A Little Less "Organ"ized...Get It??

Greetings from my bed, snuggled betwixt our yorkie poo and pittie. Who, I would say, make excellent caregivers, except for the fact that Gizzie's way of checking to see if I'm alive is by standing on my stomach. And George is just living his best life because he normally doesn't get free reign in our bed until nighttime.

Surgery went well. It was a little trickier than my doctor had expected, because there was a lifetime's supply of endometriosis hiding behind my uterus that surprised even her. I like to keep my healthcare team on their toes apparently. 

My 4:15am alarm was in no way welcomed. But we were on our way by 4:45ish. David was most excited about the perfect parking spot he found, right near the entrance to the hospital. "You gotta get up pretty early to find a better spot than me," he said proudly. 

Got all checked in and headed back to pre op. He got to come with me this time, and of course, provided much comedic relief for all those within earshot. When the nurse stepped out he asked, "Did they say they could get me a warm blanket?"

"What? No!" I hissed, hoping they hadn't heard him. 

"I think you have to request it and then slip it to me..." he suggested. "Also, I have a mosquito bite that's been bothering me. Do you think they could take a look at it?". 

Oh here we go. It was at this moment I began to rethink him being back there. 

The nurse returned and went through all the routine questions. Name, date of birth, do I know what surgery I'm having, etc. I answered "hysterectomy and oophorectomy". David looked puzzled and asked, "And where exactly are her oofas?". 

Out the nurse went again to check on her other patients. David was starting to get restless by then and began inspecting my gurney. "I wonder what this button does?" 

"Leave it!" I warned. 

"Do you want me to start your IV?" he asked as he picked up my arm and began tapping it to wake up my veins. "Or turn on your oxygen?".

"I don't want you to touch a single solitary thing," I admonished. 

He sat back down in his chair and while he was repositioning his mask, one of the strings broke. Honestly. He's like my 4th child. He began scanning the room like MacGyver, looking for something he could use to put it back together. "I need a suture kit," he decided. 

Off I went to the OR. And in seemingly the next 30 seconds, I was being wheeled to my room for the night. I took about 10 catnaps that afternoon, being unable to stay awake for more than 5 minutes at a time. David got a kick out of the "goals" written on my board. "Dangle pain control?" he questioned my nurse. "That seems kinda mean. You don't just give it to them when they need it?!"

I surpassed my "dangle" goal for the day. And instead of just sitting up on the side of my bed, I managed to slowly walk around the unit with my IV pole and nurse aide. Such an overachiever I am. Although, at the pace I went, a snail would have given me a run for my money. 

The anesthesia made me sick as a dog who just ate stale mac n cheetos (yes, that is a mac & cheese stuffed cheeto puff). An oddly specific comparison, I know.  But Gizzie found a half eaten one in one of the kids' rooms years ago and we thought she was done for. She was so sick for an entire day. Didn't even move once. So of course I rushed her to the vet first thing in the morning and thankfully she's lived happily ever after ever since. But it's now our standard family measurement for how sick someone is. 

I made it through that first night. One minute feeling on the verge of making that journey toward the eternal light, the next a nurse coming in saying she had my discharge orders to go home. I called David to come fetch me (he lost rock, paper, scissors apparently), "She said you can just pull up to the main entrance and she'll wheel me out," I explained. 

"Got it. So, like, do I just honk or what?". 

"Don't you dare." 

My nurse took out my IV and went to grab my discharge papers. As I repositioned myself in bed, it was like old faithful erupting from my hand. Blood spattering all over the floor, on me, on my bedding. Think prom scene from Carrie. The poor housekeeper who got assigned to my room probably couldn't decide whether to clean and sanitize or report a crime. 

David got me home where I promptly crawled into bed and drifted in and out of consciousness for the next day and a half. Small stretches of walking, increasing each day, were recommended for a smoother recovery. Since opening the front door these days feels like opening the gates to hades, I opted to shuffle around in circles on our air conditioned main floor. 

I picked the worst time to pass down my car to Tate and upgrade myself to a larger SUV. I haven't yet learned how to casually get in and out of it. I just kind of awkwardly slither out and breathe a sigh of relief when my foot finally touches solid ground. So if everyone could just avert their eyes for the next 4-6 weeks if I happen to pull up beside you and attempt to exit my vehicle semi successfully, that would be helpful. 

In the meantime, it has been handy having my pick of chauffeurs this time around. I learned rather quickly not to say, "Who wants to drive their dear old Mom to Target??". And just began assigning each offspring the task randomly. A neat thing about our city is they somehow managed to deliberately map out each and every route I take to anywhere and begin road construction. As Tate ineffectively dodged some bumps in the road, I remarked, "Umm...ow. I feel like some more of my organs are going to fall out." 

"Wait, those were organs you had removed? You should have sold them on the black market!". His chauffeur duties have been suspended for the time being. 

My surgical team sent me home with some parting gifts. They left 3 or 4 of my ECG electrode patches stuck to me. Each time I shower, I discover another one. Like a little scavenger hunt. 

