Friday, August 7, 2009

Introducing Grazelda: the first 3 weeks

Being the first post , this is bound to be a long one, so I'll employ the 25-word summary strategy from VS quarterly reports. Read the rest when you have time:

Three weeks ago my abdomen hurt. I vacationed despite worsening fever and pain. Back home, the doctor removed my bread-loaf-sized ovary. Cancer! Chemo starts Monday.




"So who is Grazelda?" you ask, "I thought this was Margaret's blog."
Well, it is. In fact, Grazelda does not currently exist (very much?), but this blog is centered around the process of getting rid of her and making sure she stays gone. Allow me to explain . . .

Week 1 (and a half)
A little over three weeks ago, I experienced some extreme abdominal pain while getting ready for work, enough to call in sick. By evening I had convinced myself it was due to the normal course of a woman's life and that I was well enough to go on the roadtrip to Kansas scheduled for the next day. Symptoms didn't get better; they got worse. Fever and more gory things you don't want to hear about. Ibuprophen helped some, and I pushed through some important events, but when they were done, I admitted to myself that something was really wrong with my body. I went to a clinic in Kansas where they thought I had a GI infection, and that "my uterus felt firm," something I should get checked out back in Tucson (where I live right now). I proceeded with my travels as planned, driving to visit family in Cincinnati, another fruitless visit to a clinic, and then flying back to Tucson late on a Sunday night.

Week 2
Monday: I go to an appointment with a nurse practitioner I'd made while still in Cincinnati. By this time, my "firm uterus" is definitely worrisome to me, something I can feel - I can't suck my stomach in. My NP samples and examines and orders a CAT scan for me. I get a CAT scan scheduled for the next day, spend the evening gagging down Barium contrast and the nighttime making trip after trip to the toilet.

Tuesday: I wake up early to drink the second bottle of Barium and count it a major victory that I don't gag even once. With no sleep and no solids left in me, still feverish, I feel awful, but the scan goes without a hitch. I'm told to expect a call from my doctor in 3 business days. My doctor's office calls that afternoon to make an appointment for the next day about the results. Yes, it feels like a bad omen, but I'm glad I don't have to wait. I think this is the day I stop wearing anything with a waistband in favor of slightly over-sized dresses.

Wednesday: My nurse practitioner tells me I have a 16 cm mass in my abdomen, probably on my ovary, which looks like it could be cancerous but they really can't know for sure without a biopsy. She refers me to a surgeon, a really good gynecologist oncologist and sends me on my way. I can feel the mass from my belly button all the way down. I name it Grazelda. My mom flies in that evening.

Thursday: I wait around, enjoying visitors from my mattress-on-the-floor-in-the-living-room, worrying. I don't sleep well, my subconscious is occupied coming up with ways to convince the receptionist to get me an appointment with the surgeon ASAP. Most of them start with "I don't want to be dramatic, but . . ."

Friday: I call the surgeon's office and (without even using my stellar intro) convey my need to be seen. Amazingly they agree to take me as a walk-in. The gynecologist oncologist/surgeon, Dr. Alton Hallum III ("call me Hank"), is indeed really good. First, Dr. Jennifer Hallum, his wife, listens to all my symptoms, taking more time and asking more thorough questions than any nurse or urgent care physician has. After seeing Dr. A. Hallum, who explains things in English with good metaphors and hand gestures, I'm scheduled for surgery to take out my ovary and fallopian tube on Monday and shuttled off to the hospital to do the pre-surgery intake work.
In the middle of a bunch of paperwork, the nurse at the hospital takes my temperature as 103. Phone calls are made, I'm admitted to the hospital through the ER, and my surgery is bumped up to Saturday morning.

Saturday: I'm cut open, and my offending innards removed: my right ovary, which has grown to the size of a loaf of bread and the consistency of jello - the doctor kept using the word "goober" to describe it after he'd taken it out - the fallopian tube, my appendix and a few lymph nodes that the tumor had adhered itself to. I don't really remember much of Saturday, but between morphine and some very kind friends (and my mother who rarely left my room) I was quite comfortable.

Week 3:
This week has been spent recovering from surgery. I was in the hospital through Monday and of course have the sort of hospital stories that one collects, mostly involving bodily functions or friends taking care of me in ways I couldn't have imagined (or both).
The transition from morphine to percocet was a difficult one and after a rough first evening home, and abandoning percocet altogether as "not worth it," I've been getting stronger and more independent, having more appetite, less nausea, and using less ibuprophen. I wear an elastic girdle under my dress when I'm not laying down to make me feel like my organs are securely in place. Sometimes it feels like they're still searching for where they should settle, now that Grazelda is gone.

On Thursday I went to the doctor's (gynecologist oncologist's) office to get my 14 staples out - and a few tiny stitches in my belly button. This was also the time to discuss further treatment. The pathology report was back, and I had been officially diagnosed with a yolk sac tumor. This makes Grazelda an endodermal sinus tumor, which from my understanding means an egg in my ovary decided it wanted to become a placenta and went pretty much bonkers making that happen. In other words, I have a fairly rare form of ovarian cancer, but the good part (??) about this kind is that Grazelda grew so quickly I experienced pain and got it out of there. "There are no visible signs of cancer in my abdomen," according to my doctor, but without chemotherapy it would almost certainly return. Fortunately (??), this kind of cancer is very responsive to chemotherapy. So I start on Monday. (!!)

