Dexman

It wouldn't be winter without at least one trip to the ER with Jack.

 

 

Both boys came down with a lurgie on the weekend, dashing our plans to visit friends in the Blue Mountains on Monday. I was drowning my disappointment in a glass of red and some dark chocolate on Sunday night when the unmistakable bark of croup rang out from Jack's room and he stumbled out in a panic, not able to breathe. Normally I would manage it at home but we'd run out of ventolin, making a late night trip to the hospital an annoying necessity.

 

 

It was a long night and he was a real little trouper...finally discharged at 5am, pumped full of Dexamethasone and ventolin. I'm amazed that we got home in one piece. Between the pea soup fog, the kangaroos bounding out onto the road and my extreme fatigue after an all nighter in emergency...the drive home was intense to say the least. We were both asleep by six and Jack was awake again at seven. Husband came to the rescue and took the day off work to let me catch a few more hours sleep. Good Husband!

 

The Jackman has since morphed into Dexman...faster than a speeding bullet, crazier than wiley coyote and blasting everyone around him with his killer cough and accordion wheeze.

 

 

 

Sleeping at night is for sissies but crashing on the couch during the day is totes cool.

 

 

 

Our week of catching up with dear friends has become a week of boardgames, art & craft and movie marathons at home, interspersed with doses of ventolin, neurofen and Mummy cuddles.

 

 

 

Hoping that this feverish little guy perks up in the next few days.

 

xx Em

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Reconstruct...take two.

 

(Warning...graphic post op images ahead.)

 

 

It's done.

My final surgery is complete.

 

I woke Friday morning feeling anxious. Everything irritated me and I was impatient and snappy towards my Littles when all I wanted to do was cuddle them. I was tired. Tired of everything to do with cancer. Tired of the mindfuck that comes with surgery. Anticipating it but worrying it would be cancelled again. Preparing for the inevitable frustration of waiting and the pain that follows.

 

Husband dropped me off at the hospital a little early so that the Jackman wouldn't miss out on his gymnastics class. I sat in the cafe courtyard for a while, soaking up the warmth of the late morning sun. That little bit of quiet time was just what I needed...feeling the radiant heat on my skin, thinking of everyone I loved, telling myself that I could do this, just a walk in the park.

 

Then it was a case of going through the motions, a routine I now had down pat. A game of twenty questions with the nurse; gowning up; waiting; moving to the holding bay; cocooned in warm blankets; waiting; twenty questions again; anaesthetist tapping my arm to find a vein; waiting; surgeon graffitiing my chest; waiting and finally into the ice cold theatre. Stretching out on the table like a slab of meat on the butchers block, mask coming down on my face and then....black nothingness.

 

I have no memory of recovery, nor of the several hours afterwards. Eventually the pain crept into my foggy mind and woke me. It was 9pm, it was dark outside but the room was bright with light. Peeking under my gown I saw skin covered in flamingo pink betadine, always an assault on the eyes. Then my right breast, swollen and bruised but seemingly more even than before. Skin stretched taut, no longer puckered from radiation. Relief. A quick call home to say I was ok and then a night of sleep broken by hourly obs.

 

Morning...a change of shift, new nurses coming in and out. Head heavy with painkillers, dozing on and off, sun rises. Out of bed...tentative steps to the bathroom...wincing as the bloodied gown and bandages around my waist are removed. Then the shock of bruises revealling themselves. I hadn't anticipated so much. I hadn't thought about the aftermath of the liposuction. My poor, poor body. A long shower to wash away the gaudiness of flamingo pink. Slow work getting dressed. Blood still oozing from under dressings. Body aching and fragile.

 

Surgeon stops by to check his handiwork, encouraged with how the surgery went. I am so grateful for this softly spoken man who took away my cancer and rebuilt a most beloved part of my body. A few more hours of waiting, dozing off now and again, head still heavy with painkillers. Then home, home to my boys for cautious cuddles and rest.

