Just Dessert

Let me tell you what it's like eating through a tube in your nose.

Wait. Backing up a minute.

As the surgeon was telling me about my upcoming procedure, he had my full attention until he got to the part where I would be eating through my nose for a few weeks.

My brain hit the brakes for a hard stop. The doctor said other stuff--I know because I saw his mouth moving--but I don't remember anything else he said. (Fortunately the Spouse was there to collect the data I missed.) I was stuck on eating dinner through a tube in my nose.

Most interesting was the nonchalance of the surgeon. As if he was telling someone with a new cast to be sure to keep it dry in the shower. Or reminding you not to eat after 11 p.m. the day before the procedure. Or that you could be reimbursed for parking the day of surgery if you got your ticket from the garage stamped by someone at the information desk.

After the surgery, I woke up to hear the surgeon talking to Spouse, telling him that I would probably be out for a while and that I would likely be unable to speak for a few days. I asked why that was, and neither could hold their surprise. Spouse because I was awake, and Dr. that I spoke. Spouse expected the latter.

I had an IV for the morphine, antibiotics and whatever else they were giving me, so we weren't using the tube right away. And then it was hooked to the IV stand. It would be 30 hours before my nurse briefed me on how to feed myself.

The tube was thinner than I expected and kept in place by two stitches on the side of my nose. It was in my left nostril, but it wasn't uncomfortable. The big deal was ensuring that it went properly into my stomach. I guess the food passed wouldn't do much good otherwise. Fortunately the surgeon took care of that. It had some length, almost like a long strand of hair weave. It was a hint of when I had long hair--or any hair. I could flip it over my shoulder. The tube, that is.

After I got unhooked from the autofeed, I needed my training. The nurse poured this thick muddy colored liquid into a plastic hospital measuring cup. She pulled out this massive (to me) syringe with a long nozzle that she dipped into the slurry and drew the plunger back to fill it. The syringe screwed into my tube and she slowly pushed the plunger in and the liquid was delivered into my stomach.

It didn't taste like anything, since going through my nose it bypassed my tongue and tastebuds. It was room temperature, so I couldn't feel in passing through. I bet if if was hot or cold the change in temperature would register through my throat or in my stomach. The only clue I was left with was the syringe emptying.

It was my turn. It took 3 or 4 syringe fulls to finish the bottle. It was weird, but I slowly emptied the measuring cup. After emptying the tube, I had to "drink" some water to flush it out. I also would use the syringe and tube to take my meds, but in the hospital I was still taking them by IV.

When I was released, I had my supply of Ensure, liquid tylenol and my hospital laboratory kit. I placed it all on this red square melamine holiday plate with a poinsettia design that I got from Target.

Three times a day I pulled the plate off of the server and onto the dining room table. I'd lay out my supplies and completely and absolutely feed myself and take my medicine.  And the surgeon was right. It wasn't such a big deal. The weirdness wore off and the family began to take it in stride.

I even got outside and took a walk with my alien-like tube hanging off my face freaking out at least one neighbor who was too polite to ask what the hell was going on. He just stood there talking with us. It was kinda sweet because I really didn't want to talk about it and he gave me a bye. I don't care if it was a happy accident. I'm still grateful.

I am a super fast healer--no doubt abetted by my slavish adherence to all rules by my health care team. [Others in my life get no such obedience and at least one would like me to occasionally be more compliant.] I was able to go back to mouth feeding after eight days, and damn were those mashed potatoes good. As was the cottage cheese.

Thinking of this on the occasion of the two-year anniversary of my tube-feeding (I know, an odd celebration), my mind started playing Thru The Wire.

I drink a Boost for breakfast, an Ensure for dessert.
Somebody ordered pancakes, I just sip the sizzurp.
That right there could drive a sane man berserk.

I'm all better now. So I ate a steak.

---

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Adieu 2014

It's the end of the year, and many have told me to quickly close the door on 2014.

But this has been an extraordinary year. One that is a marker for me. Not because I had a ton of punches on my healthcare loyalty card.

No, extraordinary because I spent a little time in the darkest space I've ever been, and a lot of time squinting in the absurd brightness of the lightest spaces.

I dodged the bullets--not through anything but serendipity.

I know that I am lucky, fortunate, blessed, charmed, or whatever you call what happens when you are right on the edge of everything going to hell but then it turns out okay.

I know that it's not because I am good or that I am bad or that God is taking care of me or that God is rejecting me. I don't think that you only get what you can handle or that there is a greater purpose.

I also know that I am not in control of what I am dealt. Last, I do know that "it is what it is." And acknowledging that helps me to mine my experiences for lessons (maybe that is "purpose?").

Major lessons? The only thing that I can control is how I process and react. The fountain of kindness of my family, friends, neighbors and colleagues is infinite. Asking for and accepting help is more than necessary, it makes me both more humble and more human. Yes, giving is important, but so is being receptive. I learned the real reason why people pray--sometimes it's the only thing you can do. And, you can't go wrong if you do things out of love. It won't guarantee you are right, but motives frame impact.

You know how at the end of the book, the character collapses after bruising battles and wakes up days later asking "how long have I been asleep?" This end of the year has been like that, but without the sleeping part.

Yeah, this has been a bruising year. But it is a year that has been full of amazing--and maybe some unspeakable--lessons.

I am not sorry to see the year end. So, I send you, my friend 2014, with fondness to God. Adieu, 2014.

Anna Karenina and Cancer

Reading Michael Gerson's account of his, thankfully, successful encounter with cancer, I found myself bastardizing Tolstoy; that folks without cancer are all alike, but those of us with cancer face it in our own ways [sorry Leo].

