Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Hip Bone's Connected to the...Thigh Bone (isn't it?)
And so I've been having some hip pain for the last few days, which seemed to feel worse as I either twisted while putting weight on my left leg, or tried to roll over in bed.
Normally I would chalk it up to random soreness (like the pain in my shoulder I think comes from sleeping on my arm in a wonky manner), but I refuse to blow off pain in my hips, especially after the ordeal in 2005 which left me with pelvis crumbs, requiring a month-long stay in the hospital after seven months of useless and ineffective treatment, and required a move to an apartment without lots of stairs.
I was going to call my nurse practitioner about it in a few days if the pain hadn't gone away, but at infusion today the chemo nurse asked if I was having any pain. So I admitted that I was, that it wasn't bad, but I was wondering if I should get an ex-ray or something. So I spoke to the PA, who set me up with ex-rays right away. They got a wheelchair for me--it was very wide; I felt compelled to make beeping noises as we rolled down the hallway--because they didn't want my hip to blow out as I was on my way for a diagnostic test.
The results did show some "activity." Unlike the last time, the part that's becoming a little spongy is the spot connecting the main part of my left femur with the ball joint that fits into the socket of the pelvis. I think there's also some damage on the top ridge of my pelvis. The PA told me I'd need more precise scans--which I am hoping do NOT include a CT with contrast dye because IVs are eeeeeeeeeeevil--and I'll be set up with an appointment to see the orthopedic surgeon. I saw her once before when I began treatment at U of M. There was noting to be done about my pelvis then, but there might be something to be done to "shore up" my femur.
I've got a cane now because I really don't want to tote a dorky old-person walker with me wherever I go. I need one of the hot-rod walkers that have the hand-brakes and built-in seat.
Normally I would chalk it up to random soreness (like the pain in my shoulder I think comes from sleeping on my arm in a wonky manner), but I refuse to blow off pain in my hips, especially after the ordeal in 2005 which left me with pelvis crumbs, requiring a month-long stay in the hospital after seven months of useless and ineffective treatment, and required a move to an apartment without lots of stairs.
I was going to call my nurse practitioner about it in a few days if the pain hadn't gone away, but at infusion today the chemo nurse asked if I was having any pain. So I admitted that I was, that it wasn't bad, but I was wondering if I should get an ex-ray or something. So I spoke to the PA, who set me up with ex-rays right away. They got a wheelchair for me--it was very wide; I felt compelled to make beeping noises as we rolled down the hallway--because they didn't want my hip to blow out as I was on my way for a diagnostic test.
The results did show some "activity." Unlike the last time, the part that's becoming a little spongy is the spot connecting the main part of my left femur with the ball joint that fits into the socket of the pelvis. I think there's also some damage on the top ridge of my pelvis. The PA told me I'd need more precise scans--which I am hoping do NOT include a CT with contrast dye because IVs are eeeeeeeeeeevil--and I'll be set up with an appointment to see the orthopedic surgeon. I saw her once before when I began treatment at U of M. There was noting to be done about my pelvis then, but there might be something to be done to "shore up" my femur.
I've got a cane now because I really don't want to tote a dorky old-person walker with me wherever I go. I need one of the hot-rod walkers that have the hand-brakes and built-in seat.
Labels: CT scan, hip, infusion, IV, Lita, stairs, walker, wheelchair, x-rays
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
A Familiar Problem "Rears" Its Ugly Head
I thought my news to report would be about scan results. It was getting time to post something; no fewer than four individual people (not including Brian) contacted me wanting to know how my scans went.
The bone scan was the same as last time, one blobule in the liver might be larger. The chest scan shows two teensy nodules which may be new, or may have been missed by previous scans. This past Tuesday it was decided that I would switch chemotherapies.
This past Tuesday was NOT my usual day to see Lita and Dr. Hayes. The reason I went in on what would have been a day at work, is that over the weekend I started experiencing rear-endal discomfort. Again. This time it was decidedly odd; it felt like my muscles were spasming and just couldn't relax. Oh, and last Thursday at work I peed a blood clot. And again on Sunday. Then Monday night my butt issues became decidedly even more uncomfortable, despite the ibuprofen and the sitz baths.
So Lita asked me to come in to be poked and prodded.
At the appointment (which was at noon), we decided to switch up chemotherapies because it looks like Abraxane just isn't working any more. (A year is not at all a bad run with a chemotherapy drug, so this isn't terrible.) I was offered the choice of Xeloda, which is chemo in pill form--and is purported to not cause hair loss--or Adriamycin, one of the ol' standbys for treating breast cancer, which has a ghastly reputation although Lita claims the side effects aren't that bad given how they will treat me.
