All in - chronicles of an in-patient

It's been quite the unusual start to the year. My brother and I had surgery within 5 days of one another - his was for a resection of bowel due to stage 1 colon cancer, and mine was for a total hysterectomy due to pre-cancerous cells in the uterus.

In both cases, excellent surgeons (his in his province and mine in mine) removed the faulty plumbing (so to speak) and cauterized the blood vessels that were nourishing their respective areas. All is well. 

But the experience of going "all in", of committing to the process, of facing the unknown? That's terrifying. Literally. 

I would daresay that nobody knows better than someone with multiple health issues (not the least of which is obesity) the terror involved in facing the prospect of undergoing a general anesthetic (not to mention the whole notion of someone cutting into your body). They explain the risks to you in no uncertain terms; you have to sign a waiver releasing them of any legal repercussions should you die on the table. That's serious stuff, and not "just a formality." Needless to say, that should be enough to give anyone cause for concern.

Add to that my own private terror of The Needle (more specifically, the Intravenous) - the knowledge that not only is someone going to take a hunking two-inch-long steel needle and poke a hole into your vein, but then take a tube (which by definition is BIGGER in diameter than the needle) and slide it into the vein along that same needle - and the pain involved in that process (especially if they MISS), and you have a recipe for the screaming meemies!  As a matter of fact, THAT was the thing that scared me more than dying on the table. Let that sink in for a minute.

And even though they numbed the area with some cream in advance, the pain of their first attempt left me writhing and calling out for my higher power on the bed as they held my arm down and tried to force the tube into a vein in my hand that was no longer yielding blood. So they had to start all over again somewhere else - first the cream and then a repeat of that experience on my opposite forearm ... and with another nurse. This time, she realized that it was a dud with the tube only half-way in - and removed it. "We'll wait for the anesthetist," she stated. "He's really good." 

And he was. He told me what he was going to do and when, he took his time finding a vein, and true to his word, he used a pediatric (child-sized) needle - and from the time of the initial pin-prick until the tube was in, was only about three seconds and the most painless I had ever felt. My jaw just dropped - it was so the opposite of what I had endured the previous two attempts!! He told me that he was going to wait until I was under the anesthetic before putting in an adult-sized intravenous tube - for which I thanked him. 

And then I realized that this was it. That hurdle was behind me, and I was now caught up in a process in which the only way out was forward. There was no turning back now. I was all in. 

The too-much-information details

They had put compression stockings on me to keep me from getting blood clots - which only confirmed to me the fact that I would be "out" for longer than I had ever been before (an estimated 3 hours compared to the 1 hour in previous surgeries elsewhere) and that I would be on my back for almost 24 hours after that. And the stockings were still there, although rolled down a bit, when I awoke in recovery over four hours later.

My first thought - I'm alive! My second thought - I'm awake! My third thought - my mouth is so dry! I spoke that thought out loud, and a nurse moistened the inside of my lips with what looked like a tiny water-filled sponge on the end of a stick. After a while they gave me an ice-chip. It was glorious!

I was surprised how little pain there was - compared to my expectations that is - and I remember feeling some cramping in my belly area, about a five out of ten.  They suggested something for the pain - and I said yes - they mumbled something about Fentanyl as they pushed it into the IV tube (wow that stuff is strong.)  Apparently the 'good drugs' loosened my tongue (and according to the nurse who was looking after me, I was a "delight." Whatever that means.) And I noticed how much it felt like I had to urinate. "That's the catheter," someone said. "You're doing okay, just let it happen, it always feels like that." Oh. Oh good. Good to know.

This image, entitled "I Am Here To Help You"
is by stockimages and can be found at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

After I was settled in my room, which was in the maternity ward (oh how ironic since they'd just taken my uterus OUT) I remember them cleaning me up, using plenty of water to do so (one of the best, most decadently cared-for experiences I have had in a long time!), and then changing my sheets with me in the bed and the IV still hooked up to my right hand. That they could do this completely amazed me. (Obviously the Fentanyl was still having an effect on me...)

I remember my family suddenly being there and other sensations - the most disturbing of which was my panic reaction when the pregnant lady in the bed beside me got an ultrasound and I could hear the baby's heartbeat. I wasn't prepared for that fight-or-flight reaction. With all my heart I wanted to be anywhere but in that room. The emotions were raw, wrenching, horrific. With every beat of that baby's heart, I could remember the last time I had an ultrasound and heard that noise - all the while knowing in my current situation ... that my youngest daughter would never return to me. I was instantly transported into grief, as fresh as the day I learned she had died in that car crash over 3 years ago, and all I wanted to do was escape that noise: blooka-blooka-blooka... on and on.  I said something about earplugs - and my oldest daughter (who was visiting along with her dad) reached into her pocket and handed me a set of earplugs that so happened to be there. (I looked at her like she was magic, and inserted the earplugs. They stayed in my ears except for nurses' visits, until I gave up trying to sleep around 6:30 am.) My roommate was discharged the next day.

