Shout out for Kaiser Urgent Care in Bellevue. They have it all. Kind people. Quick response. Every testing machine a person could ever wish to be tested on. I don’t think I’d choose another location
Shout out for Kaiser Urgent Care in Bellevue. They have it all. Kind people. Quick response. Every testing machine a person could ever wish to be tested on. I don’t think I’d choose another location. I am forever biased.
And here, Covid 19 pops into the equation yet again, because this is not your mother’s Buick kids, this is a whole new medical world. Overall, it has worked to my current advantage. Saturday, it meant that Kwami “left me at the curb”, a moment that would spread out and encompass nearly a week of moments.
Emotional separation. Unknowing. Visual barriering. Uncertainty.
But I digress. Next a CT scan, the obvious choice. And the forever direct information: “The colon has perforated. We will take you to surgery. Now.”
There is an odd twist in what happened there. The cancer has its own thing going on, and perforation, or holes, could well have occurred because the chemo is working well, shrinking the masses, pulling the tissue apart.
Also, surgery was originally not an option, because there was no chance of removing all of the radicals hiding in every corner, and no point to an uncertain or non existing recovery.
Without an option, there were now options. I talked to the surgeon. The lower colon would go. The colon mass would go. I gave him the green light to remove whatever he wished, and to hold no guilt for bumping the pesky lymph system as it was an already active culprit in my demise, long done.
A snakey path. Last Saturday, as I reflected on my ideal journey through treacherous waters, I was pondering the pain that was spreading through my abdomen. I had quickly recovered from my first week in the hospital in March, had come through three cycles of chemotherapy, and was well. No one would expect how well. Amazingly well.
But Saturday felt different. I woke up with nagging suspicion and pain to match. A call to the consulting nurse sent us for a midday bladder check. And after the group zoom chat, I called for results. Negative. Positive would have been a more welcome word.
With that diagnosis came the traditional sounds of “Manage your pain”. I can imagine generations of ancestors silently screaming with that directive. I was trying. I had never used the narcotics in my collection. I tried one type, switched to the other at the next time window. No change, no relief.
I called the consulting nurse line again. “I don’t know how to manage my pain.” How many people struggle with this every day of their lives? I have so much compassion.
This time, there was far more concern. “Go directly to Urgent Care.”
I packed. I packed the bags for a hospital stay, my computer, my journal, cell phone charger, changes of clothes, hairbrush, deodorant. There was no point in making Kwami and Nyasha dig for what I wanted. Resignation. Sigh.