I thought about it, and had eyebrows--glorious eyebrows!--briefly in my grasp. I asked for Xeloda. Then Dr. Hayes reconsidered based on the mouth sores Xeloda can cause; such sores can occur at the other end, too, and in light of my recurring discomfort, he doesn't want me to have it.
Then they asked me to go to the emergency room for further evaluation, since ailments of the behind are out of their realm of expertise. Brian and I went to lunch then went back to the ER to go to the hospital.
First we sat in a waiting room for a while. Then they came and took several vials of blood and wanted a urine sample. Then we went and sat in the combined patient/visitor waiting room for a couple of hours. Then I was called and they took us to a room where I changed into a gown. Then the fun began. Periodically technicians would come to take my vitals; I always have to explain the blood pressure issue (right forearm only). I got very thirsty and was not allowed water, although eventually somebody brought me a small cup of ice chips. A doctor came and got detailed information, then, after conferring with Lita, decided more cultures were needed so they would know what kind of exams they could do. So somebody came to access my port and get more blood--those were some of the biggest honkin' vials I've ever seen. Somebody also came with lidocaine gel, which should help soothe the discomfort and not have the icky effects I had with the last tube of cream the ER people gave me (nitroglycerin). After deciding my neutrophil count was too low, the doctor decided on a CT scan, but told me the barium wouldn't be necessary. I gave her two big thumbs up and decided I could bear the agony of the iodine contrast since there was to be no barfium! Woohoo!
About an hour later, a nurse walked in shaking a bottle of barium.
I cried.
Then someone came to try to insert an IV for the contrast. Tried, failed, and had to go get someone else. The man who came next pored over my arm for a while, and concluded he couldn't find a vein, so would have to call someone who has an ultrasound machine that helps find veins. About an hour (and a bottle of barium later) the new technician came by and when informed that I had a port, told me the ultrasound method was best for finding deep veins in the location where my port is, so wouldn't work for me. She did the painful tapping thing on my arm and was able to find a vein in my hand, so I finally got my IV.
In the meantime, the doctor came by again. By this time it was about 9p.m. She explained to me that the barium was necessary after all--or so she had been convinced by the radiologist--because otherwise if there was an abscess (I was pretty sure I didn't have one of THOSE), it wouldn't show up as distinct from any liquid contents of the bowels. She also informed me that since they wanted to be sure the barium had gone all the way through, I'd have to wait until after having a bowel movement before they could do the scan.
"Usually that happens about 3-4 hours after patients drink the barium preparation."
It wasn't enough that I, a patient in the ER with an observed fissure, was going to have to deal with the unpleasant aftereffects of barium knowing it was going to hurt like a mofo coming out, but finding out I was going to be at the hospital until the ridiculously wee hours was the final straw. I had a 9a.m. meeting scheduled for Wednesday. This couldn't be happening.
So we waited. My stomach burbled. We watched tv. Brian went to get himself a candy bar. Finally the nurse came and told me I'd have to provide another urine sample. I suspect it was a ruse to get me to the bathroom, but I can't be sure. In any case, the barium (painfully) did its work, and I got sent for the CT scan.
When the scan was over, the doctor came back to the room and told me her shift ended hours ago and that she was going home, but that I would have to wait 45 more minutes for the CT scan results.
"I can see you're upset," she said. "I can't blame you."
She could SEE I was upset because I had a nasty expression on my face and was a seething pile of misery and impotent rage. If my hand had not been impaired by an IV and my butt hadn't felt so bad, I would have launched out of the bed and throttled her.
She said she had explained my situation to her colleague, had left a prescription for a larger tube of gel, and that she was sorry I had to be there so late.
You and me both, lady.
The other doctor came by with the scan results when I had gotten up to go use the restroom again. I made sure to slam the door as loudly as I could and looked for supplies to pilfer.
There was no abscess. I know my doctors want to do the responsible thing and fully investigate things that could implode in my innards and kill me, but I am not submitting to this kind of marathon-ER thing again. I should have walked out when the barium walked in. We spent over twelve F*cking hours at the ER, and came away with "nope, no abscess" and a damn tube of gel. It was past two when we got home. And because of the lovely effects of drinking two bottles of stuff that insists on leaving your body in the most unpleasant way possible, I was not in bed until about 3:30.