I did sleep a tiny bit that night, but only for five to fifteen minutes at a time - not enough for my body to get any rest. I was afraid that I would drop the call button (not realizing - because of the drugs - that I could tell them about that so they could tie its cord to the bed rail). In my mind, I was responsible for keeping track of that button because it was my lifeline to getting help, so I spent the whole night holding onto it. Not being a back-sleeper, I found that position very uncomfortable (even more so with that huge iron bar under the mattress at the level of my upper backside) but I could do nothing to change it. Makng any movement at all on my own was exhausting; I felt like I'd been run over by a truck or something. Everything was sore ... and I was so tired!  I remember once complaining about the bar underneath of me, and two of the staff moved me (sheet and all) up toward the head of the bed. Then they adjusted the bed to take the pressure off my lower back.It helped a little, but I am short, and gravity is a thing, so soon I was back down on the bar again. I would need to endure this for another 12 hours.  (Only today - four and a half days later - is the bone bruise from this iron-bar experience beginning to show through my skin.)

The next morning, around 7:30 am, they gave me a heparin shot - I stopped the nurse and asked what it was for before the needle went in - and probably I seemed a little paranoid about it (given my experience with sharp objects, it seemed perfectly valid to me!) Heparin is a medication that prevents blood clots - often referred to as a 'blood thinner' but it just stops the blood from clotting and doesn't actually thin the blood. The shot stung, but not as much as I expected. Then the nurse got this empty syringe and headed toward me. I asked her what that thing was for, and she said it was to take my "Foley" out (I had to look it up just now to understand what the syringe was for - thanks, Wikipedia!) I asked her what a Foley was and she said it was my catheter. She hooked the empty syringe up to the tube beside my bed (where the urine-bag was), withdrew some clear liquid, and then pulled out the catheter. Just like that. Interesting sensation, that was. It was no wonder I always felt like I had a full bladder. (Shudder!) Within three hours - since I was still on the intravenous fluids - I had to go to the bathroom!

The good, the bad, and the ugly

The good. I was expecting a fluid breakfast on the morning following my surgery, but they brought me toast, a boiled egg, some sort of shiny glutenous mass that looked something like watered-down oatmeal (it was.) They also had lots of fluids: milk, water, and hot water with a teabag and some sweetener, as well as some diced peaches. I could barely see over the tray because I was so far down in the bed that only my shoulders and head would raise when the head of the bed was raised.  I got someone to help me with that, and was finally able to see my food.  The peaches tasted good and so did the egg! I was grateful for the food and made sure to only eat as much as I would have eaten at home - which was about half of the toast, almost all the egg (which by then was tepid), all the peaches, and a few bites of the oatmeal (ugh! even with the teensy bit of brown sugar they gave me...) I used half the milk to make the orange pekoe tea easier on the stomach. There was no coffee. I asked for ice chips and ice water. 

I drank a LOT of water, and even more so after the catheter came out.

Medication time rolled around: the nurse gave me my diabetes pills, a large blue pill they called apo-naproxen that was supposed to help with the cramping, and there was also a stool softener. And at about 10:30, I saw the on-call surgeon, who apparently had assisted with my operation. He explained to me what they'd done, how I was going to be feeling, and when I might get discharged. He said it might be later that day if I was feeling up to it, and that if it was, the nurses could contact him for the paperwork.  (Given the discomfort I was in because of that iron bar under me, I grabbed onto that possibility like a drowning man grabs a buoy.) He drew me some diagrams and talked about the unexpected hernia repair they did - they had not known I had an umbilical hernia and that affected the length of the surgery since they had to check to see if they could still use my belly-button as an entrance port for the tube that contained the micro-camera. They could. Then after they were done doing what I was booked for surgery to do, they had to repair the hernia. The visit was very informative and I got a lot out of what he said. The diagrams helped. The biggest grin came after he said that I would never EVER have to have another pap test AGAIN! 

Soon afterward, the nurse came and blocked off the IV tube and put a "saline lock" on what was still attached and inserted into my right hand. If I would promise to drink water, she said, they could take out the IV tube in a few hours. (Another amazing motivator - since I'm right-handed!)

Every new step I took: getting out of bed, going to the bathroom, getting washed up [mostly] by myself, getting dressed, putting on my socks and shoes, going for a walk, sitting down, standing up, lying down, turning over in bed - all of it took every ounce of strength I had in whatever moment I was doing it.  I was (and HAD to be) totally committed to the task at hand, and when I would finish one small thing and feel "all in," I'd rest a while and then start another. 