 

 

 

 

This is it. I am done. My surgeon said we'd know in a few months if any more surgical "tweaking" is required but I know that I won't be needing it. I was never seeking perfection. Close enough is good enough for me. I am satisfied with what I have and I know that I won't be putting my body through any more surgery. I am so grateful that my treatments have given me a future. Now it's time to nurture this body back to health.

 

 

 

 

Time to rest and let the healing take hold.

xx Em

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Pandora's Box

I'm home from hospital now.

My second mastectomy was a success. I'm doing ok and glad to be back in my own bed again.

 

I wanted to share the below post that I wrote two days after my surgery. I was in a very dark place. I think that I have a fair bit of work ahead of me in coming to terms with the emotional fallout that comes after battling cancer.

Also, heads up...this is a post about mastectomies. Squeeze your eyes shut if the sight of my reconstructed boob is not your cup of tea, or, you know, harden up and deal with it. It's just another boob.

 

**********************

 

Friday, August 8th

It's done.

 

 

The tears began to trickle from the moment I walked through the hospital doors and haven't stopped.

I wiped them away so that the nurses wouldn't notice in surgical admissions.

I wiped them away as I lay for hours in the room next to the theatre, waiting for my turn.

I wiped them away when the anaesthetist finally got the cannula into a vein, on the fifth excruciating try.

I wiped them away as they put me on the operating table and placed the mask over my face.

I wiped them away as I 'came to' in Recovery.

I wiped them away each time the nurses came into my room to do obs and give painkillers.

I wiped them away as my surgeon came in to check on me the morning after my mastectomy.

 

 

 

And then I stopped wiping the tears away.

 

 

The nurses came in bright and bubbly to give me my meds Friday morning and I burst into tears. Not the delicate kind. The great big hiccuping kind. The kind where speech is wiped out by uncontrollable sobs. They looked a bit scared, asked me what was wrong and when I couldn't respond they left me to cry it out in the privacy of my room.

 

I wanted to scream that I'd just had my breast removed, I wanted everyone to stop treating me like I'd just had my appendix out. I felt devastated. I felt entirely overwhelmed with the sense of loss. I wasn't alright. I wasn't the least bit alright. All of the sadness and stress that I'd managed to lock away during my treatments last year began bubbling up to the surface. This surgery was the last hurdle and I felt so completely broken by it. I felt like I'd slipped into a big black hole.

 

And so I cried, and cried and cried some more.

 

My breast care nurse came in and gave me the hug that I'd craved. She said everything that I needed to hear. She knew exactly where I was coming from. I felt understood. She 'got' the kind of loss that I felt. The tears didn't stop but I didn't feel the need to hide them anymore.

 

 

Last year I was in survival mode, jumping from one hideous treatment to the next with no time to really process my feelings. I became very good at telling myself to keep going. I had to keep it together for my boys and I couldn't lose control. I was quietly terrified of facing my Pandora's Box of emotions so I tucked that box away.

 

Well...the lid has now been opened...and its messy...and it feels endless.

 

 

Physically I'm sore and bruised and fragile.

 

 

Emotionally I'm raw and weak and worn.

 

I want the tears to stop. I want to recover and just get on with my life. This surgery was the final step and now it's done. It's done.

 

I want to focus on recovering, I want to be positive about my future. I am grateful that my treatment has given me a second crack at life. I don't want to take that for granted.

 

But for now, the tears keep coming and the sadness feels immense.

 

xx Em

 

 

Posted with Blogsy

Just call me the Lab Rat

It's 4:45am. I've been awake since 3, resettled both boys and spent the last hour flicking though Peter Jackson's Behind the Scenes youtube clips of the Hobbit. Note to self: must visit Hobbiton when we eventually take a holiday in New Zealand.