I was so tired and disoriented when I got up this morning at 7 (I needed time to get ready for the day of work I absolutely could not miss--and I actually did make it in time. I deserve a medal) that when I staggered into the bathroom first thing to pee, I got very confused about a sensation of numbness when wiping myself that I just couldn't account for at first.
Until I noticed that I hadn't actually managed to pull down my underwear.
I hate the f*cking ER.
The bone scan was the same as last time, one blobule in the liver might be larger. The chest scan shows two teensy nodules which may be new, or may have been missed by previous scans. This past Tuesday it was decided that I would switch chemotherapies.
This past Tuesday was NOT my usual day to see Lita and Dr. Hayes. The reason I went in on what would have been a day at work, is that over the weekend I started experiencing rear-endal discomfort. Again. This time it was decidedly odd; it felt like my muscles were spasming and just couldn't relax. Oh, and last Thursday at work I peed a blood clot. And again on Sunday. Then Monday night my butt issues became decidedly even more uncomfortable, despite the ibuprofen and the sitz baths.
So Lita asked me to come in to be poked and prodded.
At the appointment (which was at noon), we decided to switch up chemotherapies because it looks like Abraxane just isn't working any more. (A year is not at all a bad run with a chemotherapy drug, so this isn't terrible.) I was offered the choice of Xeloda, which is chemo in pill form--and is purported to not cause hair loss--or Adriamycin, one of the ol' standbys for treating breast cancer, which has a ghastly reputation although Lita claims the side effects aren't that bad given how they will treat me.
I thought about it, and had eyebrows--glorious eyebrows!--briefly in my grasp. I asked for Xeloda. Then Dr. Hayes reconsidered based on the mouth sores Xeloda can cause; such sores can occur at the other end, too, and in light of my recurring discomfort, he doesn't want me to have it.
Then they asked me to go to the emergency room for further evaluation, since ailments of the behind are out of their realm of expertise. Brian and I went to lunch then went back to the ER to go to the hospital.
First we sat in a waiting room for a while. Then they came and took several vials of blood and wanted a urine sample. Then we went and sat in the combined patient/visitor waiting room for a couple of hours. Then I was called and they took us to a room where I changed into a gown. Then the fun began. Periodically technicians would come to take my vitals; I always have to explain the blood pressure issue (right forearm only). I got very thirsty and was not allowed water, although eventually somebody brought me a small cup of ice chips. A doctor came and got detailed information, then, after conferring with Lita, decided more cultures were needed so they would know what kind of exams they could do. So somebody came to access my port and get more blood--those were some of the biggest honkin' vials I've ever seen. Somebody also came with lidocaine gel, which should help soothe the discomfort and not have the icky effects I had with the last tube of cream the ER people gave me (nitroglycerin). After deciding my neutrophil count was too low, the doctor decided on a CT scan, but told me the barium wouldn't be necessary. I gave her two big thumbs up and decided I could bear the agony of the iodine contrast since there was to be no barfium! Woohoo!
About an hour later, a nurse walked in shaking a bottle of barium.
I cried.
Then someone came to try to insert an IV for the contrast. Tried, failed, and had to go get someone else. The man who came next pored over my arm for a while, and concluded he couldn't find a vein, so would have to call someone who has an ultrasound machine that helps find veins. About an hour (and a bottle of barium later) the new technician came by and when informed that I had a port, told me the ultrasound method was best for finding deep veins in the location where my port is, so wouldn't work for me. She did the painful tapping thing on my arm and was able to find a vein in my hand, so I finally got my IV.
In the meantime, the doctor came by again. By this time it was about 9p.m. She explained to me that the barium was necessary after all--or so she had been convinced by the radiologist--because otherwise if there was an abscess (I was pretty sure I didn't have one of THOSE), it wouldn't show up as distinct from any liquid contents of the bowels. She also informed me that since they wanted to be sure the barium had gone all the way through, I'd have to wait until after having a bowel movement before they could do the scan.
"Usually that happens about 3-4 hours after patients drink the barium preparation."
It wasn't enough that I, a patient in the ER with an observed fissure, was going to have to deal with the unpleasant aftereffects of barium knowing it was going to hurt like a mofo coming out, but finding out I was going to be at the hospital until the ridiculously wee hours was the final straw. I had a 9a.m. meeting scheduled for Wednesday. This couldn't be happening.
So we waited. My stomach burbled. We watched tv. Brian went to get himself a candy bar. Finally the nurse came and told me I'd have to provide another urine sample. I suspect it was a ruse to get me to the bathroom, but I can't be sure. In any case, the barium (painfully) did its work, and I got sent for the CT scan.
