Tuesday, April 12, 2016
Easter pictures
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Only keep reading if you like super long melodramatic posts
It's late, and I'm super tired can't sleep, so let's see how that translates in my articulate-ness. This might be fun.
So, haven't been blogging. All negative three of my readers may have noticed. Which is fine; I don't write for an audience. I have no desire to be a professional blogger. I write for me. I like to think I'm a pretty good editor. I like to cut things down to just the right level of concise meaning, just enough and no more. But I've realized, sometimes I'm too good at editing. Like I might edit myself into silence. And then I'd disappear out of my own life. So, this blog, with all of its non-readers, is my small way right now of holding on to my voice.
Also, I've had a big post hanging over my head, needing but not wanting to write a post entitled: Hey, remember that time I almost died? It was too big and too raw and is starting to recede into hazy anesthetic dreams. And I considered letting it stay that way. But it was a hard-fought experience and it needs to be remembered.
So, way back in November, I wrote about how I came to peace with it all. If this was my path, I would walk it without self pity. And so I made my preparations and made up my lists for the two or three days I'd be in the hospital; I joked about having surgery just to get a few days' vacation. I checked out way more books than I knew I needed (that's one constant in my life). I straightened my hair to avoid the inevitable birds-nest-bed-head. I even got up that morning and put on makeup. Vanity and such. Never mind the sleepless nights and middle of the night second-guessing. I had this all planned out and it would be no big deal.
A little dialogue to illustrate the characters in this drama:
At my second pre-op visit, the surgeon saunters in in his vintage-styled clothing and asks, "Do you have a dude?" (He's a very colorful and, luckily, a very talented surgeon.)
I look up blankly. "What?" (I see no reason to have my husband take off work to accompany me to a routine visit where questions will be asked and answered just as they have at myriad other appointments.)
The (first) surgery went, I heard, very well. Minimal blood loss. It took slightly longer than expected because my spleen was larger than anticipated. I have some pictures they took of it. Fun little memento.
I woke up, things were good but hazy. I don't really remember anything else until my parents and Levi were there, and I told him to go home so he could get a good night's sleep. My parents stayed a little longer, and I started to get a little uncomfortable (the pressure in my abdomen the nurse attributed to a vapor lock in my catheter), so my mom offered to stay the night. I nearly said no.
It was late and I was ready to go to sleep when the CNA came to take my vitals. She tested my blood pressure, did a double take, then took my blood pressure on the other arm. "Um, her blood pressure is 60/30." They checked the drain they'd left in my abdomen, nurses came out of the woodwork, my doctor showed up what seemed like miraculously fast. "It looks like you're bleeding internally so we'll take you back in to surgery and see what's going on."
I'd had no idea. I would have just gone to sleep.
My hematologist later explained that because I'm young and relatively healthy, my body was able to compensate by constricting my blood vessels until it was at crisis mode. I still can't believe I didn't know anything was wrong.
Meanwhile my frantic mother is making phone calls, texts, posting facebook updates. I felt like I was at the top of a giant precipice, the sinking feeling in your stomach right before you go over the edge of a roller coaster. This was not a ride I wanted to be on. The last thought I remember is, "I don't want to be here."
I woke up, hours later, in the ICU. I think Levi and my dad both gave me another blessing. IVs, oxygen, a pain pump, blood pressure cuff, oximeter, I was all sorts of hooked up. Oh, and I shouldn't forget to mention the tube up my nose, down my throat, and into my stomach that would cause me so much agony. The surgeon came in at some point, good-naturedly accused me of trying to die, and estimated that I'd lost two-thirds of my blood volume. He explained they'd been able to filter and give me back a lot of my own blood, but did give me several units of plasma and platelets as well.
My incision never bothered me in the hospital, but as I came off the heavy duty drugs that tube rubbed my throat raw. I felt bad I never had much to say to my visitors because it sometimes hurt too much to talk. The tube was to suction out my stomach and keep me from getting sick until my bowels decided to start working again. I didn't eat a thing for five days besides hard candy and ice chips. I didn't feel even a bit hungry for four of the days. Once a reality show about restaurants came on and I watched it idly for a while before I thought, "Why am I watching this? I can't eat anything. But I don't even want anything."