It's been a hectic couple of days after a weekend of rest and recollection. I woke up on Monday feeling much better and brighter after last Friday's meltdown. I think giving myself the weekend to just let it all out and sleep as much as I could really helped. Whilst I can't let myself wallow in self pity, I also can't waste energy trying to be brave all the time so I'm happy to give myself moments to crumble and then take a deep breath, pick myself up and just keep going. Only moments mind you...thank god my vanity prevents me from blubbering for too long. I look like crap after ten seconds of tears, rather like a puffed up toadfish with sunburn and cruelly it takes forever for my face to return to normal.

Anyhoo, back to the last couple of days...which were spent at the Canberra Hospital being scanned...and scanned...and scanned.

Monday morning I arrived at Nuclear Imaging expecting to have my Bone scan and bone density test. The technician who greeted me upon arrival was a woman very petite in size but freaking scary in demeanor. "What's your name, I don't have you on my list, what do you need???". Turns out that they had booked me in for my Gated Heart Pool scan and the bone density. So I meekly followed instructions, had my bone density test by Little Miss Abrupt and was relieved to be passed over to the Nuclear Medicine Specialist for my heart scan. The heart scan was more complicated. The technician inserted a cannula (with great difficulty thanks to collapsing veins) through which she injected first a primer, then she drew some blood, mixed it with the radioactive tracer and re-injected it into my blood stream. After a twenty minute wait I went in to be scanned which took about half an hour. All in all I spent about two and half hours at Nuclear Imaging. I popped up to Oncology afterwards to chase up the Bone scan request which NI insisted they didn't have. It was lunch time when I left the hospital. I stopped in to Manuka and had some lunch at the french bakery on the way home (hmmm, this is becoming a habbit). I'm not sure if it was what I had for lunch or just another side effect from medication but I was incredibly ill with gastro like symptoms that night. Not pretty, not pleasant.

Tues morning I was woken at 7:30 with a call from Oncology's head nurse who informed me that I was to start chemo on Wednesday...as in tomorrow...24 hours. I came to my senses quicksmart. Bloody hell, that was quick, right then!

I had to go back into hospital for CT scans of chest, abdo and pelvis which involved drinking the repulsive green cocktail, another cannula, an injection of contrast fluid and lying on the scanning table with both arms stretched back past my head which, post mastectomy, was more than a little tricky, we had to improvise. Today's scans were done and dusted in just over an hour so I popped back to oncology to pick up my chemo meds then through the rabbit warren of hospital corridors to pathology for blood tests.

For all the poking, prodding and general discomfort it was a very productive day.

Yesterday afternoon was spent with my boys and last night I packed my bag with healthy snacks, hand cream, audiobooks and magazines. Am tossing up as to whether I take my heavy digital SLR camera or just make do with the grainy images my ipad camera takes. I want to document this experience in photos as much as possible. Practicality says make do but the perfectionist in me says put up with the heavy bag and take the Canon.

I suppose the reason why I'm up blogging in the wee hours of the morning is that I'm nervous about how I'll react to the first chemo. My body has grown a great deal more sensitive with age...the last five years in particular to things like make up and medications. Aside from cigarette smoke, nothing used to bother me in my twenties. I'm a little worried that it will take no time at all for my body to react adversely to the drugs today. I am confident in the ability of the oncology nurses and know that they'll get on top of it the moment anything adverse presents but I still dread it all the same.

Well...its almost six. I think I should try and fall back into bed for an hour.

WIsh me luck! xx

 

Posted with Blogsy

On the road to recovery - in hospital.

When I finally managed to shake off the fog of the anaesthetic I found myself in my own little room with a view of the sun setting behind the Brindabella Ranges and my husband by my side. I was hooked up to an IV & oxygen, a tube protruded from under my right rib and ran down to a bag on the side of the bed to drain the blood and fluid away from the wound and two large cuffs wrapped around my calves, massaging them at intervals to prevent clots from forming. I must have been quite a sight, even more so still covered from neck to belly button with flamingo pink betadine. Mmmmmm...pretty! Hubby stayed for a little while then headed home as I drifted in and out of sleep.