When the scan was over, the doctor came back to the room and told me her shift ended hours ago and that she was going home, but that I would have to wait 45 more minutes for the CT scan results.
"I can see you're upset," she said. "I can't blame you."
She could SEE I was upset because I had a nasty expression on my face and was a seething pile of misery and impotent rage. If my hand had not been impaired by an IV and my butt hadn't felt so bad, I would have launched out of the bed and throttled her.
She said she had explained my situation to her colleague, had left a prescription for a larger tube of gel, and that she was sorry I had to be there so late.
You and me both, lady.
The other doctor came by with the scan results when I had gotten up to go use the restroom again. I made sure to slam the door as loudly as I could and looked for supplies to pilfer.
There was no abscess. I know my doctors want to do the responsible thing and fully investigate things that could implode in my innards and kill me, but I am not submitting to this kind of marathon-ER thing again. I should have walked out when the barium walked in. We spent over twelve F*cking hours at the ER, and came away with "nope, no abscess" and a damn tube of gel. It was past two when we got home. And because of the lovely effects of drinking two bottles of stuff that insists on leaving your body in the most unpleasant way possible, I was not in bed until about 3:30.
I was so tired and disoriented when I got up this morning at 7 (I needed time to get ready for the day of work I absolutely could not miss--and I actually did make it in time. I deserve a medal) that when I staggered into the bathroom first thing to pee, I got very confused about a sensation of numbness when wiping myself that I just couldn't account for at first.
Until I noticed that I hadn't actually managed to pull down my underwear.
I hate the f*cking ER.
Labels: Abraxane, Adriamycin, baldness, barium, bone scan, Brian, CT scan, Dr. Hayes, fissure, hospital, IV, Lita, liver, lungs, Xeloda
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
2.5(Barium) + [1(stab) + contrast] + DQ = (S1x - S2y)/washcloth
It only took one poke for the I.V. to go in yesterday; I was shocked.
Seriously, that never happens. Often even when the I.V. does go in, the vein completely collapses when they try to get a "return". I have no idea what that means, because I can't look at it sticking out of my hand/arm/wherever and usually have my eyes clenched shut when they are doing something involving pointy stabby things.
I do not know when I will have the results; typically Lita gives them to me at the next appointment. So possibly this means next Tuesday, at which point I will find out if my treatment regimen will be completely overhauled. I will find out if my liver is twice the size it's supposed to be (presumably not; one ought to be able to palpate such a thing).
Yesterday after my appointment, I was very cold. The Dairy Queen Blizzard probably didn't help, but we had to stop at Blockbuster on the way home and there was a DQ right there. After Brian left for class, I got even more unbelievably cold. I sat in the living room with the hood on my sweater up, a down throw on my legs, a chenille blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I tried to knit, but when my hands started shaking, I decided to go to bed. So I went to bed with all my layers on, my hood up, and actually pulled the comforter up, which I never do because I'm always too hot at night (thanks, premature menopause). The only part of my body which was warm was my face, so I warmed my hands on it, which will probably do nothing whatsoever to help my acne.
After sleeping a few hours, I woke up burning and started pulling things off. I also started hallucinating and had this very bizarre and abstract idea that I was breathing in different units of a three-dimensional shape than what one normally breathes in, and that without being able to breathe out the non-normal shape, it would build up in my lungs, overwhelm the other shape, and I'd never cool down.
Yes, I hallucinate geometry. Having mathematician parents was destined to wreak havoc with my psyche eventually.
A cold washcloth turned out to be the antidote (to feeling hot, if not to math).
Seriously, that never happens. Often even when the I.V. does go in, the vein completely collapses when they try to get a "return". I have no idea what that means, because I can't look at it sticking out of my hand/arm/wherever and usually have my eyes clenched shut when they are doing something involving pointy stabby things.
I do not know when I will have the results; typically Lita gives them to me at the next appointment. So possibly this means next Tuesday, at which point I will find out if my treatment regimen will be completely overhauled. I will find out if my liver is twice the size it's supposed to be (presumably not; one ought to be able to palpate such a thing).
Yesterday after my appointment, I was very cold. The Dairy Queen Blizzard probably didn't help, but we had to stop at Blockbuster on the way home and there was a DQ right there. After Brian left for class, I got even more unbelievably cold. I sat in the living room with the hood on my sweater up, a down throw on my legs, a chenille blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I tried to knit, but when my hands started shaking, I decided to go to bed. So I went to bed with all my layers on, my hood up, and actually pulled the comforter up, which I never do because I'm always too hot at night (thanks, premature menopause). The only part of my body which was warm was my face, so I warmed my hands on it, which will probably do nothing whatsoever to help my acne.