The IV in my arm got infiltrated, I think is what they called it, and my arm and hand swelled to three times its normal size. They pumped so many fluids into me I was puffy all over. They took the IV out of my arm and put one into the artery in my neck so they could give me a nutritional IV. It had several different tubes on it so they could give more than one IV drip at a time. I called it my keychain.
After a few days the physical therapist came to see if I wanted to get out of bed and sit in a chair. He helped me up. I stood for a second, then lay back on the bed, completely spent. Later that night my nurse had be get up into the chair for a while, and it was easier. The next day, Saturday, it took a physical therapist and a walker, but I was able to go for an extremely short walk--I made it less than twenty feet before I was ready to go back. But it got easier every day. I improved enough that by the time I was transferred out of ICU on Tuesday (?) I was able to walk the whole way. (I used a walker and took a break in the middle, but I did go the whole way.) I got to be quite chummy (well, for me anyway) with the physical therapists. We'd chat on our walks.
Sunday morning the sacrament was brought around. Since I couldn't have any, they gave me a blessing instead. I've tried hard to remember it since it was what I so needed to hear. It was about sanctification, which means to make holy. When hard times come we can use them to draw closer to the Lord, to be sanctified and refined by the experience. It was so perfect.
After I moved from the ICU, they gave me another infusion of red blood cells in preparation for the chemo drug they'd be giving me to bring down my platelets. The last I'd heard they'd come up to around 600,000, so I was surprised to hear they were now up to three million. (Spoiler alert: having too many platelets is just as bad as having too few.) Those red cells really gave me more energy and made me start to feel like a person again. As did being able to get up and take a shower. Regular hospital rooms are the best. And, the next morning, I got to eat. I never thought I'd be excited about broth made from boullion at nine in the morning, but that first sip was so good. I was on a liquid diet for a little more than a day, and getting the same chemically-tasting liquids at regular intervals quickly got un-exciting. But Wednesday: Food! Of my own choosing! And the promise of a Thanksgiving home-coming! I hadn't had my kids come see me yet. First, ICU, and second, weird tubes in my neck. I didn't want that reality to be their memory.
But when Thanksgiving came and my routine post-op fever hadn't resolved itself, plans changed. I picked at weird hospital Thanksgiving. My family brought me some food from their wonderful Thanksgiving. I also picked at that because just because I could handle food didn't mean my appetite had come back. (It would take about a month before I could eat normal amounts of food again.) Levi brought the kids up to see me, where they watched a movie, ate the yogurt parfait I couldn't finish, and had almost nothing to say to me. Peter, who'd been searching the house for me and once collapsed in tears on some of my books, was vocally uncomfortable about it all.
I received so many visitors. My parents and Levi came every day, and my great uncle Noel came nearly every day. Once he sneaked me a piece of chocolate. And I ate it. My grandparents came, brothers, Linnell took pictures of my first walk (not sure if I want to see those.) Even my parents' bishop came. Not sure why. He's very nice, though. I felt bad if they came when I didn't feel like talking, like it was my job to entertain them.
Friday, when my fever still wasn't gone, they took me in for a ct scan to look for any pockets of infection. They also took the IV out of my neck and put a hep lock back in my arm in case they needed another IV. It felt really great to be free of tubes after ten days.
Saturday: miracle! Fever gone. No infections found. I'd started the day resigned to another weekend in the hospital and ended it at home, with my dad cooking dinner while Levi fetched the kids from his brother's house. My dad brought over their recliner and I slept in it for maybe three weeks.
My mom and my mother-in-law traded off coming to the house every day for a month. They took care of the kids, cleaned, and cooked, while I enjoyed twice a day naps and eating absurdly small amounts of food. I was usually even too tired to read. One of the first days I was home, I got up and ate breakfast with the family, wandered around for a few minutes, and then decided to skip showering in favor of a nap. I was completely wiped out. It was humbling to need so much help. (Side note: it's not super fun to hang out in your bedroom while your life goes on around you.) But such a blessing that it was offered, without waiting to be asked. So many people brought meals, offered babysitting. One day my friend showed up in a snowstorm to shovel the driveway. It was a blessing to be borne up by so many people.
