I just had my 2-year follow-up visit with the oncologist. Everything is fine. Evidently she’s using me as an example for her residents of just how effective early detection and surgery can be.
When I was done, I went outside into the 70 degree, sun-shiney day and spent two hours walking around the University of Chicago campus. It’s been a Good Day.
My husband and I are going out to dinner tonight.
A year ago yesterday, I had surgery for cancer. I saw my doctor today, and, as she put it, “everything looks perfect”. That is worth celebrating, I think.
Dear world,
I’ve managed to put my foot firmly in my mouth on a daily basis, consistently with one or another of the people I most care about, for the past several weeks (at least). I don’t mean to be thoughtless, or clueless, or tactless; I just don’t seem to be capable of holding two thoughts at once right now, and the thing I’m saying and its effect are two thoughts. Usually I figure out what I said that I shouldn’t have about a day after I’ve said it.
I’m sorry. I wish I could promise not to swallow my feet any further, but until I get my brain back that isn’t something I’ll be able to keep.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. Anyone seeing my brain wandering around is kindly requested to tell it to come home.
I’ll be darned. Both my doc and my reading led me to think it would be several months before things were better. That made sense to me; hormone balancing as always tricky, and made trickier by some of the other things I take medication for.
It may take awhile to fine tune, but it isn’t going to take that long for matters to improve. It isn’t taking a week. Three days in, the difference is night and day. Not only have I stopped crying at the drop of a pin, but I am, as I type this, focused enough to multitask a bit, writing this and listening to a CLE video simultaneously. I don’t think I could have done that yesterday, even. I certainly couldn’t on Wednesday, or any time before.
I suppose I should have expected it. I’ve always been vulnerable to my own hormones; it follows that I would be very responsive to hormone treatment. But I didn’t, and I’m so pleased I could dance.
I went into surgery thinking that since I was already past menopause, losing the entire system wouldn’t make a noticeable difference. I was so wrong I can’t begin to quantify the wrongness. Surgical menopause in nothing like normal menopause. Normal menopause is a bumpy downhill ride, but the hormones are still there, just in reduced amount. Surgical menopause is like jumping off a cliff, with large rocks at the bottom. Not only is it not fun for me, it isn’t fun for the people who have to deal with me either. I have a temper that would do credit to a Tasmanian devil and less self control or attention span than a toddler. I really would rather not share the same planet with myself, much less be in the same room.
I’ve been in to the doctor about varying forms of parachute, and while it will take some adjustment and tuning, I have cause to be optimistic. But if the blogging is a little thin for awhile, now you know why.
And now I think I’ll go cuddle my cat, assuming she’s willing to hold still. A purring cat is good for the soul.
I expected many things as a consequence of surgery.
I did not expect to need new clothes. I’d been told by friends who’ve had similar procedures that I’d want soft stuff for a couple of weeks, but after that I should be able to wear my jeans, etc without problem.
Not so much. That collection of inch long incisions? Two of them are exactly at my waist, one on each side of my navel. My waistband goes right over them. Another is right at the top of the zipper. None of those take kindly to being constricted under stiff fabric, or worse yet fabric and metal. I only own two pair of elastic or drawstring waist pants that aren’t thin knit workout pants, and now my doc tells me it’s gonna be at least a couple of months before I can wear something like jeans comfortably unless they’re too big.
So I’m going shopping. I can think of many worse problems, y’know?
The doc just called. The final pathology report is in. The biopsy that found it also got it all; what remained were pre-cancerous cells inside the offending organ and nothing even vaguely abnormal anywhere else. It was, indeed, grade 1 and stage 1, and while I get to follow up every 4 months for the next 3 years, and every 6 months for the rest of my life, the medical part of this saga is essentially over.
Now we get to see what the non-medical aftereffects turn out to be. I’m not so foolish as to believe there will be none.
I’ve gotten a lot of e-mails, IM’s (and my apologies to those who tried to IM me when the computer was up but I wasn’t), messages, etc that all run on the same theme. Every single one of them says, usually in the first sentence, Don’t overdo. You’d think everyone was expecting me to try to go bungee jumping the day after surgery and try out for the Olympic weight-lifting team the day after that.
I’m not. Really. I haven’t even tried to do laundry or cook dinner yet, and have been considering getting dressed generally optional. I am spending much of the day in my recliner (which my cats like) or asleep in my bed (which they don’t, because they aren’t allowed in there.) I don’t even have the inclination to do anything terribly active. My mind is starting to plan what I want to do next, but planning is as far as anything is getting right now. It’s not enforced inactivity, which would indeed drive me nuts and which I might try to defy. But neither is it “I feel fine, so why on earth shouldn’t I”….fill in the blank. What I feel is tired. That is quite natural, and I know it. So I’m sleeping a lot. And since I’m only on restrictions for another week, it should be over by the time it starts to chafe.
See? I can surprise even those who’ve known me for upwards of 30 years. Not only can I be sensible, I can actually sit still!
Hi, World. This will be very short, as I’m still at the “sleeping a lot” phase of things.
Surgery was Wednesday. I have five very small bandages in a rough circle on my belly, which I’m told have been closed with a single dissolving suture each. And with that access, my surgeon managed to remove all the reproductive equipment intact to send on to pathology.
One of the things the hospital offered was to let my husband stay the night with me. I sent him home, and I’m glad I did – they were in to check on me about every 2 hours. He’d have gotten no sleep at all. And when I was offered the choice, I came home yesterday late afternoon, as I prefer to sleep undisturbed and nothing appeared to be wrong.
The doctor said that everything looked very normal and very good, no sign of anything untoward in lymph nodes or abdominal cavity or even on the outside of the equipment in question. So pending a report that’s due in 10 days or so, it looks like this is it – grade 1, stage 1, minimal chance of recurrence. I have good drugs for pain, and not much need of them. That’s a Good Thing(tm) because I really hate having a brain made of banana yogurt. And I think I’m going back to sleep now.
I have been told when I get to lose the internal time-bomb. It will happen next Wednesday afternoon, January 24th.
I’m quite looking forward to it.