It's Been 8 Weeks Since My Surgery!

Time is flying by. It's been eight weeks since I had my total hysterectomy and I'm actually finding it hard to believe I had anything done, other than the nicely healing scars on my stomach. Hitting the eight week mark is a big deal because it means I'm no longer under any restrictions. I can lift things, I can take a bath, I can go to one of the places I like to relax and soak and sauna, I can have sex (maybe that's tmi, but let's get real, it's a fact of life), and I no longer have to fear any of the possible worst-case scenario things that might have gone wrong after surgery. I did it. I'm free and clear and it was actually not nearly as hard as I thought it would be. I think because we prepared for all of the possibilities we'd heard about or read about, it was a huge relief when none of them happened. Whew!

Tonight I prepared a bath with a blend of sea salts from around the world, epsom salt, and some of each of the essential oils that I've been using under the guidance of a friend that help folks with cancer. *In case you are wondering, I use Frankincense and Geranium oil.* I started out listening to my Indigo Girls Pandora station, but during the second song, Sarah McLachlan's "Building a Mystery", the wifi connection cut out. Sigh. Talk about a mood killer. I was just starting to relax and had to dry my hands and open itunes instead. I scanned my album options and decided on Beck's Sea Change, an album that I've been listening to a lot lately.

It was really nice to lay in the warm water, smelling the oils, while thinking about how quickly time has been passing. Tomorrow is chemo treatment number six. Wowzers. That means I have twelve weeks left. That may seem like a lot, but I'm a third of the way through treatment. I'm stoked. I also found myself thinking about a conversation my wife and I had just had, about a possible road trip in August across the country, to visit my late-grandmother's house before my Aunt sells it. My mom recently told me that someone had shown interest in buying the old family farm and I realized that my grandmother's belongings that had remained after her passing would most likely be lost when that happened.

I'm interested in seeing what still remains of the lives of the women who came before me. Because I am genetically linked to my great-grandmother who died from endometrial cancer at the age of twenty-one, this has become and even more important mission. She never lived in the house, but my she lived down the street and my grandmother and mother both did. That house and its contents are all that I have left of that part of my genetic history.

I am hoping to retrieve certain items to bring back with me. My grandmother made most of her clothing, as well as quilts from those dresses once they had worn out. There will be photos and hopefully paperwork or letters of some kind. It is a bit of a treasure hunt, because I haven't been there since I was 13 and I'm going to be 47 this month. As I am planning a series of work around the subject of my cancer and the women in my family, I feel I need to do this. I feel I need closure on that part of my life, on the place where my brother and I were forced to spend every summer when we were growing up.

Many memories have been flooding back to me ever since we started discussing this journey. No one in their right mind wants to go to the south in the summer time. It means horrendously humid heat and there is no air conditioning at my grandmother's house. I remember it well. I was that fat kid who just sat and couldn't stop sweating, no matter what I wore or what I did. It was awful. I also have pleasant memories of eating sweet watermelon in the backyard and watching my mom and Uncle sprinkle salt on it. My cousins and I would forage for blackberries and return scratched up, but proud. My mom would make blackberry cobbler and we would sit around the kitchen table and eat it with vanilla ice milk. I also have fond memories of sitting on the concrete porch and the porch swing, where we would spend endless hours chatting or listening to thunder storms when they rolled in.

In this place in time, I am focusing on those positive memories. I'm allowing myself to be sentimental and thinking only of my connection to these women who I either never knew at all, my great-grandmother, Laura Ann, or the woman who was so serious she scared me into avoiding her as a child, my grandmother, Maggie May. What is important to me now is the link between us and the genetics and history we share. I want to acknowledge them, the place where my mom grew up, and where I am from. I want to stand on that porch one more time and listen as a thunder storm rolls in. I want to marvel at the red clay road that leads to the house, take some beautiful photographs, and then say goodbye. Fingers crossed, we're going to make it happen.

Three Down, Fifteen To Go

Yesterday I completed my third chemo session, which means I have completed one three-week cycle. Week one I receive two drugs and week two and three I receive one drug. And then we start all over again the following week. This will continue until we have completed six cycles, or eighteen weeks total. I've decided to start counting down from eighteen, so it will feel like the numbers are getting smaller, rather than starting smaller and working my way up. For whatever reason that is making me feel better from a psychological standpoint.

