Preparing for Treatment - Chapter 5 of My Cancer Story

This blog post is the 5th in a series chronicling my battle with colon cancer ten years ago.  For Chapters 1-4, see the Blog Archives to the right of this post.

It’s January 2002. I’ve had my colon surgery. My cancerous tumor has been removed, and I am recovering well at home. Now it’s time for the next step…to meet my oncologist and plan treatment.

Dr Margaret Gore

My surgeon, Dr King, recommended Dr Margaret Gore to manage my treatment. I make my first visit to consult with her, with my sister Althea in tow. Dr Gore is a lovely woman, and has an undergraduate degree from Harvard and a medical degree from Duke University. After introductions, she reviews my condition and my treatment options. Although the cancer did not break through my colon wall, I tested positive for a low level of activity in my lymph nodes. This requires chemotherapy to keep the cancer from spreading into other organs.

Dr Gore and her colleagues believe that the current standard recommended treatment for my situation is about to be superseded by a more aggressive plan. I choose to take the aggressive route to make sure we get ALL the bad stuff. The way I look at it, there’s no room for regrets if I make the wrong choice.

I will need three hours of chemo once a week for six months. Every fourth week, I will get a week off. I’m not that interested in all the detail on the specific chemicals that will be used. I never did do well in high school chemistry. Ron ends up doing a lot of reading on the subject (and scaring himself in the process). We talk about some of the possible or likely side effects, like nausea and hair loss, and vulnerability to infection if my white blood cell count drops too low. Then we talk about how to move forward ASAP. Let’s do this.

The first task is another surgery. Dang! I need to have a catheter surgically inserted into my chest to facilitate delivery of the chemo drugs. They call this a portacath. The device is like a screened porthole that is put under your skin and tapped into a large vein. When drugs are administered, the nurse will just need to push the needle through my skin and the screen, and we will be ready to go. This will help avoid damage to my skin and muscle tissue that can be caused by the toxic drugs.

Insertion of the portacath is completed a few days later, and I find recovery from the surgery rather painful (like someone whacked me in the chest with a baseball bat). It’s odd to adjust to having a foreign device under my skin, and it affects my sleeping positions, which adversely impacts my sleep and makes me cranky.

We decide that my treatments will be on Friday afternoons, so that I have the weekend to recover from any ill effects and hopefully be ready to go to work on Monday. I’ll start chemo next Friday and go back to work soon, after being out for eight weeks. I’m determined to get through this next six months and on to the rest of my life.

Next time: My first day of chemotherapy.

Healing at Home - Chapter 4 of My Cancer Story

This post is the 4th in a series describing my journey with Colon Cancer 10 years ago. If you haven’t read the previous installments, see the Blog Archive listing in the column on the right for the hyperlinks.

It’s been a week since my surgery, and I am going home. Ron helps me from the wheelchair by the curb at the hospital entrance into our own car for the five minute drive to our house. I’m shuffling around slowly like an old lady, but at least I am ambulatory.

Wow, how marvelous it is to be home! My job now is to get stronger and continue the healing from the surgery. I still have staples in my stomach, which makes me feel very vulnerable – as though my guts could tumble on the floor if I make a wrong move. Sounds melodramatic, I know, but I am a little afraid. Try sitting up from a prone position without using your stomach muscles. It’s an exercise in creativity. I either need assistance, or I have to roll over into a position where I can push myself up with my arm muscles.

There are some challenges we have to overcome with being home for recovery. Our house has two stories, but I’m not authorized to take the stairs more than once a day for now. That means I spend my days on the sofa in the family room, where I can watch TV and get to the kitchen. Ron must go to work, but isn’t comfortable leaving me at home alone yet. We call my family for help, and they respond. The first week, my older sister Xandy (Alexandra) comes to stay with us, to keep me company and help with meals while Ron is at work. The next week, Xandy passes the baton to Mom and my little sister Althea. This takes a huge load off Ron’s mind.

My cat, Beezum, missed me and wants to laze with me on the sofa. One problem…She wants to stretch out on my stomach. I snooze with a pillow on my abdomen to make sure I don’t get an unexpected 11 pound weight pouncing directly on my incision. Who doesn’t sleep better with a purring cat on their lap? I get healing energy from her.

The news is out about my return home, and I am stunned by the influx of phone calls, cards, flowers and plants, and casseroles! These gestures are very, very moving. I will always remember what I learned from being on the receiving end of those kindnesses.

As the days pass, I feel progressively stronger, and can move around more easily. The staples have been removed from my stomach, and my guts didn't fall out.  I revel in taking real showers.  Pajamas are traded in for real clothes. One day I decide to attempt a walk around the block with Ron. But I run out of energy at the end of the block and have to sit down and rest before I can even retrace my steps to retreat home. By later in the week, I can make it all the way.

What’s ahead? It’s almost time to meet my Oncologist and prepare for chemotherapy treatments. The first part of this journey is behind me. Now I need to gather my strength for battle with the unseen enemy.