There were a few bright spots. I had an amazing nurse and personal care worker.  Plus I surprised my husband and daughter by being dressed and taking a short walk in the hallway (more like an amble, really, quite slow!) when they came in to see me that day, the day after the surgery. Lunch came and they stayed while I ate beef barley soup, half a rubbery breast of chicken, diced carrots and mashed potatoes with margarine. No salt. And instead of the tea, I just used the hot water and milk to make a warm milk drink I used to drink when I was a little girl. Again, I was grateful for the food, and for the company. 

Shortly after that, they removed the nasal tubes they'd been giving me oxygen through. Having that thing off me was wonderful!

I discovered a little seating area in the unit - rocking chairs and a coffee table, by a south-east facing window.  I spent some time there, and even got a chance to visit with a friend for a few minutes - but had to do so outside the unit because at my invitation, she came during the rest period, which I thought started at 2 (it started at 1:30. She arrived at 1:45 and stayed until 2). 

The bad. By that time (about 2 pm), I was so exhausted from having been up (either walking or sitting) ever since 10:45 that morning, that I wanted to lie down. The level of bone-weary tiredness I felt gave new meaning to the expression, "all in." I wearily asked my friend if it would be okay if I went back to my room - and she walked me back to the unit and left me at the door. 

Every step - even though slow - was an effort. My belly felt incredibly tired. Sometimes it cramped with air - apparently when they do surgery by laparascopy, they inflate the abdomen with air. Some of the air gets trapped in there and somehow manages to work its way into the intestine, where it travels - not so quietly and definitely not painlessly - into the colon and out of the body. This is far from comfortable! And it had been happening ever since I woke up from surgery. After a while it just wears you down.

As I was saying, I wanted to lie down and rest, so I slowly walked back to my room, which was at the opposite end of the unit from where my friend dropped me off.  However, a visitor to my brand new pregnant room-mate was wearing some sort of artificial vanilla scented product (either conditioner or deodorant or hand cream or something) and she was sitting right in front of the bathroom door inside my room. The chemical was so overpowering to me that I could not even go into my room. 

I was at the breaking point. It ... wasn't pretty.

The ugly. With the discomfort, plus the frustrations of the previous day, the insomnia and the fatigue on top of it, this was when my patience ran out ... and I began to be what the nurses would have called "difficult" - but only when I was out of earshot.  I told them about the scent problem. "I don't smell anything," a staff member told me. I sighed. "It's not the smell. It's the chemical!!! I can't go in there. I'll have a reaction."  

I wandered the halls for an hour while my roommate and her visitor blithely visited with each other, and even after the visitor left. I even used the washroom in another semi-private (unoccupied) room - which for some reason upset them more than my complaining did! - and I got frustrated and sighed heavily.  I said I was tired of explaining my sensitivities to every single person (even though I had not explained it to the people to whom I was talking) because nobody understood what this was like for me. I felt like I'd explained it to so many people since being admitted the previous day, that something MUST be on my chart. It was on my allergies bracelet, I reasoned to myself. Were these people stupid or did they just not care that I'd been up for hours wandering around? When I rolled my eyes one more time and said I was tired of explaining my sensitivities to everyone, one of the nurses - annoyed - told me that I hadn't explained it to her.  I said that was true, but I felt like I had to explain it to every single person every single time, and I was tired of it. So ... she said that she wasn't going to ask me to explain it to her. (Yeah I guess I had that one coming, in hindsight.) 

Anyway, I mentioned needing a place to lie down, and possibly using the cot in the family room across the hall from my room because I still couldn't get near my room even though the visitor had left over ten minutes previous to that.  (The chemicals used in making fragrances, as I've often mentioned on this blog, linger long after the person has left.) Nobody said anything. I made my way to the end of the hall and turned into the family room. I headed toward the cot, wearily. I started to get on the cot. At that point, their frustration with me showed through, and the PCW told me that the family room was for use by new mothers and their families (nobody was using it at that time) and that I was not allowed to lie down on the cot because the cleaning staff would not be in until the next day. "You can lay down in your room," she said glibly. "No I can't. I can't get near that room."  "I can't smell anything in there, and I've got a good smeller," she told me. 

Sighhh. The "care" in "health care" seemed sadly lacking at that moment. It sucks not being believed, and I have had that experience way too many times with my chemical sensitivities.

I went to the seating area (at the opposite end of the unit) and sat for a while, close to tears, staring at the floor. The sun had gone around the side of the building, so it wasn't warm there anymore - not nearly as comforting as I thought it might be.  After about 20 minutes, I decided to chance another attempt, and walked slowly back toward my room, passing by the nurses' station on the way. My nurse was standing there and asked if she could get me to sit so she could take my vital signs since she had been getting ready to go to my room anyway. I sat and she took my blood pressure, temperature, and oxygen levels. I told her that I had been up ever since they got me up, and that I would really like to go home. She said she would try to get in touch with the on-call surgeon but that he'd been delivering babies all day, it might be a while before he was able to get away. She said she was going to take out my IV tubing once I got settled there. The IV tubing was only supposed to be in there for 24 hours. It had been about 27 hours at the time.  I got up and made my way toward the room. "I wonder if they will reach the doctor tonight or if I'll have to spend another night on that awful bed," I said to myself.

