On the D&C, “disordered” cells, and trying not to obsess about my yet unposted path report

It is Friday, three days after my D&C. I have little pain, just the occasional cramp, some residual dizziness when I stand up too fast. My hands are shaky, and I am wracked by the occasional chill that sends my teeth chattering. And exhaustion. That’s general anesthesia for you. I’m not sure if it’s the versed or the propofol that my body has such a hard time shedding. I’ve been spotting off and on–expected. My lower abdomen is sore if I push on it (so I’m trying not to push on it.)

The procedure itself feels like nothing, most likely because the week preceding it was somewhat hellish. After enduring the rollercoaster of mood swings on the Aygestin–payoff was stoppage of bleeding–I began spotting on June 13. Dr. A suggested doubling my dose, which brought on  intense cramps and heavier bleeding with clots. By last Friday, I was taking 2 mg valium and 660 mg naproxen every four hours to calm what felt like labor contractions into something I could handle with deep breathing.

Monday

Monday was Lauren’s 9th birthday. I took the day off to take care of some pre-surgery errands like getting my hair cut, and then to spend the rest of it with her. We went to Build a Bear, where she very thoughtfully spend all of the $50 she received in birthday money on new outfits for her favorite stuffed dog. We played at Sephora. We had a meal at California Pizza Kitchen, sharing a Canadian pizza and talking about her upcoming birthday party with friends. And then she got blonde and purple highlights as her gift from me. All through the day she said it was the best birthday ever. I decided that, just as I take my birthday off from work, I’m going to spend her birthday with her from now on.

As we sat near the kiddie playground at the mall, eating frozen yogurt, the hospital called to tell me to report for surgery at 12:30 the next day.

Tuesday

Of course, when you have general anesthesia the doctors want your stomach completely empty for at least 12 hours prior and no liquids at least 2 hours prior. I am a rather compliant patient, so my last dose of my anti-cramping formula was at about 930a on Tuesday. Steve drove me to the hospital. We checked in. We were moved into the pre-op area where I changed into a gown and pressure socks and beige footie socks with grippers on the bottom. I identified myself and my drug allergies to about 17 people.

A great nurse named Camy started an IV in my hand, first numbing it (why don’t all hospitals take that step?). I’d thought to bring my heating pad, and Camy kept me supplied with warm blankets, which helped with the weird chills that come out of nowhere, making my teeth chatter in a 75 degree room.

By 2 pm I was watching every person who came by, hoping it was my anesthesiologist, because he was the only person who could approve pain meds. My pain was around an 8/10 by the time a 50-ish guy in blue scrubs, his silver hair peeking from under a cap, came by and talked drugs with me. Within five minutes I was well medicated and within 10–after a second hit from Camy–I was feeling no pain.

Coincidentally, Steve’s aunt has a part-time job at that hospital, and she happened to walk by us. I am so grateful that happened, because she was able to keep Steve company during my surgery.

I texted Lauren since neither her dad or stepmother were answering the phone. All of a sudden it was really important that I hear her voice, to tell her one more time how much I loved her.

At some point, I kissed Steve goodbye and was wheeled to the OR. I moved myself onto the operating table, where I lay my head on a pillow the color and consistency of pineapple Jello. Two flat screen TVs displaying color keys hovered over me, as well as several UFO-like lights. The room was incredibly bright, unlike the ORs on every single TV show. The anesthesiologist gave me shit for whining that the Versed burned like hell going into my vein. Someone put a mask over my mouth, and the next thing I knew I was in the post-op area with a dark mustached nurse named Darryl watching over me. He was kind. I ought to send him some chocolate. Or maybe some beer.

I don’ remember the conversation I had with my surgeon. I don’t remember when Steve and Pat appeared. I do remember drinking two tiny cups of the most delicious cranberry juice–icy cold and sweet–on the face of the earth. I remember falling back to sleep and waking up feeling annoyed that I had fallen back to sleep. I needed to wake up in order to go home. Finally, at 5 they moved me to a recliner. And at 530 I went home, sending Steve to a nearby sushi restaurant for takeout. Sushi rolls and miso soup were all that sounded good. I vaguely remember how good they tasted.

I studied the three pictures of the inside of my uterus I’d received as a souvenir of sorts. I began googling images of “normal uterine tissue” and “hysteroscopy uterine cancer.” I have not yet found a photo that mimics any of mine.

Before we went to bed, I took some heavy-duty Naproxen and a vicodin for pain, which at that point was more sharp than crampy. Within 30 minutes I started to itch. Everywhere. I got out of bed and looked at my body in the bathroom mirror. A rash covered my upper arms and chest. A line of whitish hives bubbled on my upper abdomen. Apparently, I am allergic to vicodin, not just Tylenol with codeine. Yet another drug to add to my “allergic to” list. Happily, the valium and naproxen combo was enough to keep me comfortable, plus 100 mg of benadryl to get rid of the rash.

