Marking time

 

The surgeon said it would take at least six weeks to reach full recovery. My June 9 right lung lobectomy removed the sarcoma that had, for the third time, made an unwelcome appearance in my body. I didn't want to believe it would really take that long to feel good again, but he was right.

Today is the six-week mark, and I am finally feeling back to normal. I am walking as far as I walked before -- often clocking more than 10,000 steps a day. Most of my five small incision sites are healed, with one taking just a bit longer. Daily inhaling exercises have steadily demonstrated my increased lung capacity, almost to the point where I was before the surgery. And internal aches from where the robotic instruments roamed around my innards are mostly just a memory. I am once again comfortable in my skin. 

As I give thanks for my recovery, I can't help but recall another passage of six weeks with a much different outcome. Nine years ago, my then-husband and high school sweetheart, Tom, was well on the mend from Achilles tendon surgery, walking around our neighborhood to regain his strength, when he noticed it was getting harder to complete even short distances.  

He saw his doctor, had blood work and was subsequently hospitalized and quickly diagnosed with leukemia. For Tom, six weeks marked the time from diagnosis to death. He never left the intensive care unit where he endured heavy-duty chemotherapy, two surgeries and ultimately succumbed to the sepsis he developed in the hospital.  

Six weeks can seem a ploddingly slow time when it is marked by niggling pain and discomfort, or it can be breath-stealing fast when it defines the end of a life. 

No six-week time frame comes with guarantees -- nor can we be fully assured of what the next six hours, or days, or years will bring. But we can appreciate each day as it dawns and vow to seize its potential for good. Day by day is a good outlook, or quoting from a favorite Anne Lamott book as TC and I like to do, "bird by bird." 

Whether recovering from trauma or just continuing the journey to be our best selves, my wish is for all the best six-week periods ahead. 

 

  

Time goes by

 

Yesterday TC and I ventured Downtown to check out the rooftop bar and restaurant on the 28th floor of the newest Hilton adjacent to the Columbus Convention Center. 

We could look north up High St. and, from a different vantage point, we looked down on another rooftop that marked the beginning of our adventure together. Five years ago tomorrow -- July 10 -- we met for drinks and conversation at what was then called Juniper on the roof of the Smith Brothers Hardware Building on N. 4th St. It was a few weeks later that we recognized it as our first date.

I was six months into a new position as editorial page editor for The Dispatch. In my previous post as editor of Columbus CEO magazine, TC had been a freelancer on whom I relied heavily for display stories, and even a few less exciting assignments. We had known each other for years as journalism colleagues and our relationship had been mostly professional to that point.

When TC asked if I'd like to meet for drinks to celebrate my new job, neither of us expected it would lead to romance and marriage. We certainly had no crystal ball to forecast the fun we've had traveling and seeking out live music. And we couldn't foresee the challenges we faced as newlyweds in the middle of a global pandemic, the heartache of losing TC's best-dog-ever, Bubs, or the shocking return of my sarcoma, which had been long been relegated to the background of my life.

That's how time passes by -- in soaring rollercoaster highs and searingly painful lows, with lots of everyday treasures and trials in between. 

And time heals as well as reveals. The passing of four weeks now since my June 9 cancer surgery has brought slow but steady relief from the initial pain of multiple small incisions and the struggle to regain energy and lung capacity. I'm not all the way back yet, but each day brings more strength and less discomfort.

When we count our blessings, especially as our lives gain more perspective, time should always be among our top thanksgivings. 

Love is a made bed

TC knows that his bedmaking skills don't quite meet my exacting standards, but this is the most beautifully made bed I've ever seen. 

Because he might not make it at all if it were up to him. 

Making the bed every day is one of the countless ways he tells me he loves me and is committed to making sure I am not doing any more than I should be for these next few weeks.

He won't let me make the bed or load and unload the dishwasher or cook or clean up the kitchen afterward. 

