April Showers

 

April Showers

In My Bloodstream: Lisinopril,  Amlodopine,  Omeprazole, Tamsulosin

On The Stereo:  Shower The People : James Taylor

Last Monday I traveled to Moffitt to plan an operation with Dr. Harrington.  That did not go as I had thought it would.  We thoroughly reviewed the PET scan and the doctor was extremely concerned with a small lump in front of my left ear.  It has been around for a very long time, but has never bothered me and has not drawn attention from any of my previous oncological visits.  This time, warning lights lit up.  My lucky day.

What had begun as a surgical planning meeting, had made an unwelcome turn into a new active cancer site.  The brakes were slammed.  Before proceeding further, this tiny bump required inspection.

I thought another appointment would be required to biopsy the site and then another wait for pathological results.  Not so.  Dr. Harrington and his aide, Rihanna, immediately called the pathology department and asked for help.  Within a short period of time, two doctors arrived and performed a needle biopsy.  Simply put, a needle was injected into the lump, probed the area for about fifteen seconds, and the harvested cells were put on a slide for microscopic inspection.  Both doctors asked me to hang on, while they hustled back to the lab to have a look. 

They returned with news.  The sample showed only blood cells, and they would have to repeat the procedure, widening the area.  We did it all again.  This was not the worst thing done to me, but it was not pleasant.  Not at all.

And, as promised, they returned.

They were able to garner some results.  Neither doctor was comfortable.  One said that Dr. Harrington would discuss the information with me.  Whoa.  This is my body, I told them.  What did you find?  Gingerly, the results were given me.  This was only a primary test, and a deeper look would check farther, but that would take a while.

There was no doubt, however, that the collected cells were cancerous and active.  Melanoma was thought to be the culprit.  The doctor was very apologetic and gracious.  He said he was so sorry that it was not good news and wished me well in the treatments to come.  Both doctors were beautiful people.  They were consummate, caring, professionals.  And there was no doubt that they were most worried about their results.

And I was alone again.

Dr. Harrington, after being debriefed, returned to see me.  

We will need a big operation, he thought, out loud.  Some of his contemporaries would need to be brought in.  There was a need for a major graft for the top of my head.  That, in itself, was going to be a challenge.  There was precious little healthy skin on my skull available to anchor the significant piece of flesh required to cover the damaged area.  Furthermore, there was a real possibility that the melanoma could have entered the bone, in which case, a brain surgeon would also be required.  A still larger operation.  To investigate the depth of the cancer, an MRI, with and without contrast, would be required.  Before I left the hospital, I had an appointment in place for the next morning - Tuesday.  They were wasting no time.

We had downpours on Monday and showers Tuesday.  Our skies continues to be overcast.

As if that was not enough to deal with, the small lump by my ear canal, may well necessitate the removal of all the lymph glands on my left side, from the ear to my shoulder.  That, he advised, was also a major and massive operation.  A re-build of my neck would be part of the process.  A big job, he said.

So.  This does not sound good.  And that is where we now stand.  And it is only Tuesday.

Wednesday gave me golf with the guys.  I walked with the push-cart.  The exercise and fresh air were a tonic.  I had intermittent problems with focus.  And my score provided demonstrable evidence.  

                                       I broke out my "Dragon Belt" in preparation for the game.

Late in the afternoon, Dr. Harrington called.  There would be no operation at this time.  The cancerous mass had broken though the skull bone, and was nestled against a major vein atop my brain.  Far too dangerous for surgery.

He thought my oncologist would call me to discuss other options.  Perhaps chemo or immunotherapy.  

I told Kat the news, when she returned from teaching.  We committed to fighting - again.  Our evening was quiet.  The normal banter had been locked away.

Our neighbor, Jan, joined us for a coffee while we had breakfast on Thursday.  She had some stickers for Kath's kids.  Somewhere in our conversation, she asked when my expected operation would take place.  I told he that our news was not good, and the cancer was inoperable.  She burst into tears and rushed out, sobbing, and terribly perplexed.  Her husband  had passed on last year, and my news shocked her to her core.  

Kath left for school.

Later, Jan returned.  She was apologetic for her outburst.  She told me she just loved us, and we had been the best neighbors, always ready to look after her.  I told her that I was wrong to blurt out the news, but she disagreed.  She had not meant to upset me with her actions.  She was worried I would think that she had  counted me out.  She knew I was a fighter and a most positive man.  She would be here to help, whenever we needed her.  And she returned to her home.  She was still shaken.  And I remained with an unwelcome tear.  For her.

Thursday was a lost day for me.  I wallowed about, achieving not much.  Waiting for my bride.  The day would improve when she arrived.  I knew that.

The weekend  provide a brush with normalcy.  We golfed, and I was totally inept.  I could not focus.  I had let my mind sink into a hole.  I needed a boost.  Just to see some upside.  We arrived home to an Easter  call from Larry and Michele.  I must apologize to them as I could not face more conversations regarding my health.  I was not "chipper", and I am most sorry.

We video-chatted with the Duggans and the Tompkins.  We called to wish Brian a happy birthday.  And I realized how much I missed  him and Michael.  We video-cocktailed several times with Doug and Kristin, who have taken up the task of keeping our outlook afloat.  They are so good.

And that is where we stand on this Monday morning.  I have yet to hear from the oncologist.  I do not know if a chemo or immunotherapy program is in my future.  The cancer has been growing rapidly, and there is a question whether a treatment can effectively shrink the mass in time.  That information is what I wait for now.  

I must tell you about my last few visits to Moffitt.  

I am usually on a strictly disciplined routine.  The hospital has been my second home for almost ten years.  I take those regular visits for granted.  There is an ongoing process and I have been another cog in the cancer wheel.  These last few times were different.  

I was unexpectedly struck by the people around me.  Where I would normally have been self-centered, and concerned about my visit and my time, this time was different.  Incredibly different.  I could see love everywhere.  Real love.  Spouses pushing their mates in wheelchairs.  Moms and daughters.  Fathers with their fathers.  A deaf man with his translator.  A patient and a friend.  They were chatting and smiling.  Offering hope.  Sharing the journey.  

The staff who helped me through my long days, and the doctors who, as part of my treatment, actually cared for me.  The building was filled with love.  And I could palpably feel it.  I did not continue to perceive myself as a simple cog in the system.  I felt a part of something very special and very good.  Inside those walls, all of us are offered  help and care and love.  I was grateful.  And I was thankful.

My child bride wants to be with me on every visit, and I mostly decline her earnest offer.  I feel she could spend her time doing better things than sitting in a waiting room for hours at a time.  She is a teacher.  She has been teaching in-class all year.  Caring for eighteen first graders.

She has been beginning each day, by teaching them French.  They have learned to greet her and others in a foreign language.  They can manage short sentences, and feel special, that they, and only they, are able to communicate in "their" language.  They are excited to show their new talent to visitors.  

They expect each day to start "Bonjour Madame Mullen".  And she replies in kind.  She loves her class.  And she loves her life's work.  Her children need her more than do I, especially when she would be  relegated to an uncomfortable chair, in a hospital waiting room, fo hours.  She still wants to be with me, to show her support, but I know her, and I  know we each need to do the right thing.  We are good with that.

Thank you, too, for all your notes and kind words.  They give me strength and happiness.

Until next week,

jrobinmullen@gmail.com