As I neared my room, I could hear the voice of my second pregnant roommate in a row. She was crying out, sobbing in pain, amid other female voices. At least two staff members were with her, trying to make her comfortable. The baby was pressing on her sciatic nerve, and she was in excruciating pain. I silently went into the room and tentatively tested the air. The chemical had dissipated. It was okay for me to stay. I grabbed my pillow, tucked it under my waterproof butt-pad, and then took my rumpled-up blankets and made a pillow with them for my head, and slowly lowered myself onto my side in the bed with one hip on the pillow area, laying on my side for the first time in over 36 hours.  

Illustration "Sketch Of Woman Crying"
by luigi diamanti at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

My roommate was crying aloud with her pain as they tried to find a way for her to get out of her bed and go to the bathroom without her pain intensifying exponentially. She was crying loudly and begging them to stop, to make the pain go away; ten feet away, beside her and unknown to her, I was crying silently in my own kind of pain. The frustration and tension of the day welled up in me and I wept - as uncomfortable as it was for my belly and as selfish as I felt (and ashamed as I felt for my selfishness) - on my bed. All I wanted was to go back home. So, I quietly sobbed into my makeshift pillow. My sobbing was muffled by my roommate's.

Nobody saw; nobody knew. Nobody. There was just me on one side of the curtain and two or three staff members with my roommate on the other side of the curtain. 

After my roommate got settled - about 20 minutes later - with some Dilaudid, I slowly got up and went out to the hallway. People were still busy. Nobody had heard from the doctor yet. I went back to my room and sat on the chair beside my bed. The food services lady came with my supper - that same beef barley soup, a couple of crackers, and the most disgusting macaroni and cheese. Still, it was food and I was grateful. I tried a bite of the cookie that came with it, but it had coconut in it, so I left it alone.

Around 5:30 or so, I found my nurse and asked if I could get a couple of extra pillows and a sheet or two for my bed, so I could lie down on my side and maybe catch a nap. At the time, however, all the staff were busy with a new influx of babies and moms, so she pointed me to the cart and showed me where everything was: pillows, pillowcases, and sheets.  So I took what I needed to my room - and I made my bed.  Me.  Not supposed to lift anything above 5 pounds, intravenous "saline lock" still attached to (and into a vein in) my right hand, and here I was, making my bed. Desperation does funny things I guess. Anyway, I got it done and I laid down again, on my side, waiting for my nurse to come in and keep her promise to take the intravenous tubing out of my hand.

I vaguely remember her coming to my bedside at one point, and asking me how long my doctor told me that I would be off work. I said, "Three to six weeks," and she said, "Awesome, I'll tell the on-call doctor..." and she was gone. My IV tubing was still in my hand. I rested my right hand on the bed in front of me. 

And so, this part of the saga ends... and another begins

I must have drifted off, because it was 6:50 pm when I opened my eyes and my nurse was sitting in front of me. "The doctor got back to me and I have your papers here, including your doctor's note for work."  I slowly sat up and she went over the post-surgical care information with me, after I texted my family to let them know I could come home.  They promised to be there around 7:30. The nurse finally removed my IV tubing. It felt so good to be free of that thing!  I was so grateful to be able to get out of there and to not need to spend another night on that iron bar!   

As I gathered together my belongings, I saw the young lady who had been crying in pain earlier. She seemed more comfortable but very groggy - her partner had been in and told them that they gave her twice as much Dilaudid as she was used to. The medication made her feel overheated, so she had a cold cloth on her forehead. We chatted for a little while, swapped stories. She wished me the best and I did the same for her.  

Soon afterward, my family was in the room and we were getting ready to leave. We stopped by the nurses' station on the way out, and they noted the time of my departure. My daughter insisted on wheeling me out in a wheelchair; I did not argue! My husband went ahead and brought the car up to the entrance.  We got me in the vehicle and my husband drove to our pharmacy, where the pharmacists know the whole family. My daughter went in to fill the prescriptions the doctor left for me. Then we drove home ... an exercise in enduring pain from jostling over the potholes and failed repair attempts that riddle our little city's roadways every few feet. When I finally got out of the car and slowly made my way through the cold, bracing air up the deck stairs and into our house, I was so relieved that my whole body relaxed so much that even my family noticed it.

I was finally where I belonged: home.

Lighting a candle

For me, and for too many of my friends and family, the darkness starts with the letter C. Cancer. Even the word itself conjures up helplessness, fear, anger, in the face of this tyrant that consumes everything in its path.

As we all get older, we know more and more people who have it, and the monster gets closer and closer to home. Or it has already touched us. It is a horrible, hateful disease in whatever form it takes. 