My only job around the house these days is to get better, and he is a loving task master keeping me focused on that goal. 

So that means TC, who is undeniably the Walter Matthau to my Jack Lemmon, is playing both roles in our Odd Couple relationship for the time being. 

And I am learning to tap into some of my inner Oscar and let go of the Felix. That lets me be just fine with a bed that is made with love if not with regimented perfection. 

Today we celebrate our third wedding anniversary, knowing that we can get through some of the "worse" on our way to a lot more "better." 

You're a good man, TC Brown. And I love you!

Here's the skinny

 

Who knew the "Leo moon" had anything to do with it, but I definitely get what my horoscope for today is saying about wanting to jump out of my skin. That's exactly how I feel as the skin across my abdomen, riddled with five surgical incisions, prickles with the itchy pain that marks the healing process. 

Comfort really is "hard to embody" right now, but that's about the only bad news.

The good news is what came out of appointments this week, first with my surgeon and then with my medical oncologist. The surgeon had just received the pathology report minutes before he entered the room where TC and I waited, and the results were written clearly in the wide grin the doctor wore.

In my lymph nodes, in margins around the lower right lung lobe that was removed and in a biopsy of the phrenic nerve that the tumor had been snuggled up against, the findings were all the same: Negative for sarcoma. 

The results could not have been better. It was what we and our friends and loved ones had been praying for. "Negative" never sounded so sweet.

My oncologist was also smiling as he walked into the exam room the next day. The negative pathology report is a strong factor in his recommendation -- for the time being anyway -- against embarking on a follow-up regimen of chemotherapy. 

Also weighing in favor of no chemo, the doctor explained, is the 12-year span between my last previous incidence of sarcoma in 2011 and the recent metastasis in my lung. Usually, going three years past an occurrence is the goal survivors shoot for, and I had quadrupled that. 

We're still waiting on results of some cutting-edge, customized blood tests that will provide more information to consider for or against chemotherapy, so the treatment protocol could still change in coming weeks. Either way, CT scans in three months will look for suspicious developments.

For now, my job is to take it slow and remind myself that the persistent painful tingling across the surgical field is just part of healing. Ditto for the frequent small coughs that interrupt my attempts to utter more than a few words at a time. Give it six weeks, the surgeon says, for full recovery.

My skin will feel more inhabitable and my lungs will allow me to carry on a conversation soon enough. 

Silver and gold

Hospital stays don't just strip you of your dignity. They can also temporarily rob you of small but important tokens of your identity. The ring that you wear on your left hand to proclaim the vow you made to your partner, for example.

I don't protest the wisdom of having patients remove all jewelry before leaving home for a major operation. There is peace of mind in knowing that it will be waiting for your return, safe and sound where you left it. 

But it compounds the sense of naked exposure you feel when, lying in your hospital bed, you are not able to take comfort in those few keepsakes that you usually wear as physical reminders of valued relationships.

Some people have a special necklace that never leaves their neck because it would feel like a betrayal to take it off. 

For me, the reminders that I am happy to be wearing once again are my wedding ring, three silver bracelets and a silver anklet.

My wedding ring is especially symbolic because of the way that TC and I put it together. Three middle bands with two embedded sapphires and two small diamonds made up the engagement ring that I picked out. Then we added my mother's and his grandmother's gold wedding bands to either side, a beautiful representation of the two families we were bringing together. I wear the side with my mother's band closest to my heart. 

Also close to my heart, I wear three silver bracelets on my left wrist that my mother gave me on consecutive Christmases. My sisters and my daughter also wear their Mom/Grandma bracelets to remember and honor her. I love fingering them as a reminder that we were blessed to have her in our lives until she was almost 96.

And on my left ankle is the silver anklet that my sister Joy gave each of us four sisters (including herself) last fall to remind us of the close bonds we share. 

That's a lot of love to leave on the counter before embarking on a journey in which you need the relationships in your life to strengthen you more than ever. 

