Foggy Haze of Relief and Gratitude
Today it is hard to know what to type.
The last six weeks have been a whirlwind and it's only now that I can see and feel how overwhelmed and exhausted I am by the medical journey. Maybe you all saw how tired and unfocused I was when we talked or when I tried to complete a task at work. I had convinced myself I was doing "okay."
But my blood pressure, in the days leading up to surgery, told another story. I was like the proverbial baby duck ... calm on the topside and little flipper feet paddling frantically and like hell to escape some underwater creature that could eat me.
Right now, I mostly feel like I exist in a haze of overwhelming relief and gratitude. The fog isn't due to narcotic pain killers. I gave the narcotic pain killers up several days ago and, because they make me ill, only was prescribed tylenol with codeine. For the first several days post surgery, I alternated a mega-ibuprofen with the tylenol plus codeine, also called "hydrocodone." Now, I only take an occasional ibuprofen.
The fuzzy feelings are probably just me trying to process the tornadic medical and emotional journey I've been on, especially since March 17 when I was diagnosed with Stage One uterine cancer. Not only was I trying to grapple with the fear of the diagnosis, but also the outpouring support from so many friends and family.
Thank you, all, for everything you've done. You've been with me (literally) at my April 12 oncology appointment and at my side when I went into surgery, you've arranged and generously contributed to a fundraiser that has removed all financial worry and you are checking in on me post-surgery.
That kind of support -- something I've never needed before in my life -- has been overwhelming. To feel so much like and love from you has made me tilt, like a pinball machine. I am temporarily short-circuited. I'm hiding a bit because I don't know what to say. "Thank you" sounds insufficient. "Thank you so very much" sounds pat and uncreative. "Thank you so fucking much," crass.
What words do I use to express the profound feelings that I don't know I've experienced before? Or that I didn't recognize in my younger years? Good thing this happened at what likely is a bit past the middle of my life or I would be too dense to get how blessed I am.
Instead, I'm just gobsmacked and nearly stone silent by it all.
I don't even have good jokes to deflect and hide my discomfort. I have a joke (Fog Horn. Leg Horn! Marco! Corn Hole!). But almost nobody will get it except, maybe, a couple of my cousins in Illinois. But I'm so uncomfortable and grateful I had to include it. And then I had to talk about how nobody will get it. (You see where this circular thinking is going ...)
Let me get to the real story: What happened on April 25 when I had surgery. It's great news. A short story.
I was scheduled on April 12 for surgery for Stage One uterine cancer. Because I had an ovary that was all messed up, the plan was to remove my ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, and cervix. In addition, the plot included removal of the first lymph node on either side of my pelvis. While I was in surgery, all my naughty bits were going to be sent to pathology. If anything showed additional cancer(s), my oncologist would search my body cavity for cancer and take samples from particular spots in my body.
The same-day/surgery pathology report provided better-than-expected news. My ovary only had a cyst. No borderline tumor, a nasty little trickster of a thing that can look and act like cancer, but isn't.
No cancer beyond Stage One in the uterus. In fact, and surprisingly to me, the pathologist only found precancerous cells in the uterus. I'm unclear on whether that means there isn't even Stage One, but I'll find that out later this week when my doctor calls with the full pathology report.
For now, the thought is that I'm done. No chemo. Cancer-free. Just a follow-along with my oncologist for the next five years after which I will "graduate" from cancer patient to cancer survivor. I'm looking forward to that.
SLN is a newer way to figure out if cancer has spread from its original spot (in my case, uterus) into the lymph system -- a connected chain of bean-shaped glands that are part of your immune system. The system moves nutrition and waste between your organs and tissues to your blood system.
When you have SLN done, you get loaded up with blue dye. The surgical team looks to see if your lymph nodes light up, indicating cancer cells have made it into this drainage system. If the first lymph gland glows, then the team looks to see if the second gland glows. If there's no glow, you're good to go. The cancer probably hasn't metastasized (spread) and escaped the uterus into the near wilds of your body cavity.
The good news about SLN is that it's turning out to be pretty darn reliable at helping stage cancer AND it means the patient has an easier recovery and with less "lymphadema," a swelling of the lymph nodes due to poor drainage of the system.
SLN -- because of the dye -- does mean you pee blue for a while. That can be disconcerting until the nurse tells you what is up. My pee is almost yellow again.