After sleeping a few hours, I woke up burning and started pulling things off. I also started hallucinating and had this very bizarre and abstract idea that I was breathing in different units of a three-dimensional shape than what one normally breathes in, and that without being able to breathe out the non-normal shape, it would build up in my lungs, overwhelm the other shape, and I'd never cool down.
Yes, I hallucinate geometry. Having mathematician parents was destined to wreak havoc with my psyche eventually.
A cold washcloth turned out to be the antidote (to feeling hot, if not to math).
Labels: Brian, CT scan, Dad, IV, Lita, liver, mom
Monday, April 09, 2007
Barium in T-minus 54 minutes
Blargh, blargh, blargh.
Really it's not the flavor that's quite so bad. Berry barium tastes like berry Tums. It's that barium has this bizarre oily, foamy texture, is difficult to drink quickly, sits in one's gut like a brick, and then tries to exit the body all at once. Horrible.
Then there's the I.V. insertion for the contrast dye: the first attempt to jam a needle into my scarred veins will invariably fail. As will the second. And the third, at which point they are obligated to go get somebody else to try. I will probably end today with multiple stab wounds to the arm.
I'm also hungry and not allowed to eat anything before the test. Now I am imagining that I can feel a dull ache in my liver region, but it's probably that I'm hungry. Of course after consuming a giant pile of barium I won't feel like eating anything, particularly since what gets caught in the barium might try to exit at the same time.
I hope the scan does not show horrible, massive tumor growth. I hate that there is no other way to get this type of data. I've asked whether MRIs or PET or some other scan can do what the CT scan does, but was told no. I'm not entirely sure I believe it; there's probably some sweetheart deal with barium drink manufacturing companies to suppress other imaging technologies so that they can continue to make a profit on making people drink nasty stuff. Or the iodine contrast dye manufacturers, now that people are more likely to have Neosporin than iodine in their medicine cabinets, are holding on for dear life to their monopoly of contrast imaging. It's all about the money; I just know it.
Capitalist bastards.
Really it's not the flavor that's quite so bad. Berry barium tastes like berry Tums. It's that barium has this bizarre oily, foamy texture, is difficult to drink quickly, sits in one's gut like a brick, and then tries to exit the body all at once. Horrible.
Then there's the I.V. insertion for the contrast dye: the first attempt to jam a needle into my scarred veins will invariably fail. As will the second. And the third, at which point they are obligated to go get somebody else to try. I will probably end today with multiple stab wounds to the arm.
I'm also hungry and not allowed to eat anything before the test. Now I am imagining that I can feel a dull ache in my liver region, but it's probably that I'm hungry. Of course after consuming a giant pile of barium I won't feel like eating anything, particularly since what gets caught in the barium might try to exit at the same time.
I hope the scan does not show horrible, massive tumor growth. I hate that there is no other way to get this type of data. I've asked whether MRIs or PET or some other scan can do what the CT scan does, but was told no. I'm not entirely sure I believe it; there's probably some sweetheart deal with barium drink manufacturing companies to suppress other imaging technologies so that they can continue to make a profit on making people drink nasty stuff. Or the iodine contrast dye manufacturers, now that people are more likely to have Neosporin than iodine in their medicine cabinets, are holding on for dear life to their monopoly of contrast imaging. It's all about the money; I just know it.
Capitalist bastards.
Labels: barium, CT scan, IV, liver
Friday, March 30, 2007
Impending Scans and a Departure
Blood test results show one tumor marker down (yay!), one blipped up somewhat (boo!) and my liver function tests show some results that are of enough concern to warrant a new battery of scans, including a bone scan and the ever-popular Barium Barrage, or "CT with contrast" (%$#@!).
I contacted Lita to find out about getting a "power port" but changed my mind when speaking to the scheduling people, who indicated that a power port has to go in the chest and cannot be placed in the arm.
For now I am going to have to live with the agonizing jabby-jab-jab of IV placement for the contrast dye.
Also, I absolutely must resume the Neupogen shots, which are for the purpose of boosting white blood cell counts and feeling like one is being stung by a bee without having to go outside or risk exposure to pollen. And a significant portion of my remaining twelve hairs have decided to shuffle off the mortal coil that is my head.