I am very fortunate that I haven't really had any negative reaction to the chemo drugs so far. I feel pretty good during the day and am able to accomplish small tasks without any issues. I know to expect to hit the wall, so to speak, in the afternoon/early evening. I just feel tired and want to do things that don't require much mental or physical activity. Yesterday, when I hit that point of being done with the day's activities, we watched episodes of Orange is the New Black and snacked on popcorn and kale chips.

I've been using some of my current energy to plan artwork and collaborative pieces for a series of artwork that will be about my illness, as well as my surgery and loss of my "lady parts". I roped Sam into working on it with me and now we have two other friends collaborating with us. It makes me feel good to be working with other female friends who work in different mediums on this. So far there will be photography, fibers, mixed-media, and ceramic work included. I am really excited about it and am hoping to find a gallery in San Francisco that will be interested in giving us a show. I was also considering Seattle, but SF is my first choice.

I spoke of my three-week chemo cycles. My friend Maria will be photographing me at the end of each cycle to document my physical appearance as I move through this process. There will be six portraits total. There will be a few other pieces that are personal, but otherwise we are working on expressing universal ideas and feelings that represent women who have had hysterectomies and also the notion of what makes a woman a woman. I've been asked if losing my "lady parts" means I am less of a woman. I say anyone who puts individual parts above the whole of a person is missing the big picture. If my doctor told me tomorrow that I needed a double-mastectomy because I was at high-risk for breast cancer, I wouldn't even hesitate to say yes.

Why do breasts or a uterus define a woman's worth? I recently was told of a woman who was diagnosed with breast cancer who was refusing surgery because she couldn't live with the thought of not having breasts anymore. Now that I am looking at things from the other side of a cancer diagnosis, I would never refuse a surgery needed to save my life. Don't get me wrong, I don't blindly follow what I'm told to do, but I thoroughly research things and ask questions and make informed decisions. Refusing a life-saving surgery because others want to define my worth by my breasts or other bits is something I couldn't reconcile. I also am fortunate enough to have a spouse who prioritizes my health and well-being over whether or not I have certain body parts. She sees me as a whole person and would never love me less because I had my breasts removed or, like my current situation, had a total hysterectomy.

I am really excited to see where this series of artwork takes us. So many great ideas have already presented themselves and I know there will be more as the weeks and months of chemotherapy go on. It's a great way to distract ourselves and keep ourselves busy during our down time. Yes, there will be a lot of uterus-related work, but then that is the center of where this whole new reality started for me. There is no room for feeling shame over talking about lady parts. If anything, we need to be more open and able to discuss them in public in order to guarantee cancer-screenings and health care for all. Early detection is what saves lives and I am a prime example of that. The word uterus should not bring shame to anyone, although I have made a grown man blush by simply uttering the word out loud in front of him. I'm actually pretty proud of that moment, because he is the kind of guy who thinks we just shouldn't talk about such things. I disagree, obviously.

Say it with me, "uterus, uterus, uterus". See? It isn't really a big deal, now is it?

Support Via Mustache Silliness

When I was in the hospital for my hysterectomy, I gave Sam permission to draw a mustache on me (while I was asleep) and then post it on Facebook, for the amusement of our friends. Little did I know that when I finally woke up around 1:45am, after a small blood transfusion, Sam would tell me I should see what had been happening on Facebook all day while I slept. I could barely contain my joy, seeing all of the friends who started posting "mustache selfies" in solidarity with me. This blog entry is simply about these images that flooded my Facebook page, the love I felt, and the laughter that ensued. Thank you to each and every person who took the time to cheer me up and join in on the silliness. <3

Photo of me by Sam MacKenzie
(the googly eyes made me giggle).

Back to the Hospital We Go aka Pre-Chemo Adventures

We have spent the past week reading and preparing for chemo. Part of that was mental preparation and part of it was working with physical realities, such as getting my tattoo before killing off my immune system and getting my port installed. A port is installed in your chest in order to allow techs to simply plug you in, instead of having the start a new i.v. with every visit. This preserves your veins when you are facing a long series of treatments, like I am. It also is easier for all involved.

At first I was not thrilled at the idea of having something implanted in me. It reminded me too much of my father's pacemaker, something that had always creeped me out. Once the doctor's assistant explained how it worked and how easy it would make things for me, I got on board with it. Yesterday I arrived at the hospital at 5:30am in order to have the procedure done. As always, my doctor was awesome and reassured me that it was a very minor surgery in comparison with my hysterectomy. It was going to be a 45 minute procedure and everything was going to over in a jiff.

