Thursday, May 1, 2014

A Short, reflective post.

It has officially been six months since the last time I had a large intestine.  It's been seven months and a day since I received the cancer diagnosis that led to me parting ways with my large intestine, with whom I have for years had a tumultuous, codependent relationship.

It sounds like a cliche to say a lot has happened in the last six months.  A cliche and a lie.  I got the news. I wept. I raged.  I laid awake at night, contemplating my mortality.  I went into surgery, I came out of surgery, seven pounds of colon lighter.  I recovered, gradually.  Once, in a morphine haze, I advised my child who was dealing with a schoolyard bully to "just hit her."  

Parenting while on heavy painkillers is interesting, to say the least.

My tumor is currently still making the rounds somewhere in Utah, as geneticists search for the underlying cause as to why a 33-year-old woman would end up with colon cancer.

It was a great day when I heard the words "Stage One."

I got off the pain meds.  I started eating regular food again.  Mostly, anyway.  Some foods are less forgiving than they once were.  I went back to work.

I still worry.  A little part of me dreads September, when I will go in for my one-year scope.  By the way, I feel like the most popular girl at the ball, since it seems every doctor I've spoken with wants to get up in my junk with that sigmoidoscope.

Over half a year since my life changed, and yet, not much feels different.

2 comments:

  1. Back in '09 I had a malignant tumor removed from my left eye socket, my third bout with cancer (I've had breast and cervical, too.) The surgeon saved my eye but warned me that if it came back I'd probably be shopping for a pirate patch. Couple years later I started having the same symptons (burning, itching, tearing) and I *knew* it would be bad news again. It was Christmas, too, and I could just see me wrecking the holidays with more surgery, again with the chemo, etc. I almost put it off because I just wasn't ready for round #4, but early detection has saved my ass more than once, so I got an emergency appt.

    During the very painful exam that followed the doc took a pair of tweezers and plucked out of my eye a practically invisible, 1/4" long white eyelash that had grown backwards under my lid and was rubbing against my cornea, producing the symptoms.

    Once you've been to the show you learn to expect the punches and even how to roll with them, but sometimes it's not the worst. Sometimes it's just a stupid ingrown eyelash.



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    1. I hear you on early detection. Ever since procrastinating on going to the doctor for some leg pain and other symptoms nearly killed me when I was 18, I get stuff checked out. I spend at lot of time in emerg, but a few times, it's been worth going.

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