I bet, though, that everyone who gets a cancer diagnosis does entertain thoughts about mortality. But what does that mean? I don't know, but Gerson leads me to explore what I was thinking.

First off, there is something wrong and you go through what that might be. Me, I'm healthy as a horse. I just easily and smartly dumped a (metaphorical) ton of weight and all was well on the home and professional fronts.

I figure that the pain in my mouth is likely due to the fact that I am that person who hates going to the dentist to admit that I am a lousy dental flosser. My punishment is some popcorn kernel stuck in my gum. Maybe I'll need a root canal. Ugh.

I studiously cause much gum bleeding with my newfound flossing fervor. But the pain is up toward my ear. Good job on the flossing, but it seems to be something else.

Yikes. I get it now. It is a stupid sinus infection. Headache. Earache. Pressure under my cheekbones. This I can deal with. A call to urgent care. A 'script for amoxicillin. Plenty of liquids. Been there and done that.

The pressure relieves as the ten-day of antibiotic regimen winds down. I finally recognize that I have been having pain when I eat, mostly when I swallow. This is a new finding. And I also recognize that the pain is increasing in frequency and severity. Not frequent and severe, but a definite upward trend.

So, as a star troubleshooter, I spend time chewing on one side of my mouth and then the other. Nope, chewing is not the problem. So it's my throat. But it only hurts when I swallow sometimes. Sipping wine? No problem. Gulping water? Fail.  I further localize it to the right back side of my mouth, base of my tongue.

I bet you never thought about your tongue as a big muscle. When you eat like a pig and bite off alot, your tongue moves the food around in your mouth so you can grind and pulverize it enough so you don't choke when you swallow.

I find myself eating daintier bites to avoid pain. I eat more slowly. I begin to prepare myself mentally for each meal. I pull out the calendar to try and figure out how long this has been going on. I can't exactly pinpoint it, but it wasn't an issue on vacation. So let's say it started in mid-August. I get my antibiotics at the end of September. Twelve days later I call for a follow-up.

Making the appointment they tell me that I can see my doctor some time in the future, but I can see the resident in 3 days. I jump on it. I know that I will need some kind of additional diagnostics, so the sooner I get on the medical referral train, the better.

And, for the first time I admit to myself that this is something. I recognize the somethingness as I'm making my notes for my appointment. I mentally mark my dear friend Kris who was put off by her doctor more than once. Her advanced colon cancer took her away from us too soon. I'm thinking that I am NOT going to let them put me off. And, I realize that I am thinking that this might be, you know, uhm. Okay, deep breath and think it for real. Maybe it's cancer.

Off to the Google. Is mouth cancer a thing? Yup. Oh, and that Beastie Boy guy had salivary gland cancer, and it killed him. Step away frrom the Google. Wait to see the doc.

I am now taking four Advil every 4 hours for the pain. I decide to go to the doc without pain numbness to help them diagnos me. I know that the resident will bring in the attending. She does. They see that it hurts. That the recent antibiotic course rules out an infection. They palpitate around my throat. They use the word mass. Order at CT scan. And tell me to make an appointment with the ENT as soon as the test is done.

Mass. That's a cancer kind of word. I walk across the street and sit at one of the tables in front of the Whole Paycheck. I'm a little rattled, but get on the phone to get the scan scheduled. Turns out that it's considered two tests, neck and head. So they need to find me two slots. Have to wait three weeks. Can call back to see if there are earlier openings. Make the appointment with ENT for the day after the scheduled scan.

I go back to the cancer site. I tell my spouse there is a mass. He knows but doesn't say it.

I can't take the Advil because of the scan. I can't take enough Tylenol to kill the pain and maintain kidney health. Move up the chain to Tylenol-3. Have the scan. See the doc.

It's a few weeks later and my mouth is really sore. Painful. I eat a little bit at a time. It's too much work to eat. The exam is very painful. The doc is very apologetic.

And then he says that it's cancer. And that he thinks I knew. And I did.

More flurry of appointments to verify what we know. But he's confident that I'll be cured. Phew.

I don't know why I cry. It is just a little squall. Over while he left and came back to the room.

I don't know why I cry. The doc was right. I did know it. I cry a little more in the car. Then I take a deep breath. I remind myself that I am not going to die. At least not right now.

I take another breath and start to prepare. Need to tell my husband. Need to tell the Big Guy. And likely Skype the Little Guy who goes to school in the Rockies.

I'm getting treatment now. Have a second round of menacing poisons that attack my fastest growing cells on Monday.

I read Gerson's post again. He talks about cancer as a metaphor for our mortality. Maybe later I will know why I cried. For me, at least right now, it's just stupid.

First Tattoo

My dad had tattoos. He served in the Navy, part of the Greatest Generation. He had an anchor on one bicep. A battleship on the other forearm. And above the battleship, a young woman with curly hair wearing a crackerjack hat with a few of his ports of call underneath her smile. We always said she was Mom.

My sibs got tattoos at different times. My one sib originally had a little unicorn with a rainbow and a kitty-cat with her little paw in the air. Not my style. When Dad died, she had an anchor tattooed on her ankle.

My other sib is a musician and had an eighth note with a rose tattooed on her chest. She got an anchor, too.

I always wanted a tattoo of a menacing dragon. One that I would wear over my back and shoulder with the tail just curling over the top of my arm. If I wore a tank top, you would see the tail and wonder what the whip was attached to.

But I never got the tattoo. The colors would fade, and my imagination had vibrant colors. Worse, as I aged, it would sag. And anyway, it'd probably hurt.

Yesterday I had my mouth tattooed so they can track the size of the tumor in there. In my head, it looks like a dragon. And it will kick evil's ass.