I contacted Lita to find out about getting a "power port" but changed my mind when speaking to the scheduling people, who indicated that a power port has to go in the chest and cannot be placed in the arm.
For now I am going to have to live with the agonizing jabby-jab-jab of IV placement for the contrast dye.
Also, I absolutely must resume the Neupogen shots, which are for the purpose of boosting white blood cell counts and feeling like one is being stung by a bee without having to go outside or risk exposure to pollen. And a significant portion of my remaining twelve hairs have decided to shuffle off the mortal coil that is my head.
Labels: baldness, barium, blood tests, bone scan, CT scan, hair, IV, Lita, Neupogen, port, tumor marker
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Do the Borg eat ice cream?
This week I will be undergoing a new spate of tests including multiple CT scans and a comprehensive bone scan. This is actually good news: it is Dr. Hayes' opinion that since I am doing so much better now than I was in November when he first saw me, and he wants a new set of baseline tests.
Since I was doing so much better, I asked about whether or not it would be advisable to ride a motorcycle. I wanted to know specifically if the shaking engine would cause my pelvis to fall apart or if I might be ok given smooth roads and a careful rider at the controls.
His face contorted. "Weeeeeell," he said, "I don't want to tell you not to do it if it's something you really feel you want to do, but I'm a doctor and the consequences for you if the bike goes down are really bad."
We regarded each other.
"I won't tell you no, but all I'm saying is if you do, I don't want to know about it," he blurted.
I have since ridden behind Brian on his motorcycle twice, using the helmet that was specifically bought for me and which I'm pretty sure Brian won't want to use (due to the fact that it is pink). I am not graceful getting on and climbing off, but we are working on that and I'm sure I'll get better at it given practice.
Anyway, I have a spate of tests tomorrow, and next week will have a port inserted that will make it easier to draw blood and do the monthly infusion. I hate having an i.v. inserted almost more than anything. They have such difficulty getting the i.v. in the veins in my right arm/hand that when I have to have it done, it takes multiple tries, and is torturously painful. A port should make things easier, but getting the port inserted is some kind of surgery, and I'm nervous about it. Will they knock me out? I tend to react poorly to anesthesia. Will they try to sedate me but keep me conscious? That didn't work AT ALL during my liver biopsy, and the fentanyl patches might interfere with the kind of medication they want to use for that. I'm also slightly freaked out about having a tube in my arm at all times. It seems inhuman to have tubes and things winding their way around the interior of my body. Borg have tubes on the outside, but I can't help feeling that the process has begun.
After having my biological and technological distinctiveness added to the collective, I will immediately get to test out the new port by having my monthly infusion, because by that time they just won't have tortured me enough for one day. Then of course comes the monthly shot in the stomach, the one that renders me menopausal and is the cause of the hot flashes I've been suffering with some increase in frequency.
On the other hand, my acne has finally gone away. It could be my new skin care regimen, but it's probably the hormone therapy. My nausea also seems to finally be under control, although I have not regained my appetite for anything but sweets.
We are Borg; We demand your ice cream and leftover Easter candy.
Since I was doing so much better, I asked about whether or not it would be advisable to ride a motorcycle. I wanted to know specifically if the shaking engine would cause my pelvis to fall apart or if I might be ok given smooth roads and a careful rider at the controls.
His face contorted. "Weeeeeell," he said, "I don't want to tell you not to do it if it's something you really feel you want to do, but I'm a doctor and the consequences for you if the bike goes down are really bad."
We regarded each other.
"I won't tell you no, but all I'm saying is if you do, I don't want to know about it," he blurted.
I have since ridden behind Brian on his motorcycle twice, using the helmet that was specifically bought for me and which I'm pretty sure Brian won't want to use (due to the fact that it is pink). I am not graceful getting on and climbing off, but we are working on that and I'm sure I'll get better at it given practice.
Anyway, I have a spate of tests tomorrow, and next week will have a port inserted that will make it easier to draw blood and do the monthly infusion. I hate having an i.v. inserted almost more than anything. They have such difficulty getting the i.v. in the veins in my right arm/hand that when I have to have it done, it takes multiple tries, and is torturously painful. A port should make things easier, but getting the port inserted is some kind of surgery, and I'm nervous about it. Will they knock me out? I tend to react poorly to anesthesia. Will they try to sedate me but keep me conscious? That didn't work AT ALL during my liver biopsy, and the fentanyl patches might interfere with the kind of medication they want to use for that. I'm also slightly freaked out about having a tube in my arm at all times. It seems inhuman to have tubes and things winding their way around the interior of my body. Borg have tubes on the outside, but I can't help feeling that the process has begun.