I did have the choice of waiting another week to heal a little more from my surgery - it still hurts to cough, laugh, sneeze, walk or stand too long, etc. But in the end I didn't want to wait around another week doing nothing, giving Grazelda time to regroup. My schedule is as follows: I'll go into the office Monday through Friday for one week, several hours each day and sit in a long line of chairs with an IV in my arm. Then I'll have two weeks off. I'll do that cycle a total of 4 times. No one knows exactly how an individual's body will react to the particular combination of drugs they'll give me to kill Grazelda, but I'm told to expect fatigue and nausea at the least. And I will lose my hair.


Phew. If you made it this far, congratulations! (I feel like people tell me that a lot lately). I would love to promise frequent updates with engaging tales of triumph over adversity, inspiring reflections, and witty anecdotes about my bodily functions. But right now I don't feel like I can promise anything. I will try to keep this updated with information about the general state of my health because I feel loved by many people with whom I want to share this process.


True Story (I wish that implied the above were fictitious.):

The other day I was noticing that I was still being served water from a glass with a straw.

"Mom," I asked, "why do you have to drink out of a straw when you're sick?"

"Because," she answered, "Being sick sucks."

I quite agree.

15 comments:

  1. Margaret - wow - from those well written words, we feel like we're on the adventure with you! We hear you. We love you!

    For the obligatory chiding from your uncle, no sit-ups, recover soon - your sisters birthday is coming Sept 6th :)

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  2. So did the surgeon get a picture of little 'Zelda as promised?
    love you!
    Your Sister

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  3. Margaret, I thought you were math oriented. Quite a writing essay we have here. Thanks for the info. Very sorry you are having to go through this, but positive energies heal. Know that we will keep you close in our prayers. Prayers extended to mom,dad,Allison, James and extended family who cannot be as close to you in proximity as they would like.
    Seize the Day!
    Thinking of you,,,Tim and Maureen Day

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  4. Margaret! It has been ages since I've recieved much news about you- and now this unnerving but well-written blog. I'm floored. I hope that the chemo blasts the last vestiges of your somewhat Germanic-sounding tumor out of your system, and that you make a hasty recovery.
    Get well soon!
    Jess

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  5. Wow, quite a "bump" in the road. OK, let's get rid of Zelda quickly.

    luv, Pamela Denlinger

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  6. Thanks for the commentary Margaret; it's helping to fill in the gaps. May you remain strong and determined! Lots of love to you and gentle hugs.
    Love, Jen

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  7. Eine dicke Umarmung und Grüße und gute Wünsche aus Bünde, und mit einem Lächeln unter Tränen denke ich daran, wie du und deine Schwester mir eine schwierige Zeit in meinem Leben aufgehellt habt.Danke for sharing this, and much force -I know you have it- and the blossoms from the heaven to get through.
    Maria

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  8. Sorry, Allison, the surgeon was too busy trying to maneuver the "goober" with minimal spillage to whip out his cell phone and snap a photo. Given the options, I'm okay with that, if a little disappointed.

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  9. Hey Margaret,
    thinking about you and sending lots of positive vibes your way.

    I have a silly story for you. This Sunday, Rachel decided at the last minute during sharing and prayer that she wanted prayer for you, so as I was going around passing the mike and came back up to the front she raised her hand, the last person to ask for prayer. As you might expect, after her sharing, I started crying, and had to put the pastoral prayer on hold for a few seconds to compose myself. Thanks Rachel.

    You are loved and cared for Margaret. Let us know if there is anything else we can do.
    Samuel

    p.s., this comment is Rachel approved, and she says hi.

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  10. Hey Margaret, that's what I call a bad stomach ache! We thank you for the free sharing and trust that regardless of our current opinions of the "God paradigm", as you phrased it at Wally and Joan's, that you know we are thinking, hoping and praying for you on this unexpected path. Keep us posted, for we want to go through this together, in the small ways we can. love Myron (and Phyllis)

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  11. Margaret, Life is really a bummer sometimes and I am so sorry you have to go through this. I hope you are feeling the well wishes and prayers from us because you truly have a special place in our thoughts these last few days. I also hope you get some comfort in writing your blog because it does keep us closer to you. I am pulling for you as you start your treatment and will continue to be in touch. Love Phyllis

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  12. Margaret
    I just talked to your Dad. I'm sure you appreciate his presence, along with your Mom's. Nothing like family to help out in situations such as this one. We think of you and say prayers for you often. I will share with Shalom tomorrow as those folks would want to know. (I couldn't remember my password so now have signed in and joined twice. I told you I needed "Blogging for Dummies"...) Herb said you will get a two week reprieve from the chemo. That will probably be welcome. Take care and know we you are in our thoughts and prayers.

    Wally

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  13. Margaret,
    It is truely hard to imagine all you have been through in recent weeks.You have told an amazing story and seem to be a very brave young woman! Thanks for sharing this experience with those who love you by writing this blog. I am thinking of you so often. Please remember there is a lot of love, thoughts and prayers coming your way...Joan

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  14. Margaret -

    Thanks for sharing, and with wit as well as honesty.

    Lots of prayers being sent your way.

    ~ Liz

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  15. Margaret-
    Gods blessing and prayers. I should say you have grabbed life by the horns--sorry dodge I stole your line

    Keneth Riungu

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