Major Abdominal Surgery - Chapter 3 of My Cancer Story

This post is the 3^rd in a series describing my journey with Colon Cancer 10 years ago.  If you haven’t read the previous installments, see the Blog Archive listing in the column on the right for the hyperlinks.

I’m about to be gutted like a fish.  It’s before dawn on January 7, 2002, and I’m checked into Memphis’ St Francis Hospital for major abdominal surgery.  Dr Thayer will be performing a hysterectomy, and Dr W Scott King will be cutting out a cancerous section of my colon.  Certainly there are all sorts of things that could possibly go wrong, but I refuse to think about them.  Ron is with me until I am about to be wheeled into the operating room.  He kisses me and reminds me of our agreement, “No toe tags!”.  I murmur that I love him, and here we go…

I remember seeing the operating room and being greeted and reassured by both of my doctors. Then in goes the anesthetic, and I slip out of consciousness. Bye, bye.

About four hours later, I slowly come to.  Ron is there.  I don’t have any pain, thanks to morphine (which is really,really good stuff).  I’ve made it through surgery.  Dr King advises that we now know that the cancerous tumor did not breach the wall of the colon.  That’s excellent news.  But he took samples from surrounding tissue, which has to be sent to Pathology for evaluation.

All I want to do is sleep, thanks to the drugs.  I won’t get any solid food for days, because they have to give my re-sectioned colon a chance to heal.  I’ve got a catheter to deal with my urine output.  Nurses are keeping a close eye on my vitals.  One examines my carved and stapled stomach and comments, “Oh, they were able to let you keep your belly button.”  I remember being relieved about that.   It would be weird not to have a belly button.

Ron refuses to leave me for the night, so they provide a cot for him to stay with me in my private room.  I am so thankful to have him there.  This whole drama is almost harder on him than on me.  There’s so little he can do right now, other than to be there for me.  As the week unfolds, Ron sleeps at the hospital then goes home to get ready for work in the morning.  He comes to see me at lunchtime and returns after dinner to keep me company and spend the night.  I know he’s exhausted, but he says he’s too worried to sleep at home, alone. 

I’m making progress every day.  The day after surgery, they have me move to a chair to sit upright for a while.  I can’t believe how exhausting it is to do such a simple thing.  After just a few minutes, I am begging the nurse to be allowed to get back into bed.  But within a few days, I’m shuffling down the hall for exercise.  The human body has amazing healing abilities.

A friend from work sends a small gift of scented bath products, which a nurse’s aide uses to give me a sponge bath.  I am so grateful for the thoughtfulness of the friend and the gentle kindness of the aide.  On the weekend we have a surprise visit from dear friends who have heard about my illness.  They have flown in from Dallas for the day, just to see for themselves that I am OK.  Ron and I are humbled by their concern and their unfailing friendship.

As the week winds down, I am being weaned from the serious drugs, becoming more mobile, and desperately craving solid food.  The doctors won’t release me from the hospital until…bluntly put…I have a bowel movement.  I get the OK for the diet change required to get the critical process in motion.  By the next day, I have achieved the milestone.  After being examined by my doctors, I am approved to go home to continue my recovery.  We leave with a handful of prescriptions, a bunch of guidelines for what I should and shouldn’t do over the coming weeks, and appointments for follow up visits.

The results from Pathology have shown that I will require further treatment for my cancer.  Out of seven lymph nodes tested, one showed cancerous activity.  My cancer has been identified as early Stage 3.  Serious, but treatable.  In two weeks, I will meet Dr Margaret Gore, my Oncologist.  She was recommended by Dr King, whose wife’s Breast Cancer was successfully treated by Dr Gore.  That’s all the recommendation I need.

I don’t quite know what’s ahead, but I’m ready to face it.

Meeting my Surgeon - Chapter 2 of My Cancer Story

This post is the 2^nd in a series describing my journey with Colon Cancer.  If you haven’t read the first installment, click HERE.

My colon cancer has just been diagnosed by a Gastroenterologist, via a colonoscopy.  It’s December 26, 2001.  Ron and I are on the way to St Francis Hospital in Memphis to meet my surgeon, Dr. W. Scott King, Jr.  He has been highly recommended by my Gynecologist, Dr. Thayer.

Word on my condition is out, apparently, because we have no wait at the doctor’s office before being escorted into a private room to meet Dr. King.  I am quivering with fear and sick to my stomach.  I’m hanging onto Ron like a floatation device.  Then Dr. King sweeps into the room.

W. Scott King, MD

He's a bundle of focused energy, and exudes confidence. Tall and lanky, his longish, grey hair is tied back in a small ponytail.  He makes us think of a retired fighter pilot – cocky and self-assured, but in a personable way that immediately inspires confidence.  Dr. King tells us what he knows from the colonoscopy.  Surgery will be required before we can know more – including my prognosis.