And the more I did the better I felt. At three weeks out, I wasn't sure about trying to go to the ward Christmas party and then my book club, but I did. And I felt so much better the next day. (And, when Amy asked, I showed them all my awesome scars. Don't ask if you don't want to see...)
And now, four months later: my last CBC showed all my blood counts are completely in normal ranges. Hooray! I don't go back till August! My doctor said it could take six months before I really recover. So I don't know if, when I still get really tired, if that's my body or just the conditions of my life. But I've got a couple more months to use that as an excuse to be lazy.
So, haven't been blogging. All negative three of my readers may have noticed. Which is fine; I don't write for an audience. I have no desire to be a professional blogger. I write for me. I like to think I'm a pretty good editor. I like to cut things down to just the right level of concise meaning, just enough and no more. But I've realized, sometimes I'm too good at editing. Like I might edit myself into silence. And then I'd disappear out of my own life. So, this blog, with all of its non-readers, is my small way right now of holding on to my voice.
Also, I've had a big post hanging over my head, needing but not wanting to write a post entitled: Hey, remember that time I almost died? It was too big and too raw and is starting to recede into hazy anesthetic dreams. And I considered letting it stay that way. But it was a hard-fought experience and it needs to be remembered.
So, way back in November, I wrote about how I came to peace with it all. If this was my path, I would walk it without self pity. And so I made my preparations and made up my lists for the two or three days I'd be in the hospital; I joked about having surgery just to get a few days' vacation. I checked out way more books than I knew I needed (that's one constant in my life). I straightened my hair to avoid the inevitable birds-nest-bed-head. I even got up that morning and put on makeup. Vanity and such. Never mind the sleepless nights and middle of the night second-guessing. I had this all planned out and it would be no big deal.
A little dialogue to illustrate the characters in this drama:
At my second pre-op visit, the surgeon saunters in in his vintage-styled clothing and asks, "Do you have a dude?" (He's a very colorful and, luckily, a very talented surgeon.)
I look up blankly. "What?" (I see no reason to have my husband take off work to accompany me to a routine visit where questions will be asked and answered just as they have at myriad other appointments.)
The (first) surgery went, I heard, very well. Minimal blood loss. It took slightly longer than expected because my spleen was larger than anticipated. I have some pictures they took of it. Fun little memento.
I woke up, things were good but hazy. I don't really remember anything else until my parents and Levi were there, and I told him to go home so he could get a good night's sleep. My parents stayed a little longer, and I started to get a little uncomfortable (the pressure in my abdomen the nurse attributed to a vapor lock in my catheter), so my mom offered to stay the night. I nearly said no.
It was late and I was ready to go to sleep when the CNA came to take my vitals. She tested my blood pressure, did a double take, then took my blood pressure on the other arm. "Um, her blood pressure is 60/30." They checked the drain they'd left in my abdomen, nurses came out of the woodwork, my doctor showed up what seemed like miraculously fast. "It looks like you're bleeding internally so we'll take you back in to surgery and see what's going on."
I'd had no idea. I would have just gone to sleep.
My hematologist later explained that because I'm young and relatively healthy, my body was able to compensate by constricting my blood vessels until it was at crisis mode. I still can't believe I didn't know anything was wrong.
Meanwhile my frantic mother is making phone calls, texts, posting facebook updates. I felt like I was at the top of a giant precipice, the sinking feeling in your stomach right before you go over the edge of a roller coaster. This was not a ride I wanted to be on. The last thought I remember is, "I don't want to be here."
I woke up, hours later, in the ICU. I think Levi and my dad both gave me another blessing. IVs, oxygen, a pain pump, blood pressure cuff, oximeter, I was all sorts of hooked up. Oh, and I shouldn't forget to mention the tube up my nose, down my throat, and into my stomach that would cause me so much agony. The surgeon came in at some point, good-naturedly accused me of trying to die, and estimated that I'd lost two-thirds of my blood volume. He explained they'd been able to filter and give me back a lot of my own blood, but did give me several units of plasma and platelets as well.