Checking in at the hospital.

More paperwork.

Before his arrival, I had been prepped and left waiting a little bit too long. I'm still not sure why it took longer than it was supposed to, but it gave me just enough time to let a few negative thoughts creep in. I was lying in the bed, feeling the itch and burn from the anti-bacterial wipes you have to use on your entire body before you put on your gown and they do all of your vitals. I kept feeling the i.v. placed in the top of my hand. It is one of my least favorite sensations, even though I know it is there for my own good and is temporary. I started to think about everything that lies ahead and yes, it started to mess with me.

Getting another i.v.

The previous day I had been through acupuncture, hypnosis (aka guided meditation and positive reinforcement), and had a relaxing massage. I had been feeling relaxed and at peace with everything and all it took was an extra hour or so of waiting in that bed, burning and uncomfortable, to lead me down the path of feeling a little bit melancholy. Fortunately, it didn't hang around long. Sam and I just used the time to talk about how everything was going to be okay and how fortunate we are to be going into this with what we have. The point is, yes, I can write all of the funny and inspirational things I want to, but negative thoughts and feelings will sneak in. I'm not impervious to feeling down or upset. The difference is in being able to redirect yourself. In my mind, it's the only way to make it through obstacles in life without getting caught in a vicious cycle of pity parties and depressing thoughts.

Waiting.

Once they finally came to get me, I was sedated with a drug that they were able to wake me easily from. As with my last surgery, I only remember being rolled down the hallway into the surgical suite and then being told I was being given something to help me relax as they helped me scoot onto the operating table. Boom, I was out. Last time I could see the robotics and was on a molded table, this time it was a simple gurney-like table. I woke up, realizing that it was over, and was wheeled back to my prep room to wake up, instead of spending an hour or so in recovery like last time. It was an odd sensation.

Sam was there and I could really feel the pain. My neck felt as if someone was stabbing my in my jugular. I instantly wanted pain meds. It's funny when you consider last time I'd had a major surgery and only wanted a minor amount of pain meds when things got painful. This was a different kind of pain. I also think it is because the other pain was a lot like typical cramping, which I'd had a lifetime of experience dealing with, while this was a more intense pain that I was not accustomed to feeling. I should also say that I don't do neck pain or headaches well. I admit it.

Sam and I.

The nurse gave me oxycodone and I waited for it to kick in. I lay there hurting and Sam held my hand. At least I knew it was over and things would only get better after that. I was sent home after an hour or so and other than the tape holding everything in place and the pain, I managed to move decently well. I found out that they have to make an incision in your neck in order to feed the line through, and that was what was hurting so badly. I looked in the mirror and sighed. I could see what they'd done and my job was to figure out ways to stay as comfortable as possible.

Can't wait to go home and not be looking at this anymore.

I spent the rest of the day lying in bed, watching Bob's Burgers and dreaming about the pizza we were going to have as a reward for dinner. I had finally gotten over my nausea and food was tasting good again. I wanted to take advantage of it while I could. Everything I've heard/read about chemo tells tales of people losing their sense of taste or having a metallic aftertaste that won't go away. Add to that the very real probability of some serious nausea and stomach upset and you'll understand why I was excited to eat pizza while it would still be delicious and satisfying. And it was.

We had to complete an on-line chemo class and then it was time to get some rest before our 8:30am check in for chemo in the morning. At least the oxycodone, pizza, and knowledge that the surgery was over and I just had to go and sit while they pumped me full of drugs helped me to relax and fall asleep. Two sleep deprived nights in a row would have only led to more negative thoughts and crabbiness. Fortunately, that didn't happen. Sleep was my friend and once again, I found myself being thankful for the little things. I also found myself finding solace in the words of Maya Angelou, a woman I have long admired and who had passed away that same day.

“I've learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow. I've learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things: a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights. I've learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents, you'll miss them when they're gone from your life. I've learned that making a "living" is not the same thing as making a "life." I've learned that life sometimes gives you a second chance. I've learned that you shouldn't go through life with a catcher's mitt on both hands; you need to be able to throw something back. I've learned that whenever I decide something with an open heart, I usually make the right decision. I've learned that even when I have pains, I don't have to be one. I've learned that every day you should reach out and touch someone. People love a warm hug, or just a friendly pat on the back. I've learned that I still have a lot to learn. I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” - Maya Angelou