My surgery was done at about 4:30 p.m. It went very well. I was in recovery at about 7 p.m.
When I started to wake up, I was shivering. The recovery room nurses wrapped me up in deliciously warm blankets. My whole body was swaddled in heavy, warm fabric. Even my head. I had a vision of George Costanza, of Seinfeld, ensconced in velvet when I was snuggled up.
I was in an anesthetic haze and the blankets on my head made it difficult to hear the nurses. But I thought I heard my nurse, while she was calling the observation unit to let them know they were almost ready to send me to that unit, say: "Yes. Her name is Stephanie. But she goes by 'Liza.' "
My thought was that I was clearly hearing things. Who is named "Stephanie" and goes by "Liza?" That is a nickname that makes zero sense. I do go by "Stephanie," "Steffi," and "Steff." But "Liza?"
I know exactly one person in my life named Liza, and she passed away several years ago. Liza Gould was one of my college roommates. We met through the University of Minnesota Crew Team when we both were rowers. We got along smashingly and became roommates during and after college. We remained friends over the years and became part of one another's families. I knew all her relatives and spent weekends with her when she'd visit certain of her cousins. I helped her move from Minnesota to Washington State where she could pursue her dreams of becoming a skilled ocean kayaker (and she was among the highest rated paddlers in the nation). We visited one another regularly. We stayed connected.
The night she was fighting for her life after a near-drowning, which did end up causing her death, I kept dreaming she was drowning. I woke up over and over that night. Each time I awoke, I was gasping for air. I was holding my breath while dreaming of her drowning. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. with a fear for her that was so deep. So overwhelming. I checked Facebook and the first post on my feed was that she had died overnight of drowning.
Several days before my surgery, I had a dream that Liza and I were flying in a terrible storm. We were flying under our own power, like you can do when you dream, and as super heroes do. We were being chased by invisible demons. I realized that flying like Superman, with our arms outstretched in front, was slowing us down. Better to fly like Ms. Marvel. With our arms back and tucked tight against our sides, we could go faster because we were more aerodynamic. It also was easier to maneuver through an urban landscape, dodge building edges and power lines, swoop under trees.
Form of a diving falcon was way better for dodging invisible demons than that of a hawk riding an updraft with wings outstretched. But Liza. She wasn't good at flying yet. She was floating in the air, upright, as you would if you were floating in water in a life vest. In fact, she was wearing her life vest. I taught her how to fly and, together, we evaded the demons. I also got her to ditch that life vest because she didn't need it anymore.
We worked out a strategy and rhythm where we would climb high into the air, arms in front of us like Superman, so the demons could get tight on our heels. Then we'd abruptly start a downward dive. We'd pull our arms back and to our sides and rocket for the pavement. The sound of air rushing past our ears was deafening but we could still hear the demons behind us, squealing in anger. Right before we crashed into the pavement, demons just about to grab our heels, we'd pull up and climb back into the air. The demons wouldn't have time to respond and they would splatter all over the tar. They'd shatter into tiny bits, burning up from the friction caused by flying so fast through air.
Together, Liza and I evaded the demons.
I believe that Liza was with me during my surgery, just as she was with me while I slept and dreamt that night. I believe that we are still so intertwined that she helped me mentally prepare for and get through surgery.
Those of you who know me well and who work with me (Rebecca! Ann! Mary-Margaret! Dan! Don!) know that I'm not a linear person. My perception of time and events sometimes is a confounding mix for others when I try to explain my reasons for a decision or context for an idea. You know I think in pictures and that sometimes the pictures flit through my brain so fast that I can't keep track.
I can say that I believe I named myself "Liza" to the medical staff because my dear friend helped me through these past weeks and, because, in those moments, my guardian angel and I were one. Teammates. Pulling in the same direction.
Now, I recover. I have four, small incisions through which the surgery was done. Recovery will be several weeks to a month, less than if I had had to have lymph nodes removed. Yay!
My mom was with me, babysitting, until yesterday. I'm so damn fortunate. She cooked and cleaned. Carried things for me. It was so fantastic to have her here. She's a great mommy and a good friend.
I'm supposed to get up and move to help foster healing. Later today I will mosey down to the grocery store that is a couple of blocks away. I'll get a couple of things for dinner tonight. Not too much because I can't carry more than 10 pounds for the next several weeks.
Then, on May 9, I see my doctor for a post-surgery appointment.
I'll keep you in the loop.