My incision never bothered me in the hospital, but as I came off the heavy duty drugs that tube rubbed my throat raw. I felt bad I never had much to say to my visitors because it sometimes hurt too much to talk. The tube was to suction out my stomach and keep me from getting sick until my bowels decided to start working again. I didn't eat a thing for five days besides hard candy and ice chips. I didn't feel even a bit hungry for four of the days. Once a reality show about restaurants came on and I watched it idly for a while before I thought, "Why am I watching this? I can't eat anything. But I don't even want anything."
The IV in my arm got infiltrated, I think is what they called it, and my arm and hand swelled to three times its normal size. They pumped so many fluids into me I was puffy all over. They took the IV out of my arm and put one into the artery in my neck so they could give me a nutritional IV. It had several different tubes on it so they could give more than one IV drip at a time. I called it my keychain.
After a few days the physical therapist came to see if I wanted to get out of bed and sit in a chair. He helped me up. I stood for a second, then lay back on the bed, completely spent. Later that night my nurse had be get up into the chair for a while, and it was easier. The next day, Saturday, it took a physical therapist and a walker, but I was able to go for an extremely short walk--I made it less than twenty feet before I was ready to go back. But it got easier every day. I improved enough that by the time I was transferred out of ICU on Tuesday (?) I was able to walk the whole way. (I used a walker and took a break in the middle, but I did go the whole way.) I got to be quite chummy (well, for me anyway) with the physical therapists. We'd chat on our walks.
Sunday morning the sacrament was brought around. Since I couldn't have any, they gave me a blessing instead. I've tried hard to remember it since it was what I so needed to hear. It was about sanctification, which means to make holy. When hard times come we can use them to draw closer to the Lord, to be sanctified and refined by the experience. It was so perfect.
After I moved from the ICU, they gave me another infusion of red blood cells in preparation for the chemo drug they'd be giving me to bring down my platelets. The last I'd heard they'd come up to around 600,000, so I was surprised to hear they were now up to three million. (Spoiler alert: having too many platelets is just as bad as having too few.) Those red cells really gave me more energy and made me start to feel like a person again. As did being able to get up and take a shower. Regular hospital rooms are the best. And, the next morning, I got to eat. I never thought I'd be excited about broth made from boullion at nine in the morning, but that first sip was so good. I was on a liquid diet for a little more than a day, and getting the same chemically-tasting liquids at regular intervals quickly got un-exciting. But Wednesday: Food! Of my own choosing! And the promise of a Thanksgiving home-coming! I hadn't had my kids come see me yet. First, ICU, and second, weird tubes in my neck. I didn't want that reality to be their memory.
But when Thanksgiving came and my routine post-op fever hadn't resolved itself, plans changed. I picked at weird hospital Thanksgiving. My family brought me some food from their wonderful Thanksgiving. I also picked at that because just because I could handle food didn't mean my appetite had come back. (It would take about a month before I could eat normal amounts of food again.) Levi brought the kids up to see me, where they watched a movie, ate the yogurt parfait I couldn't finish, and had almost nothing to say to me. Peter, who'd been searching the house for me and once collapsed in tears on some of my books, was vocally uncomfortable about it all.
I received so many visitors. My parents and Levi came every day, and my great uncle Noel came nearly every day. Once he sneaked me a piece of chocolate. And I ate it. My grandparents came, brothers, Linnell took pictures of my first walk (not sure if I want to see those.) Even my parents' bishop came. Not sure why. He's very nice, though. I felt bad if they came when I didn't feel like talking, like it was my job to entertain them.
Friday, when my fever still wasn't gone, they took me in for a ct scan to look for any pockets of infection. They also took the IV out of my neck and put a hep lock back in my arm in case they needed another IV. It felt really great to be free of tubes after ten days.
Saturday: miracle! Fever gone. No infections found. I'd started the day resigned to another weekend in the hospital and ended it at home, with my dad cooking dinner while Levi fetched the kids from his brother's house. My dad brought over their recliner and I slept in it for maybe three weeks.
