130 An Adventure at Wild Waves

My mind is crazy with aggression. It wants a way to force the healing of the wound. Pushing 20 supplements a day, so much protein consumption I feel like a rapid carnivore, green smoothies, a wound pump. What more? I swirl round and round and round and round.

I was talking to Amy about the medical story, about how I feel as if I am in a whirlpool.  I go around again and again, but there is no advancement in my position.  I am stuck, yet I am moving.

At the wound appointment this week, the wound measurement moved a half centimeter.  Pathetically, that is less than a quarter inch.  Honestly, they don’t even measure to that distance of accuracy.  Flesh moves around.  And there is no consistency in the position I am in when it is measured.  Futile.  Until it is a few centimeters difference, the measurement game is just that, a game.

Apparently, some bodies don’t like sutures.  If that is the case, the body fights the stitches like they are the enemy.  The wound won’t heal until the sutures dissolve. It takes four to six months before they do that, completely dissolve.  I am hoping that my body despises stitches.  It sounds like an easy solution.  The surgery was May 17, four months ago! 

So, when the kids were teenagers, Wild Waves had a ride where you sat in an inner tube.  There were several pools connected by waterfall slides.  The tube would be in the whirling pool, and the water would catch the tube and take it over the slide to the next pool, eventually.  Sometimes there was extra whirling around.

We passed through three together.  At that point, the group of kids shot out of the pool, and continued down to the next and the next.  Meanwhile, I was looping around again and again.  Every time I came near the slide, the water would move my tube quickly past and take a different person.  It was a looooong time.  The teens were bored at the bottom.  They went back to the line, passing me as they walked up the hill to the top.  And then they passed me again in the ride, as I swirled around in that same crazy pool.  Nyasha said, “You have to be more aggressive.”

After a few more loops, I finally stood up with my tube and walked to the slide, and forced myself over the falls. 

My mind is crazy with aggression.  It wants a way to force the healing of the wound.  Pushing 20 supplements a day, so much protein consumption I feel like a rapid carnivore, green smoothies, a wound pump.  What more?  I swirl round and round and round and round.

106 Unremarkable Ct Scan Results

The report from the radiology department lists the components of the torso. And next to each part, the word “unremarkable”. Lungs, unremarkable. Liver, unremarkable. Colon, unremarkable. Never has it been so pleasing to be unremarkable.

Dr. Wilfong called with the unremarkable Ct Scan results.  It must be a glorious type of call to make.  I know that some people receive the opposite, and I feel so much compassion for that, for the deliverer and receivers of such news.

My situation is the ideal.  From “the scientific standpoint”, the Ideal has occurred.  The surgery removed the main mass.  It was an unplanned surgery, emergent.  It was not supposed to happen.  But because the chemotherapy worked so well, the mass pulled at the surface of the colon and perforated it.  Dr. Haque removed the mass, some of the lymph system, and a few other “unnecessary” components of my body to boot. I could have died.  But I did not.

And the chemotherapy also worked in the liver.  Three rounds.  I had barely received the third dose, and had it coursing through my veins as the surgery team pulled the parts out of my abdomen.

In the liver, there were two spots, two marbles of cancer.  The CT Scan shows that they are not there, not visible. “Highly reactive to the chemotherapy.”  

The chemotherapy could have killed me.  I could have died.  I did not.

The report from the radiology department lists the components of the torso.  And next to each part, the word “unremarkable”.  Lungs, unremarkable.  Liver, unremarkable.  Colon, unremarkable.  Never has it been so pleasing to be unremarkable.

The feeling is shock.  Like a mind trying to grasp that the terrain entirely changed with the shift of a chicain.  Logic spins and weaves, working to comprehend, working to create a new story.  Footing lost, ground shifting.  Falling like Alice through the hole.  A different dimension, a new world with alternative colors, a new watch.  A new pocket watch hanging from a shiny chain and ticking a different rhythm. 

I could have died, but I did not.

75. Covid-19

A six inch swab goes in through the nostrils and strokes the brain, or, well, whatever it reaches. Probably not the brain. Probably something deep in the breathing system. It feels like the brain.

I had the test. 

Before the hospital would allow me to enter for surgery, it was required.  Only do the test if you are required.  I think my sinuses are still suffering the ramifications.  

A six inch swab goes in through the nostrils and strokes the brain, or, well, whatever it reaches.  Probably not the brain. Probably something deep in the breathing system.  It feels like the brain.

I was negative.  For that one moment in time, and not before and not beyond, I tested negative.  

65. Forgetting

I probably assured people by phone and text that, yes, I am alive… again, still, miraculously. I went in thinking that I would probably come out. The Divine has its own plan.

Today will be the second day at home, the Saturday after the surgery.  The surgery happened in the not-yet-to-be-called morning hours of Sunday.  

I am forgetting.  I can’t remember the details.  I am not sure that any story I tell from this week has an ounce of concrete truth.

Is it the mind or the body that has this necessary and indecipherable skill?  Part of me knows every detail of the surgery, of the words spoken, of the incredible undertaking and dance that both body and surgical team traversed.

Part of me remembers the inability to open my eyes, or the first time to stand, or the rise and fall of the initial pain.  But it is fading so rapidly.  When I type, it comes out in tears that make no sense.  The tears are the unprocessed pain, the emotional response that has to pass through.  

It doesn’t make sense.  It isn’t supposed to make sense.

The first two days in the hospital are a blur.  I know the drill at this point.  Every few hours, the team checked vitals, drew blood, listened for the alarms.  There were a lot of alarms.  This IV had completed.  The pulse oximeter suggested oxygen.  Occlusion in a line.  People in and out.  

And I did my part.  I walked the loop.  I sat in the chair.  I took shallow breaths that were as deep as my lungs would go.  And I slept.  And slept again.

I probably assured people by phone and text that, yes, I am alive… again, still, miraculously. I went in thinking that I would probably come out.  The Divine has its own plan.  I wasn’t fully certain.  But I am a very logical person.  This isn’t logical timing.

Shante and Mark are moving north in less than a month.  Rosanna’s sloth baby shower is in the making.  These are important, deeply loved people, doing enormous, complex, life altering things.  It’s the wrong time to die.  Logical mind says so. And God, smiling at my childish, human wishes, allowed it to be so.