Thank you, again, for your overwhelming and kind support.
The last six weeks have been a whirlwind and it's only now that I can see and feel how overwhelmed and exhausted I am by the medical journey. Maybe you all saw how tired and unfocused I was when we talked or when I tried to complete a task at work. I had convinced myself I was doing "okay."
But my blood pressure, in the days leading up to surgery, told another story. I was like the proverbial baby duck ... calm on the topside and little flipper feet paddling frantically and like hell to escape some underwater creature that could eat me.
Fog Horn (Leg Horn. Marco! Corn Hole!)
 |
| Thank you to the amazing human on the right, my mom Vikki Weiss, for taking care of me this past week following surgery. You mean the world to me. |
The fuzzy feelings are probably just me trying to process the tornadic medical and emotional journey I've been on, especially since March 17 when I was diagnosed with Stage One uterine cancer. Not only was I trying to grapple with the fear of the diagnosis, but also the outpouring support from so many friends and family.
Thank you, all, for everything you've done. You've been with me (literally) at my April 12 oncology appointment and at my side when I went into surgery, you've arranged and generously contributed to a fundraiser that has removed all financial worry and you are checking in on me post-surgery.
That kind of support -- something I've never needed before in my life -- has been overwhelming. To feel so much like and love from you has made me tilt, like a pinball machine. I am temporarily short-circuited. I'm hiding a bit because I don't know what to say. "Thank you" sounds insufficient. "Thank you so very much" sounds pat and uncreative. "Thank you so fucking much," crass.
What words do I use to express the profound feelings that I don't know I've experienced before? Or that I didn't recognize in my younger years? Good thing this happened at what likely is a bit past the middle of my life or I would be too dense to get how blessed I am.
Instead, I'm just gobsmacked and nearly stone silent by it all.
I don't even have good jokes to deflect and hide my discomfort. I have a joke (Fog Horn. Leg Horn! Marco! Corn Hole!). But almost nobody will get it except, maybe, a couple of my cousins in Illinois. But I'm so uncomfortable and grateful I had to include it. And then I had to talk about how nobody will get it. (You see where this circular thinking is going ...)
The Surgery
 |
| My cancer has not been staged yet, beyond "Stage One." I don't know if I had "Stage 1A," shown here, but wanted to provide an idea of where/what was done. Check out Cancer.gov for more information and images (this image from that site). |
I was scheduled on April 12 for surgery for Stage One uterine cancer. Because I had an ovary that was all messed up, the plan was to remove my ovaries, fallopian tubes, uterus, and cervix. In addition, the plot included removal of the first lymph node on either side of my pelvis. While I was in surgery, all my naughty bits were going to be sent to pathology. If anything showed additional cancer(s), my oncologist would search my body cavity for cancer and take samples from particular spots in my body.
The same-day/surgery pathology report provided better-than-expected news. My ovary only had a cyst. No borderline tumor, a nasty little trickster of a thing that can look and act like cancer, but isn't.
No cancer beyond Stage One in the uterus. In fact, and surprisingly to me, the pathologist only found precancerous cells in the uterus. I'm unclear on whether that means there isn't even Stage One, but I'll find that out later this week when my doctor calls with the full pathology report.
For now, the thought is that I'm done. No chemo. Cancer-free. Just a follow-along with my oncologist for the next five years after which I will "graduate" from cancer patient to cancer survivor. I'm looking forward to that.
Extra Information .... SLN: Not SNL
Because there was no cancer in the ovary and because the uterus was better than expected, my lymph nodes were not removed. Typically, lymph nodes are removed (called "lymphadenectomy") to help doctors properly identify the stage of cancer, figure out next treatment steps, and so on. Instead of this, the team did "Sentinel Lymph Node (SLN ... Not SNL!) mapping."SLN is a newer way to figure out if cancer has spread from its original spot (in my case, uterus) into the lymph system -- a connected chain of bean-shaped glands that are part of your immune system. The system moves nutrition and waste between your organs and tissues to your blood system.
When you have SLN done, you get loaded up with blue dye. The surgical team looks to see if your lymph nodes light up, indicating cancer cells have made it into this drainage system. If the first lymph gland glows, then the team looks to see if the second gland glows. If there's no glow, you're good to go. The cancer probably hasn't metastasized (spread) and escaped the uterus into the near wilds of your body cavity.