My mom and my mother-in-law traded off coming to the house every day for a month. They took care of the kids, cleaned, and cooked, while I enjoyed twice a day naps and eating absurdly small amounts of food. I was usually even too tired to read. One of the first days I was home, I got up and ate breakfast with the family, wandered around for a few minutes, and then decided to skip showering in favor of a nap. I was completely wiped out. It was humbling to need so much help. (Side note: it's not super fun to hang out in your bedroom while your life goes on around you.) But such a blessing that it was offered, without waiting to be asked. So many people brought meals, offered babysitting. One day my friend showed up in a snowstorm to shovel the driveway. It was a blessing to be borne up by so many people.
And the more I did the better I felt. At three weeks out, I wasn't sure about trying to go to the ward Christmas party and then my book club, but I did. And I felt so much better the next day. (And, when Amy asked, I showed them all my awesome scars. Don't ask if you don't want to see...)
And now, four months later: my last CBC showed all my blood counts are completely in normal ranges. Hooray! I don't go back till August! My doctor said it could take six months before I really recover. So I don't know if, when I still get really tired, if that's my body or just the conditions of my life. But I've got a couple more months to use that as an excuse to be lazy.
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Alice, planning ahead
Alice's days as a three-year-old are numbered. I just signed her up for preschool in the fall. She's recently decided to stay dry at night so she can wear undies at night and be a big girl. These are all good things. But the things I'm going to miss are also good things:
She got an art kit for Christmas. She calls it her kit kat. As in "Where is my kit kat?!" It was very confusing until we figured it out. When she gets out her kit kat she sets up her office. Today the office is the kitchen table (which is better than the living room chair or floor, where Peter has a field day with markers). She asked permission for the table to be her office, but made sure to point out that she also wanted her office to be a science office too. When asked what an office was, she answered, "a place where you write things." And what she's been writing is...
A letter to Santa. Never mind that it's January. She narrated it as she made a series of circles and accidental letter e's on her paper, so I was privy to her wishes. The compilation of several drafts (I've omitted some of the repetitions is this:
"Dear Santa, Please bring me ninjas for Christmas.
"I'm so excited about my list. It's turning out great!
"Dear Santa, I'm so grateful for the doll that didn't talk. Please bring me some ninjas for Chris-mas.
"Mom, what does Peter want for Christmas?"
I suggested trains.
She continued. "bring me a dog for Christmas too. I would like that. It's a useful thing I decided to have. And bring Peter a train."
She asked me what else she should write. Thinking she was done with the letter to Santa, I suggested she write what she wants to learn to do this year.
"Dear Santa, please bring me a dog. I would like to learn to feed my pet this year."
****
We are not getting a dog this year. But I bet we could swing some ninjas.
She got an art kit for Christmas. She calls it her kit kat. As in "Where is my kit kat?!" It was very confusing until we figured it out. When she gets out her kit kat she sets up her office. Today the office is the kitchen table (which is better than the living room chair or floor, where Peter has a field day with markers). She asked permission for the table to be her office, but made sure to point out that she also wanted her office to be a science office too. When asked what an office was, she answered, "a place where you write things." And what she's been writing is...
A letter to Santa. Never mind that it's January. She narrated it as she made a series of circles and accidental letter e's on her paper, so I was privy to her wishes. The compilation of several drafts (I've omitted some of the repetitions is this:
"Dear Santa, Please bring me ninjas for Christmas.
"I'm so excited about my list. It's turning out great!
"Dear Santa, I'm so grateful for the doll that didn't talk. Please bring me some ninjas for Chris-mas.
"Mom, what does Peter want for Christmas?"
I suggested trains.
She continued. "bring me a dog for Christmas too. I would like that. It's a useful thing I decided to have. And bring Peter a train."
She asked me what else she should write. Thinking she was done with the letter to Santa, I suggested she write what she wants to learn to do this year.
"Dear Santa, please bring me a dog. I would like to learn to feed my pet this year."
****
We are not getting a dog this year. But I bet we could swing some ninjas.
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