After having my biological and technological distinctiveness added to the collective, I will immediately get to test out the new port by having my monthly infusion, because by that time they just won't have tortured me enough for one day. Then of course comes the monthly shot in the stomach, the one that renders me menopausal and is the cause of the hot flashes I've been suffering with some increase in frequency.
On the other hand, my acne has finally gone away. It could be my new skin care regimen, but it's probably the hormone therapy. My nausea also seems to finally be under control, although I have not regained my appetite for anything but sweets.
We are Borg; We demand your ice cream and leftover Easter candy.
Labels: bone scan, Brian, CT scan, Dr. Hayes, fentanyl, hormone therapy, hot flash, IV, liver, motorcycle, nausea, port, star trek
Thursday, February 02, 2006
Phew; where to begin?
So much has happened in the time since my last post. I regret not having been able to chronicle things as they occurred. At this point I think most of the three or so people who read this blog are up to date, but I will try to reconstruct events (to the best of my ability) after the fact.
After my less-than-delightful news about the cause of my joint pain (which just had to be delivered by the incredibly condescending doctor whom I have since given several bad ratings in a mail survey sent to me by Oakwood Westland Family Practice), I intended to soldier on and go about my business. I contacted the University of Michigan Cancer Center, and was told that I would have to supply them with all of the conceivable medical records relating to my initial cancer diagnosis. Slides, mammograms, X-rays, scans, pathology reports, everything.
I was unable to do much of anything besides make phone calls; Brian did most of the collecting. He went to various hospitals and gathered piles of films and scans and CDs. He tried looking at them too, but to a lay person they don't make much sense. The Cancer Center called and said I had an appointment with Dr. Daniel Hayes on November 29. I met the doctor and Lita, his nurse practitioner who both seemed very kind and yet somewhat disquieting. Nobody asked the really dangerous questions, and nobody seemed inclined to provide answers to what remained unasked: how bad is it? How long do I have? What's the prognosis? Will I get better?
What they did do is start setting up appointments like gangbusters. I was to come back the next day to meet with the orthopedic surgeon to find out if surgery would be required for my hip. I was to have the first of my monthly infusions of a bone-strengthening drug and the first injection of the pellet which has by now completely shut down my ovaries (there will not be the pitter-patter of little feet in my future unless the little feet are attached to a puppy), and I was to meet with the radiation oncologist to get "measured" for the radiation treatments.
The next day I was back at the medical center being wheeled around. Good news from the surgeon: no surgery. It wouldn't really help at this point, and radiation would be of more benefit. The infusion was unpleasant, as they always are; the iv lady couldn't get the iv started and after several failed attempts had to get somebody else to do it. The giant needle used to insert the pellet hurt like a m***** f*****. When they say "You might feel a little sting," be prepared for the PAIN.
Finally I went to meet the radiation oncologist, who was oddly smiley, and the radiation people put me on the table, made some marks on my body, and then said something which sounded disturbingly like, "Ok, now we're going to do the tattoos."
"Is that really necessary?" I said. I'd had it with being stabbed for one day.
It wasn't. They were able to make do with stickers, so I avoided acquiring permanent markings as a sign of my treatment. (I did eventually get something of a radiation burn on some very private areas--and suffered some rather interesting hair loss--but the rash went away and I assume the hair will eventually grow back. If not, I'll forever be able to save money on the kind of bikini wax job people pay good money for.)
Sitting up from the table, I started to feel very ill...I am extremely familiar with nausea and started having that extreme saliva production that heralds the onset of, well, the puking. Somebody grabbed a pink tray for me, and I spewed into that for a moment. Of course the involuntary spasms caused no small amount of agony in my hip.
Later that evening, getting into the car, I had trouble turning on my good foot and accidentally put my full weight on the injured side.
Agony.
Every bump in the road compounded it.
Getting out of the car took forever.
Getting up the steps was one of the hardest and most painful things I've ever done; putting any weight at all on my right leg caused horrible, excruciating pain. Dangling the leg and putting no weight on it caused similar, but different pain. Every time I was able to hoist myself onto the next step, my right foot would tap the step as well, causing more agony. About halfway up the staircase I started to feel like my left hip was snapping apart as well. I don't know how I finally made it; Brian tried to help but lifting under my arms didn't work either. I eventually made it onto the landing and it took about a half an hour to go from the front door to the bathroom. From there I went to bed, where I planned to stay the next day.