Out comes “The Colon Book”, a color pamphlet with information patients can understand.  Using the booklet, Dr. King draws in the location of my cancerous tumor.  It’s in the sigmoid (lower) colon, where waste is stored and pushed down to the rectum.  There is some good news.  The tumor is not in the rectum, which would make surgery and recovery much more complicated.  I will not have to live life after surgery with a colostomy bag.  Further, it will be possible to have my planned hysterectomy and colon resection during the same surgery, while they have my abdomen open.  Two surgeries; one recovery.  Dr. Thayer will do the full hysterectomy, and Dr. King will do the colectomy (colon resection) – removing about a foot of colon, along with the tumor.  I am assured that we all have way more colon than we really need, so I’ll never miss what he takes out.

Dr. King has provided a plan, comfort that we are in the right hands and, most importantly, HOPE.  We won’t know whether the cancer has spread outside the colon until pathology is done on the removed colon and surrounding tissue, but we know we need to cut the bad stuff out.  Now I’m anxious to move ahead.

Surgery is scheduled for January 7, 2002.  I’ll be in the hospital for about a week, and will have to take two months off work for recovery.

"You Have Cancer" - Chapter 1 of My Cancer Story

Ten years ago, on December 26, 2001, my gastroenterologist called me at work to deliver this bombshell. “You have colon cancer,” he said, and my world came to a grinding halt at the age of 46.

Blood was rushing in my ears, so I almost didn’t hear the doctor when we asked me, “Do you have a surgeon?”
“No.” Who the hell has a surgeon?
“I’ll have your gynecologist call you”, he said before he hung up.

This was the beginning of my journey with cancer. Many of my friends have heard bits and pieces of this story. Others may be curious. On the 10th Anniversary of my diagnosis, it’s a good time to tell all. I’m thankful for what I went through and learned, for the love and support I received during the difficult times, and for the gracious God that allowed me to survive. Maybe hearing about my experience will push you to face any nagging health issues you have, sooner rather than later. I hope you will be inspired to extend kindness to someone fighting their own life-threatening battle. When people are ill and afraid, little gestures are really meaningful gifts, and are remembered fondly.

People ask me whether I had symptoms of my cancer before I was diagnosed. In retrospect, I did; but I did not recognize their significance. I was often tired, which I attributed to being overweight and getting older. On occasion, I had blood in my feces, which I blamed on hemorrhoids. Constipation was a sign, but who doesn’t get constipated now and again? I explained away every symptom, because I couldn’t admit to myself that there might be something seriously wrong. There was some history of colon cancer in my family – but only at advanced ages.

Pelvic exams related to another medical issue (in preparation for a hysterectomy scheduled for January 7th) shed light on my other symptoms. My gynecologist tested a stool sample then recommended a colonoscopy to “rule out” any other issues before my surgery. Dr Gilbert Thayer’s diligence saved my life.

In shock and teary after the abrupt call with my diagnosis, I was in my office with the door closed with my husband Ron. All I could think is, "I have cancer, and I am going to die". Minutes later we got the follow-up call from Dr Thayer. He was calm, sympathetic, and reassuring, and asked me if I could see the surgeon he recommended, ASAP. We left the office for the hospital immediately to meet with Dr W Scott King.

COMING SOON – Chapter 2: Meeting Dr King, learning more about the seriousness of my cancer, and undergoing a double surgery (hysterectomy and colectomy).

Fear of Cancer

Wouldn’t you think that a (colon) cancer survivor, like me, would be the first one in line for future cancer screenings? Not so much. I religiously have them done, but the trip to the clinic always feels like a death march. Tests and screenings scare the crap out of me.

You see, I think people that have beaten cancer once should have earned a free pass for the rest of their natural lives. I’m fully aware that is a ridiculous statement, and that many people have to fight the battle multiple times. Survivor doesn’t even seem a strong enough appellation. Maybe “gladiator”? Some eventually lose their brave battle, and that’s what many of us fear. Will cancer find us again and claim us? The fear never really goes away.

Oddly enough, I don’t actually think it’s death I fear. I fear surgery, disfigurement, chemotherapy, and feeling like a victim. When faced with the reality of cancer, I let them cut on me, I vomited through attacks of debilitating nausea, slept through drug-induced fatigue, comforted my husband, and came to terms with the possibility of dying. I beat cancer once, eight years ago. I hope to God I don’t have to do it again.

Yesterday I went for my annual mammogram. I have fibroids that make doctors nervous, although I do not have a family history of breast cancer. So I go, sweating all the way, for my diagnostic procedure. Good news – all is well yet again. The next cancer screening planned (other than my annual mammogram) will be a colonoscopy, early in 2012.

I guess we all fear something. This fear of cancer is my bugaboo, and I know I am not alone. If the fight comes around to me again, I’ll do whatever I have to do to beat it once more. But I can’t guarantee I won’t be muttering, “But I thought I had a pass...”