The good news about SLN is that it's turning out to be pretty darn reliable at helping stage cancer AND it means the patient has an easier recovery and with less "lymphadema," a swelling of the lymph nodes due to poor drainage of the system.
SLN -- because of the dye -- does mean you pee blue for a while. That can be disconcerting until the nurse tells you what is up. My pee is almost yellow again.
A Dream and a Guardian Angel
 |
| My guardian angel, Liza Gould, in a stunning photo by Doug Metzler, her sweetest. |
When I started to wake up, I was shivering. The recovery room nurses wrapped me up in deliciously warm blankets. My whole body was swaddled in heavy, warm fabric. Even my head. I had a vision of George Costanza, of Seinfeld, ensconced in velvet when I was snuggled up.
I was in an anesthetic haze and the blankets on my head made it difficult to hear the nurses. But I thought I heard my nurse, while she was calling the observation unit to let them know they were almost ready to send me to that unit, say: "Yes. Her name is Stephanie. But she goes by 'Liza.' "
My thought was that I was clearly hearing things. Who is named "Stephanie" and goes by "Liza?" That is a nickname that makes zero sense. I do go by "Stephanie," "Steffi," and "Steff." But "Liza?"
I know exactly one person in my life named Liza, and she passed away several years ago. Liza Gould was one of my college roommates. We met through the University of Minnesota Crew Team when we both were rowers. We got along smashingly and became roommates during and after college. We remained friends over the years and became part of one another's families. I knew all her relatives and spent weekends with her when she'd visit certain of her cousins. I helped her move from Minnesota to Washington State where she could pursue her dreams of becoming a skilled ocean kayaker (and she was among the highest rated paddlers in the nation). We visited one another regularly. We stayed connected.
The night she was fighting for her life after a near-drowning, which did end up causing her death, I kept dreaming she was drowning. I woke up over and over that night. Each time I awoke, I was gasping for air. I was holding my breath while dreaming of her drowning. I woke up at 4:30 a.m. with a fear for her that was so deep. So overwhelming. I checked Facebook and the first post on my feed was that she had died overnight of drowning.
Demon Warriors
 |
| Ms. Marvel, aka Carol Danvers, soars through the air. (Photo source: The Frame) |
Form of a diving falcon was way better for dodging invisible demons than that of a hawk riding an updraft with wings outstretched. But Liza. She wasn't good at flying yet. She was floating in the air, upright, as you would if you were floating in water in a life vest. In fact, she was wearing her life vest. I taught her how to fly and, together, we evaded the demons. I also got her to ditch that life vest because she didn't need it anymore.
We worked out a strategy and rhythm where we would climb high into the air, arms in front of us like Superman, so the demons could get tight on our heels. Then we'd abruptly start a downward dive. We'd pull our arms back and to our sides and rocket for the pavement. The sound of air rushing past our ears was deafening but we could still hear the demons behind us, squealing in anger. Right before we crashed into the pavement, demons just about to grab our heels, we'd pull up and climb back into the air. The demons wouldn't have time to respond and they would splatter all over the tar. They'd shatter into tiny bits, burning up from the friction caused by flying so fast through air.
Together, Liza and I evaded the demons.
I believe that Liza was with me during my surgery, just as she was with me while I slept and dreamt that night. I believe that we are still so intertwined that she helped me mentally prepare for and get through surgery.
Those of you who know me well and who work with me (Rebecca! Ann! Mary-Margaret! Dan! Don!) know that I'm not a linear person. My perception of time and events sometimes is a confounding mix for others when I try to explain my reasons for a decision or context for an idea. You know I think in pictures and that sometimes the pictures flit through my brain so fast that I can't keep track.
I can say that I believe I named myself "Liza" to the medical staff because my dear friend helped me through these past weeks and, because, in those moments, my guardian angel and I were one. Teammates. Pulling in the same direction.
Recovery
My mom was with me, babysitting, until yesterday. I'm so damn fortunate. She cooked and cleaned. Carried things for me. It was so fantastic to have her here. She's a great mommy and a good friend.
I'm supposed to get up and move to help foster healing. Later today I will mosey down to the grocery store that is a couple of blocks away. I'll get a couple of things for dinner tonight. Not too much because I can't carry more than 10 pounds for the next several weeks.
Then, on May 9, I see my doctor for a post-surgery appointment.
I'll keep you in the loop.
Thank you, again, for your overwhelming and kind support.
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