Before leaving for work the next morning, Brian made sure I would have pills and water nearby, and that I'd have access to a phone. When I woke up and attempted to get out of bed, I was made painfully aware that I was not going to be able to do so. I couldn't get out of bed, much less cross the hall to go to the bathroom or make it down the stairs to any of my radiation appointments. I called Brian and left a message; Brian called Lita and started planning how to get me admitted to UM Hospital's Emergency Room.
To be continued...
After my less-than-delightful news about the cause of my joint pain (which just had to be delivered by the incredibly condescending doctor whom I have since given several bad ratings in a mail survey sent to me by Oakwood Westland Family Practice), I intended to soldier on and go about my business. I contacted the University of Michigan Cancer Center, and was told that I would have to supply them with all of the conceivable medical records relating to my initial cancer diagnosis. Slides, mammograms, X-rays, scans, pathology reports, everything.
I was unable to do much of anything besides make phone calls; Brian did most of the collecting. He went to various hospitals and gathered piles of films and scans and CDs. He tried looking at them too, but to a lay person they don't make much sense. The Cancer Center called and said I had an appointment with Dr. Daniel Hayes on November 29. I met the doctor and Lita, his nurse practitioner who both seemed very kind and yet somewhat disquieting. Nobody asked the really dangerous questions, and nobody seemed inclined to provide answers to what remained unasked: how bad is it? How long do I have? What's the prognosis? Will I get better?
What they did do is start setting up appointments like gangbusters. I was to come back the next day to meet with the orthopedic surgeon to find out if surgery would be required for my hip. I was to have the first of my monthly infusions of a bone-strengthening drug and the first injection of the pellet which has by now completely shut down my ovaries (there will not be the pitter-patter of little feet in my future unless the little feet are attached to a puppy), and I was to meet with the radiation oncologist to get "measured" for the radiation treatments.
The next day I was back at the medical center being wheeled around. Good news from the surgeon: no surgery. It wouldn't really help at this point, and radiation would be of more benefit. The infusion was unpleasant, as they always are; the iv lady couldn't get the iv started and after several failed attempts had to get somebody else to do it. The giant needle used to insert the pellet hurt like a m***** f*****. When they say "You might feel a little sting," be prepared for the PAIN.
Finally I went to meet the radiation oncologist, who was oddly smiley, and the radiation people put me on the table, made some marks on my body, and then said something which sounded disturbingly like, "Ok, now we're going to do the tattoos."
"Is that really necessary?" I said. I'd had it with being stabbed for one day.
It wasn't. They were able to make do with stickers, so I avoided acquiring permanent markings as a sign of my treatment. (I did eventually get something of a radiation burn on some very private areas--and suffered some rather interesting hair loss--but the rash went away and I assume the hair will eventually grow back. If not, I'll forever be able to save money on the kind of bikini wax job people pay good money for.)
Sitting up from the table, I started to feel very ill...I am extremely familiar with nausea and started having that extreme saliva production that heralds the onset of, well, the puking. Somebody grabbed a pink tray for me, and I spewed into that for a moment. Of course the involuntary spasms caused no small amount of agony in my hip.
Later that evening, getting into the car, I had trouble turning on my good foot and accidentally put my full weight on the injured side.
Agony.
Every bump in the road compounded it.
Getting out of the car took forever.
Getting up the steps was one of the hardest and most painful things I've ever done; putting any weight at all on my right leg caused horrible, excruciating pain. Dangling the leg and putting no weight on it caused similar, but different pain. Every time I was able to hoist myself onto the next step, my right foot would tap the step as well, causing more agony. About halfway up the staircase I started to feel like my left hip was snapping apart as well. I don't know how I finally made it; Brian tried to help but lifting under my arms didn't work either. I eventually made it onto the landing and it took about a half an hour to go from the front door to the bathroom. From there I went to bed, where I planned to stay the next day.
Before leaving for work the next morning, Brian made sure I would have pills and water nearby, and that I'd have access to a phone. When I woke up and attempted to get out of bed, I was made painfully aware that I was not going to be able to do so. I couldn't get out of bed, much less cross the hall to go to the bathroom or make it down the stairs to any of my radiation appointments. I called Brian and left a message; Brian called Lita and started planning how to get me admitted to UM Hospital's Emergency Room.
To be continued...
Labels: blog, Brian, Dr. Hayes, hip, infusion, IV, Lita, nausea, Oakwood, radiation, spasms, University of Michigan Cancer Center, Zometa