There was a time - years ago - when the very word was a death sentence every time. That was when it was detected too late and it had already morphed into another beast: metastatic cancer (cancer cells that were in one place in the body, and traveled to another place, like a horde of evil missionaries, to continue their dastardly mission). Today, with more early detection, cancer need not be a death sentence.  But the oldest ones among us usually think of it that way.

Time is both friend and enemy with this thing. Early detection is our friend; a delay in treatment is not. Waiting - especially with no indication of how fast the cells are growing - is torturous. Add to that any other pressure: financial, family, work, school, or community (whether that means neighborhood or church involvement) and molehills become mountains pretty quickly. 

The darkness does not need to win. All it takes is one candle to push back the darkness. The people most likely to recover (regardless of the type of cancer) seem to be the ones with the most positive, and peaceful, attitudes. One man I know has a rare form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma - aggressive and dangerous - and from the moment he found out he had cancer, his attitude has been nothing short of inspiring. Today he is fighting infection (which happens 70% of the time after the kind of treatment he just had) and is feeling weak - but he is fighting. And he is peaceful, and happy. 

Another lady I know had breast cancer about 5 years ago. She had surgery, chemo, and the recovery process was long ... but she beat it! Throughout it all, her sweet temperament and thankful spirit came through. Still another lady went through this process not long ago - with four surgeries and treatments that made her feel sick and weak, she still never lost her positive attitude, and she made sure that she looked after herself. 

Fear is (of course) inevitable. But it is the enemy. I know the enemy. But it doesn't have to win.

Recently, my family doctor referred me for a biopsy for an abnormal pap smear. While I was at the gynecologist's office, I mentioned some unexplained spotting, since I was in menopause,  The gynecologist said, "That shouldn't be happening." And so when I was under general anesthetic for the cervical biopsy, he also took cells from the lining of my uterus.  It turned out that I have "pre-cancerous" cells in my uterus... and although this type of thing usually takes a long time to develop into cancer in that area, it's like there is this ticking time bomb in my womb - and so he told me that my uterus and my ovaries had to come out. I am waiting for a surgery date and I expect the hospital will call me soon with one.

The same day I found out about this problem, I got a call from a very close friend who informed me that my brother was in the hospital.  Over the course of the next week, through testing and so forth, doctors discovered that he had stage 1 colon cancer.

Photo "Candle" courtesy of phanlop88 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The monster didn't win.

We both lit a candle in the darkness. 

Fear has far less power in the light. 

Each of us is looking forward to his or her respective surgery, and grateful that the doctors caught the problem early. My brother is thankful for the excruciating abdominal pain that first caused him to seek medical attention, and for the excellent care and attention that he has received since he went to the hospital to get checked out. They saved his life!  In much the same way, I am so grateful for the lady that put me onto my new family doctor's patient list just this past spring, as well as for the people involved in my care - my doctor, plus my gynecologist, and all of the medical staff on his team. They pretty much saved my life.

A few things about lighting a candle in the dark ... yes, you can see to find your way, but ... your attention is more drawn to the candle flame, and to what it illuminates, than it is to the farthest corners where the darkness still hides. You learn to go slowly, because going too fast would damage the flame or put it out. You learn to stay away from people who would bluster and blow more fear into your situation. Their negativity is something that you don't need or want in your life, ever! You learn to see their reaction as "cursing the darkness." You light your candle, you protect it, and you cherish it.  And you look for other candles to light from your own flame.

That's what I'm doing today. You - if you need to and want to - can light your candle from mine.

Absorbing it all

There has been a lot of stuff in the last six months that I have had to absorb. Some of it has been really good - like counselling practice that I got in July 2016, team leading opportunities I have had in August and then again starting in early October (which is still ongoing). I have had to absorb a lot of knowledge in a relatively short amount of time. But it's all been good, and good for me.

Back in May 2016 - some six months ago now - I got a new family doctor. After years of not going to my old family doctor and finally getting fed up enough to switch, this new guy made up for lost time - and scheduled me for all kinds of testing: blood, pap, other stuff. The result of all of it was a diagnosis of type 2 diabetes (and I am now taking medication to bring down my sugars ... and they are under control - he and his team literally saved my life), a referral for a mammogram (another story for another time) and a referral to a gynecologist due to some abnormal cells on a pap smear. 

During my initial consult with him, when we mutually decided that it would be better for me to go under a general anesthetic to do a cervical biopsy rather than try to do it in the office, I happened to mention to him a little thing I'd been noticing for a few months ... I had stopped having periods a year previous, but I was noticing some spotting on a pretty regular basis. He therefore decided to add a second procedure to the surgery, one that he had not planned on doing but he thought it best to include it "just to be safe" - a dilation and curettage (also known as a D-and-C). He would then biopsy the uterine lining that the D-and-C would give him. I underwent this procedure on October 12. 

