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.