Wednesday

I slept most of Wednesday. I think we watched some movies on the couch. I must have eaten. I had some Tazo Calm tea. I cuddled with Steve.  I tried to read.  I prodded the brown bruise where the IV had been.

We had a fight. I watched So You Think You Can Dance.

At about 1130, we went up to our bed and after about 30 minutes of dozing, I woke up, bright eyed, bushy tailed. I spent Wednesday night bent over 1/4 inch graph paper, drafting a way to finish our basement–a scale drawing. It will look great if we miraculously are given$15,000 to build it out.

Thursday

Thursday morning we had multiple vet visits: Noelle needed a checkup on her extractions, Percy needed a lion cut to de-mat him for the summer, and Violet needed an introduction to our ferret vet. We wound up leaving her for an ultrasound because he didn’t like the feel of her spleen, which is huge, or her belly, which feels gravely.

We went to breakfast at Dozens, sat on the shady porch and ate omelettes and drank coffee. We discussed the state of our relationship and what we might do about it. We left without a plan, went home.

We tried to hang out at the pool, but there were too many annoying people there. One mom, in particular, drove us out. “Autistic boy, stop jumping into the pool!” she’d call to her 8-ish son, “If you do that one more time …” He’d look at her, jump in, and she’d look up from her Kindle in disgust, repeat what she said. By calling him “autistic boy” she was clearly saying, hey, it’s not my fault. Bad parents abound.

The call

I’d sent Dr. A an email in the morning asking her to call to repeat what she’d told me when I’d been semiconscious in the recovery area. Around 415, my cell rang. She told me it was a tough D&C. I was bleeding like crazy, lots of large clots and large clusters of tissue.

The inside of my uterus, which after a month of Aygestin–including 10 days of double-dosing–should have looked smooth and orderly. Instead, it is full of clots, of weird, ghostly forms. To me, it looks like a coral bed infested with a school of transparent worms.

She said the word disordered. She said, “If the pathology comes back with uterine cancer, we need to be prepared for a quick hysterectomy.”  I heard in those words the echo of my dermatologist nine years ago: “Do you have a history of melanoma in your family?”

I’ve written before that I know too much about cancer. I write about it every single work day. I know that, when talking about cells, the word disordered is bad.

When I hung up, I collapsed into sobs. I am so grateful that Steve was sitting next to me on the couch. And then, in the midst of that, we had to go pick up Percy from the groomer and Violet from the vet.

And then, there’s Violet

Violet is full of lymphoma. Dr. Fitzgerald gave her a long-acting shot of prednisone in the hopes it will shrink the large tumor in her spleen and the tiny tumors that are infesting all of her abdominal lymph nodes. In the hopes of giving her four to six weeks of life.

She’s not in pain that we can tell. She is eating well–especially the ferret chow I make from baby food, Ensure, kibble. She’s put on a pound since she came to us. If nothing else, this little girl who’s had a horrible life–abandoned in a shit-filled cage in a trailer to starve to death–will have a comfortable end of her life with us.

Steve doesn’t want to tell the kids. I think it’s wrong not to. We have some time to settle it.

After we dropped the pets at home, Steve took me to Baskin-Robbins for ice cream. I ate my single scoop of Chocolate Fudge on a sugar cone and he sipped his large chocolate shake as we went grocery shopping together. I fell apart on the way home, and I took two valium as he unloaded the groceries and put them away–my job. We did more couch cuddling. I told him I didn’t think I could be alone today. He said he’d stay off work for as long as I needed him.

Friday

I woke up this morning at 7:30, made coffee, took the ferrets one by one out on the back patio for some outside time. We ate cereal and watched short movies on a new cable channel we found. I feel exhausted from that little activity.

I will pick up a prescription for birth control pills with the hopes that I can use them instead of the Aygestin. Yesterday, even without having had a dose of that stuff since Tuesday morning, I had a five-minute spell of suicidal thoughts, ironically just before Dr. A called. Ironic, because as I was thinking the world would be better off without me, my doctor was calling to say in cryptic language that there is a distinct possibility that the world may not have me for long. Which made me understand completely that I want to live, even if there’s a monster in my head that wants me to die.

Last night, I obsessively read several websites about endometrial cancer. If I have it, and it’s contained within my uterus, there is a 90% survival rate at five years. Treatment includes hysterectomy and nearby lymph node removal, and perhaps radiation depending on the aggressiveness of the cancer. That’s called the grade. Endometrial cancer is the most common kind of gynological cancer diagnosed in the United States. It is also most commonly caught at early stages.

So now I am checking my online medical record to see if my pathology report has posted. It has not. I am trying not to obsess. Trying is the operative word.

Two weeks ago, I had this overwhelming feeling of dread hang over me like a dark cloud for several days. Judi and I did some work on the statement I have everything I need to successfully handle everything that comes my way.

I have to believe that.  I have to believe that, no matter what news I hear, I have the inner and external resources to get through it.