Today, just a few hours ago in fact, I sat in his office and he told me the results of the biopsies, in detail. I won't go into as much detail as he did.  But basically my cervix is fine.  However, the D-and-C biopsy showed "pre-cancerous" cells. Since there is no way to monitor the interior of the uterus, he informed me that "we have to whip it out." It took me a minute to grasp what he meant... a hysterectomy - a removal of the uterus and of the ovaries. 

I was floored.  It took me a couple of minutes to absorb that information. I was frankly not expecting the news - I knew that some of the results might be "off" but ... I never made the connection between pre-cancer and the removal of my uterus. It had just never occurred to me. So ... that was a lot to take in at once.

"We want to do it sooner rather than later.  Weeks, not months away."  Again, a powerful reminder that this is serious stuff. More stuff to absorb!

He answered every question I had. Every. Single. One. And I had a LOT of them. He told me that he was hoping to be able to do it via laparascopy. That is, to have a small incision just under the belly button, and two similar incisions (one on each flank where the ovaries are). Failing that, he would go in through my old Caesarian section scar and do it that way. Depending on the technique, I would spend two to three days in hospital. 

When I told my boss/mentor about it later (she's a nurse), she told me that I would be recovering at home between three and six weeks after the operation, and would be off work during that time. (WEEKS? I have fifteen MINUTES of sick leave left!) We discussed my options - she set my mind at rest for the most part, and told me to ask for the "worst case scenario" for sick leave, and if it was shorter, it would be less time to pay back. ... and that the important thing was my health.

So today has been an "absorbing" day. I'm still sort of getting my head around it. And what do I do when I am trying to make sense of things? 

I write. (Aren't you lucky!) 😀

I have also been absorbing some pretty amazing things about my situation that I have been (and still am) very grateful for.

First, I am grateful that I am such a wimp about pain.  It's because I couldn't handle the discomfort of the initial office procedure (and the gynecologist was unwilling for me to be in pain) that I opted for it to be done under a general. 

Second, I am grateful that, as my gynecologist and I were discussing the procedure that he would do under the general anesthetic, and he mentioned post-op bleeding, that I thought to mention the spotting I'd been having.  If I had not, he would never have done the D-and-C. And I would be oblivious to the fact that I had pre-cancerous cells in my uterus. And ... it might have been too late by the time I DID find out.

Photo "Doctor In Surgery" by taoto at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Third, I am grateful that the hysterectomy will not only completely remove all chance of uterine cancer (well, um, the uterus will be gone!), but removing the ovaries will also reduce my estrogen production down to zero - and with that, any chance of causing cervical OR breast cancer. 

Fourth, I know this man's work from personal and recent experience; he's excellent and I have absolutely NO worries about his skill or the skill of those on his team. I am in good hands with him and with everyone on his surgical team (including the anesthetist). And I am so grateful for that.

And fifth, I am so very grateful that "we" caught this early, before those cells had a chance to become something life-threatening.

And that is just the medical stuff that I'm thankful for.  There is so much more - it's taking me a while to absorb all of that too.  What I mean is the phenomenal support and the love of my family and friends, their positive vibes, their prayers, their words of encouragement. I'm blown away by all of that. I am so blessed. SO blessed. 

As good as a rest

They say a change is as good as a rest.

Of course they (whoever "they" are) mean that a change that is more or less positive does as much good as taking a rest from something that is more or less negative. But they don't come out and say it. (Just saying.)

That being said, I've had the opportunity to give that saying a bit of a whirl - and I've just started 'whirling' this week.  I was offered the opportunity to take on a new role at my work for a while.  For how long, I am not sure, but it will be for at least six weeks and could be as long as four months! It involves more responsibility, using skills I haven't used regularly in a long time, and includes learning new skills and knowledge I never had before, and using them 'on the fly.' I spend a lot more time with my electronic calendar than I ever did, and I am so grateful that it is there as a tool for me to use.  A lot of things would fall off the plate without my electronic to-do lists and appointment reminders. (Whew!)

Photo "Daily Planner With Pen" by
BrandonSigma at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I just finished a week in my new role. Wow. I'm not exactly sure about what the saying says, because it really feels like I've been thrown into the deep end of the pool - and I don't swim. I know that it feels like I have more energy at the end of the work day. However, the down side of this is that it takes me longer to decompress from it before I can attend to my school work.

Having said this, throughout this week I have noticed a few encouraging things about myself.

First, I survived.  Nobody yelled in anger at me.  And I even got some encouraging feedback from more than one person.

Second, I am spending more time up and about.  I am way more active in this new line of work: away from my desk and walking back and forth to talk to this and that person, and bring files to this and that person, I sometimes feel as though I could wear a pedometer and count my job toward my exercise count for the day. That is totally different!