All in all, I'm doing well. And feeling good. I'm up to one to two outings per day. And down to one nap a day where I wake up in a fuzzy stupor not knowing what year it is. 

As always, I'm so grateful for your prayers and well wishes. I feel like I have more than exceeded my allotment of them these past 4 years. But I know God has placed each and every one of you in my life for a reason. And it's not just so my list of potential chauffeurs can get longer...

Fallopian Farewell

Some people have Summer homes. Or tranquil getaways to a favorite vacation spot each year. 

I have the OR. Not Oregon, although that would be lovely. Operating Rooms. I find myself visiting different ones around the metro each Summer. And instead of collecting little souvenir shot glasses, I collect those plastic hospital cups with lids and straws that measure my water intake. I'm accumulating quite the menagerie. 

Cancer is that rather unique gift that keeps on giving. If that gift is a subscription to something you never asked for, absolutely detest, and isn't eligible for returns or exchanges. 

I'm off to get my 8th surgery in the a.m. 

No, my cancer isn't back. But the medicine I take to help prevent breast cancer reoccurrence, Tamoxifen, can cause uterine cancer. So every year I get a sonogram to check things out. And EVERY YEAR it shows suspiciousness lurking amongst my lining. Which means I either have to get a biopsy done, or in last Summer's case, a hysteroscopy and d&c. 

People. I am slated to be on Tamoxifen for SEVEN MORE YEARS. So after my last suspicious sonogram this Spring, my doctor said, "That's it! Everything's coming out!". Kind of like when your kids are all causing a ruckus in the very room you're trying to find some peace and quiet in for 5 minutes so you finally yell, "EVERYBODY OUT!".

I'll be adding a few more "ectomies" to my health history. A hysterectomy and bilateral salpingo oophorectomy. Boy, spellcheck didn't like that latter one. At. All. 

Tate is disappointed he won't be getting that little brother he's always longed for. I didn't have the heart to tell him that ship had sailed years ago. Not only sailed, mind you, but had gotten lost forever in the Bermuda triangle. He's now trying to convince us to trade one, or both, of his sisters for a brother.  Or a bull terrier. Either will suffice. 

At least he's actually able to talk about the surgery now. When I was first explaining what it was, he said, "Mom! That's a bad word!". To which Drue and I both said in unison, "Uterus??". To mess with him more, I said I was planning on keeping all my newly evicted reproductive organs in a jar on the mantel. 

This immediately cleared both kids from the vicinity with Drue saying, "Mom...ewww. Good-bye." Teens are too easy sometimes. 

I assigned David the most important job of all. Of course he's my ride, but after surgery, I told him to make sure I put my earrings back in right away. I got my second hole pierced recently, and although it's past time that I can change them out, they still need an earring in so they don't close up. He's already set a reminder in his phone. While he was setting that, he asked what time we needed to be at the hospital. 

"5:15am," I replied. 

"Of course we do," he said good naturedly. Poor guy can't catch a break with my first surgery of the day luck of the draws. 

When he found out I'd be staying the night he asked if he needed to take the following day off work as well. "Heavens no," I said. "Just come pick me up between conference calls or something. Or heck, send one of the other THREE drivers in our household. But not Tate. He only knows how to get to Taco Bell and back home." 

I find it kind of poetic, fitting, ironic...I'm not sure which word works best...that I'm having this surgery done at the same hospital where I had all my babies. I've come full circle. 

Oh, and I'll be able to come off of Tamoxifen afterwards and switch to an aromatase inhibitor instead. "But I thought you came off Tamoxifen last year?" you say. Or you would say if you remember reading that in my March 2021 update. And you would be correct. 

Chemo threw me into early menopause. The one and only side effect I really didn't mind. Last year, my lab work showed that, yes indeed, I was post menopausal. So my oncologist took me off Tamoxifen and started me on Letrozole. Lo and behold, I went back to being pre menopausal within a month or so. Which caused my oncologist to scratch his head, order more lab work, and put me back on Tamoxifen. So if you're keeping track, I went in to menopause, came back out, then went. back. in. How David has not walked right out the front door, never to return, I have no idea. I have been a hot mess. Literally. 

And I wasn't the most emotionally/hormonally stable person pre cancer treatments as it was. But I can't take any hormone replacement anythings because that's what fueled my breast cancer to begin with. Oy. 

Never in a billion trillion years did I dream I'd be matter of factly blogging about menopause, ovaries, my uterus, or my bosom. But ridiculously modest me couldn't have gotten ear lobe cancer. Or pinky toe cancer. Neither of which causes me any kind of embarrassment to talk about whatsoever. Nope. This Mom of three who was too shy to even say "breastfeeding" and only felt comfortable referring to it as "nursing" got breast cancer. And her coping mechanism is writing. So there you have it. I am now the epitome of TMI. 

I'm off to pack my little bag. And do a few weird nesting things around the house that I always do before surgeries. Like scrub the kitchen trash can lids and refold my winter sweaters on the shelf in the way back of my bedroom closet. You know, important stuff like that.