathing. And I figured I'd find a ride home eventually. (I did! Big love to Sharon Carroll and Laurie Coaston, btw!)
Due to my change in line-up, I now go to the UW Medical Center for my care. And their ER docs are so smooth! They took one look at my file, realized WHO they were dealing with and just let that shit flow. They figured out that I'll be a regular. They trust that I know what I'm panting about. And they know to call the big dogs in right away because shit is SERIOUS. They don't guess. They don't speculate. And more importantly- they don't waste my time. So, I got to hang out for about five hours. The lights were lowered. I was handed some oxygen and some microwaved macaroni and cheese- and left in relative peace. Eventually Dr. M was tracked down. He issued some orders. I followed them and was sent home on my own recognizance.
I am back on the steroids. Due to the lower dose, they aren't working as quickly. But I certainly have some more pep in my step- and cannot sleep for shit. Oh well.
But WAIT- I learned something else about all of this last week.
After dating this dude for about three whole weeks, he went in for the kill. He requested that I commit my dating self to him and only him, remove my online profile, blah, blah, blah....
And wouldn't you know- the very next day he broke up with me- via an email? Not just any email either- a SIX PARAGRAPH email detailing all of my failures and short-comings, not the least of which included my cancer. For REAL! His concerns- and really I got bored so didn't read the whole thing- stated something to the effect of: "Will I need to sit on the couch with you every weekend when you're sick?" And "What happens if you get cancer again? I'll need to say goodbye to you too soon and have to look for a new partner." The HELL? I was surprised and a little bit hurt. I mean- plenty of people told me they couldn't handle my disease when I was actively going through treatment. And I got that. But, I was blown away by someone predicting my future. And more importantly, betting against me.
But I digress. That guy was an asshole. And it was super easy to send him on his merry way.
However, there was another man in the ether. After taking a rest from his little emotional trip (WHAT? DATE? I've been single for five whole years...? What is this black magic called commitment??) he resurfaced. And I was actually pretty happy about it all. Because well, he's kinda special. And let me give you a little glimpse into this one.
While chatting, he saw my lymphatic sleeve poking out of my shirt. He remarked: "You know, that sleeve is kinda like your badge of success. It shows you beat it. You earned it. You're a bad ass." Now, I had never in my mind thought of it like that. It's more a pain in the ass to have to wear. It serves as a reminder of what I underwent. In short, I never took the time to feel empowered by it. However, this guy, (who by the way, in no way defines me) sees it so differently. I don't lose any dating points because of it. If anything my status is elevated. Now, of course I have no idea what any of this will mean or where it will lead. And well, who cares? He loves steak and so do I. So, I'll hang in there...
But I guess I blog all of this to say- human beings will continue to surprise the shit out of me. And for that reason alone I think this makes life worth living.
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