Third, I made mistakes.  I knew I would, and I decided ahead of time that I would adopt a teachable attitude and learn as much as possible ... and if that meant learning from my mistakes, then so be it.   And it has.  And I did. And I'm still in the process of learning - and I don't expect that I will ever stop learning. (I think that is a good sign. It means I'm alive, as my husband says.)  I used to be so afraid of failing. But I've come to understand that failing and making mistakes are two different things.

And making mistakes in procedure and protocol - like I did this week - wasn't the end of the world.  I have a wonderful manager who has taken it upon herself to teach me the ropes of my new role, and today she sat with me and went over some of the duties I had tried to do without direction, and provided that direction. Then she walked me through one of the major tasks in the job, showed me where to find what I needed to do it, told me why it was important to do it that way, and much more.  She corrected me when I told her about something that I had done that was against protocol, and she told me why it was not advisable.  At no time did she ever get angry or scold me. At no time did I ever feel as though she was NOT on my side. In fact, I got the impression that she wanted me to succeed. That was worth a LOT to me. 

Finally, as a result of that meeting today, I think I rounded a corner in understanding how it all fits together and how my cog fits into the machine.  I might still make mistakes (and probably will) but I know that I have good support people, good teachers, and good leaders. I couldn't put a price on that. Slowly it's dawning on me, as I go through this learning curve, that my confidence level is increasing even as I admit how much I have left to learn (and maybe because of it!)  That "beginner's mind" that our counselling class discussed during this past July's Summer Institute has indeed come to my aid.  

I saw this neat Maya Angelou quote that sums it up:  "Do the best you can until you know better. Then, when you know better, do better."  Cool huh? 

Maybe this change - which involves flying high and getting more of a bird's eye view of my work section - is just the rest I needed from the sameness of 'in-the-trenches' work that I was doing before.  I can still do that work (when I have time, and I've been encouraged to do that as well) but I think I can help more people doing what I am doing now. 

That feels good.  It really does.

The right to take up space

Some time ago, I was watching a comedian on television do his routine.  Comedians are sometimes the only people who can get away with telling truth because they tell it in a funny way (they hope). This comedian's name was Greg Rogell, and the line I remember most is when he started talking about golf and golf caddies. "Golf is the only sport that comes with a slave." He then started to demonstrate. He held his microphone like it was a golf club, made the classic golf swing with it, and then dropped the mike on the floor and walked away.

While that was funny, Mr. Rogell was also highlighting an attitude that exists not only in golf, but in everyday life.  Some people, for reasons that still mystify me, have a really hard time with the simple concepts of saying Please and Thank you.  If someone puts themselves out to help them, especially if that putting out is physically or psychologically hard for them, you'd think that "thank you" might be on the list of things to say.  Treating people with courtesy, respecting their personhood, would seem to be a basic skill.

But no. Instead, such people are more likely to find fault with something else that same person is NOT doing, but which they never said they expected. Since different people have different priorities, it is impossible to read minds; expectations need to be stated at the outset, even if it might seem like a no-brainer.  For example, I'm more of a sit-and-visit kind of person; the housework can wait.  For others, housework is this huge thing and they can't sit and visit until it's out of the way. So my sitting and visiting is like laziness to them, perhaps even inconsideration. Yet their refusal to sit and visit until the housework is done tells me that things and appearances are more important to them than friendship and spending time with people. Dishes don't have feelings. People do.  

And yet, who is it that apologizes when the topic comes up? Typically it has been me - because no matter which way you slice it, for whatever reason, I usually end up looking like the one in the wrong... and I have been cow-towing to guilt trips my whole life.

All of my life, I have been fighting for the right - taken for granted by most - to take up space in the world, to be appreciated, and to own my own feelings and opinions without being told (verbally or non-verbally) that they are insignificant. Or wrong.  Or whatever other negative adjective you might want to use.  I'm uncomfortable with confrontation, and my natural response is to withdraw or feel bad for friction existing between people - even if I'm not one of those people. The fact that it exists makes me feel and act guilty.  I lose sleep. I get far more upset for far longer than I need to. Often, I feel like if I screamed at the top of my lungs to be heard, nobody would listen anyway; even if I have something important to say, a large part of me doesn't believe anyone will pay attention to it. 

Photo "Businesswoman Asking To Stop" by imagerymajestic at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Maybe (and I know that this is a rather big logical jump for some) maybe a big part of it has to do with the fact that I'm under five feet tall. Not being taken seriously because of my height, not having my short legs taken into consideration when doing tasks that take an average-sized person about half the number of steps it takes me, and being twitted (or laughed at) for something over which I have no control, is one of those sore spots with me, because I've had to put up with it all of my life.  

People do it without thinking of the consequences, and they think that by doing so they are funny, or somehow superior.  As if it is by some accomplishment of theirs that things are easier for them (when it is simply a fluke of DNA), they criticize (or laugh) and tell me to keep up. (By the way, these are the people who treat me like a slave without saying thank you...)  Or they laugh and tell me to stand up (when I'm already standing.) Or they worry out loud (like someone did once), when I drop a few pounds, that I'll "disappear."  One person even looked past me and asked where I was ... pretended he couldn't see me.