Home from the battlefield

The view has been nice, especially after TC brought me this beautiful orchid, but we’re ready to say goodbye to The James, AKA the Comprehensive Cancer Center at the OSU Wexner Medical Center. 

The orchid is fake — no live plants are allowed inside the cancer hospital — but everything else has been overwhelmingly real this weekend. 

The surgery that had been anticipated for more than a month has left its calling card of residual pain but it also brought great relief that cancer has once again been routed from my body. We await final biopsies to get an official “all clear” but that won’t come until we see the surgeon for a follow up visit in a couple of weeks. 

Just as real is the appreciation that TC and I feel for all the expressions of prayer, hope, love, support and positive vibes from family and friends. However they were communicated, they gave us strength and comfort for this battle.

As I sit in the chair waiting to get the last few tubes unhooked so I can be discharged, I look down on Ohio Stadium and feel a little like one of the many warriors who has left that fabled field in victory.

First, all glory to God. I know why so many give that testimony above all else. When you are forced to face the reality of a cancer diagnosis and so many people tell you that they are praying for you, how can you not feel the power of heavenly intervention from whatever God you choose to follow? So thank you, Lord, and thank you to all of our loved ones and friends. 

Then we have to thank the team that provided skillful and compassionate medical care, especially the surgeon who used robotic arms to peel the egg-sized tumor off a nerve and squeeze it and part of my lung out a two-inch incision. We were gently cared for and even entertained by many nurses, patient care assistants and technicians who paraded in and out of my room, some of whom earned nicknames along the way. 

I’ll stay on my training regimen of an anti-cancer diet and healthy exercise, with a celebratory glass of wine every now and then. And I will continue to journal here through the checkups and cancer-free milestones to come. 

For now, I’m feeling the bruises of battle and will try not to run TC too ragged before I’m back up to speed. That may take a few weeks; he threatens to duct-tape me to a chair if I try to move too fast too soon.

We can almost hear the chimes ring as we get ready to head home. 

 

Tea time

Years ago I switched from drinking fully caffeinated coffee to half-caf. That wasn't enough to avoid a horrendous caffeine-withdrawal headache following my first sarcoma surgery in 2009, so I stepped down to decaf coffee, vowing to never again suffer through that pain.

Stomach issues a couple of years ago prompted a move from decaf coffee to decaffeinated tea. Luckily for me, they make decaf tea in my favorite chai flavors. 

And drinking tea has brought an unanticipated benefit. It has required me to practice a degree of patience, which TC will attest to being a challenge for me. Tea requires a few minutes to steep, you see. Even when you draw hot water instantly from a Keurig, the tea demands to be set aside for a moment. Relax, it says. Take time to reflect. Calm down. 

I've had to draw on that learned behavior this week while waiting for medical test results from last Friday and then hoping to hear definitive plans from my surgeon when we met with him yesterday. Would the latest CT scan show enough separation between my heart and the sarcoma in my lower right lung for the doctor to safely remove the tumor with minimally invasive robotic surgery? Or would a more challenging hands-on operation be required?

Take a breath, I had to remind myself over the weekend and all day Monday, waiting for test results to show up online. They still hadn't arrived when we met with the surgeon Tuesday morning, but he was unconcerned. (Maybe he's a tea drinker, too?) The CT report came in later Tuesday and shows a thin separation between the tumor and my heart but also close proximity to my esophagus. 

Breathe. So the plan is to run a camera around my innards when the surgery starts on Friday to allow the doctor to make a game-time decision on which type of surgery will work best. TC and I trust him to make the best choice. 

Relax. Now is a good time to practice another new tool in preparation for the best outcome on Friday: meditation. I plug in earbuds and listen to calming words and music as stress and anxiousness fade.

With plenty of prayers being offered to strengthen me, mindful deep-breathing to calm me, fragrant tea to comfort me and loved ones to support me, I have what I need to patiently await my surgery.