Ouch!  That behavior and those kinds of statements convey dismissal of my existence and (knowingly or not) they are an attack on my worth.  They reduce all that I am down to what I look like on the outside, and they fail to acknowledge accomplishments that a regular-sized person would be proud of and never would expect to have called into question. Yet it happens to me all the time! Because of that patronizing "I'm better than you, and you don't even have the right to exist" mentality, this kind of belittlement (no pun intended) really hurts. 

In the past, I wouldn't say anything when people treated me this way (or worse yet, I would try to laugh it off), but all that succeeded in doing was (a) send the message that I was okay with it, and (b) make my resentment grow and grow so that finally, I would explode - and not in a nice way.  Someone would invariably get hurt.  And then I would end up looking like the bad guy.  After all, they were "only having fun." Or worse yet, they considered their fun-loving nature (read here: cruelty) to be part of their personality, and took my affront to their unthinking behavior as a personal attack against them.  Suddenly they were the injured party.

Wow. What is worse, I would beat myself up for weeks, months, sometimes even years, for something that at the source, had more to do with someone else's thoughtlessness and insecurity than it did about my reaction to it. It's what kept me in abusive relationships with some people for far too long.

So I'm looking at things a little differently now.  I am telling myself that I have a right to take up space, that my feelings and opinions matter and are valid, and that I have the right to tell someone who is behaving like a jerk toward me that they're behaving like a jerk.  I have the right to expect an apology from them, (not the other way around) and I have the right to require them to be accountable for their actions, to realize that they can't just say any old thing they want to and to blazes with the consequences.  I have the right to be angry when that happens, to work through that anger and to take the time that I need to do that fully before moving past it and on with my life, with - or without - them.  

Maybe someday soon, I might even act on those new ways of thinking. 

Stranger things have happened.

An unlikely oasis

The evening stars are just beginning to wink in the increasing dark as we roll to a stop in front of the door to the tiny building.  It is Friday night and we are returning home from grocery shopping, but we have stopped here along the way.  

My parents and I exit the boat-sized 1971 Bel Air Chevrolet and enter through the screen door. The door creaks on its spring hinge, and clamps shut behind us as a wave of warmth greets us.  The smell of french fries and burgers permeates the Star Canteen.  

Matilda bustles around in the kitchen behind the counter. A middle-aged, matronly woman, she wears a house-dress covered with an apron. She catches sight of us and grins broadly. "Hev a seat.  What'll ya hev?"

"Oh nothin' big," Dad says.  "Got any pie left?"

"Yep - apple. With some ice cream?"

Dad chuckles. "You're too good to me."

"How 'bout you?" Matilda looks at Mom and me. 

"We'll share a milkshake. Coffee."

As we wait for our food, and the whirring of the milkshake machine makes conversation almost impossible, I tug on Mom's sleeve. "Can I?" 

She hands me a few dimes and rolls her eyes. "Oh, all right." 

The milkshake is almost done. Matilda serves Dad his pie and ice cream. 

Gratefully I take the precious coins and turn toward the silver and glass box just behind the row of barstools we had been sitting on.  I slide off the stool and feel my feet hit the linoleum tile floor. I peer through the glass at the row of 45 rpm records, insert a dime and make a selection, and watch the dance of the record arm as it scans over the records and stops - always at the right one - just above the record I chose to play.  I watch it, mesmerized, as it brings it forward, rotates it and places it on the turntable, which starts to turn as the play arm lifts and makes the trip to the beginning of the record. 

Photo "Jukebox" by Phil at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

A few short seconds later and Elvis Presley is singing, "In the Ghetto," and I climb back onto the stool. Mom has given me the milkshake glass,  while she has taken what was left over in the metal mixing container - to save Matilda having to wash another glass. We sip our drink and listen to the music together while Dad tucks into his pie and ice cream.  Nobody says a word. 

The chores that await me at home, the expectations, the misunderstandings, the disappointments, the uncertainty of never knowing what rules applied today - these all melted away in those few minutes, even if only for a few minutes - like an oasis in the desert, like a refreshing rain during a drought before the dust reclaims its prize.  In this one place, there was no judgement, criticism didn't exist, and each of us soaked up the strength to face another week, each in their own way. 

It might have lasted a half hour.  I might have played four songs from the old jukebox - all my favourites at the time, from Elvis to Wayne Newton.  And it didn't happen every week - just once in a while. But when it did, it was like magic, a great way to kick off a weekend.  

Even though the canteen was eventually sold and became a single family dwelling, I always glance at it on the way past, when we go back to the old homestead to visit.  It's a glowing, wonderful memory - a jewel in the mire of yesteryear - one I hope I will never forget.