In the morning I woke feeling quite good. Sore and a little unsteady but well enough to get out of bed and tentatively take a shower unassisted. Despite best efforts I couldn't get rid of the flamingo pink. My right breast was incredibly bruised and a little puckered around the edge of the implant but my surgeon had managed to preserve the skin and the nipple so essentially it didn't look all that different. I was really pleased with how it was and could picture how good it was going to look after several weeks had given the swelling time to dissipate and the implant to settle in.

My surgeon called in to see me just after breakfast and went through the details of the surgery. The pathology on the sentinel nodes had shown that the cancer had spread to the lymph nodes so he had removed just over a dozen of them to give a good clearance. The rest of the surgery had gone well so now it was a matter of waiting to see what the pathology would come back with in approximately 10 days time.

Hubby came to visit at lunch time and rest of the afternoon was a stream of nurses, physiotherapists and visitors. I was so glad to see my Mum and my boys. Harry, my four year old, was incredibly intrigued by the drainage tube that came out of my side and the cannula in my hand. Jack, my 18 mth old was just happy to have a Mummy cuddle and some grapes to snack on. Two of my girlfriends came by at the same time so the room was full of happy, noisy kids and adult chatter.

In the early evening I was whisked away from my private little room and plonked into a double room next to a very old lady. I'm ok with this I naively thought...but it quickly dawned on me that she was an incredibly noisy old biddy and any notion of rest and recovery were soon banished. I couldn't blame her, she was in obvious pain and discomfort from a knee reconstruction and she was as deaf as a lamp post. Unfortunately I had to listen to every moan, groan, burp, retch and fart that emanated from her ancient and failing body and to add to the cacophony, she snored like a freight train the entire night. I gave up trying to sleep after several hours staring at the ceiling and sat up chatting to friends in Western Australia and overseas on Facebook instead. By the time the sun came up I was exhausted, in real pain and completely over it. I started to laugh maniacally when the nurses asked her how she had slept and she chirped cheerfully, "Oh just wonderful Luv, best sleep I've had in aaaaaages".

Eeeegads! Thankfully my darling friend of ten years came to my rescue with proper coffee, a hot breakfast and her beautiful baby boy. We had a really good laugh and she lifted my spirits immensely.

Added to that the surgeon came by and gave me the all clear to go home.

I was incredibly grateful that I could leave the noise and fuss of the hospital and go back to my own space, be in my own bed, surrounded by my own family.

 

Posted with Blogsy

Operation New Boob - Part 2

Typical Australia...one week bushfires are blazing out of control and we're receiving messages from the fire service to prepare to evacuate and the next there's torrential flooding and cyclonic conditions that wreak havoc along the east coast, cancelling flights and cutting off roads. Blimey...you can't say that we're a dull lot!

My Mum had planned to fly in to Canberra from Queensland the day before my surgery to perform her Super Nana duties but the weather gods had other plans and her flight was cancelled. Logistically it was a little tricky as both our boys had chicken pox and the only girlfriends available to babysit on the day of my surgery were heavily pregnant or had young toddlers who were yet to be immunised. Clearly not an option, we couldn't possibly expose them, so we decided that I would drive myself to the hospital and Hubby would stay home with the kids until my Mum arrived on another flight that afternoon. I was ok with it. It was better for my husband to be busy and occupied with the boys rather than sitting around in a hospital waiting room for hours on end.

I kissed all three of my boys goodbye and drove to the hospital at 8am. I checked in to the surgical admissions lounge, sorted out the admissions forms then wandered over to Nuclear Medicine for my radioactive dye injection. I was a tad anxious about how painful it would be but I took it as a good sign when a rather handsome young doctor called me in...now there's a good distraction to take your mind off a painful procedure if ever I've seen one. Highly recommended girls, I barely felt a thing! After the dye had a chance to work it's way through my lymph nodes they took some films and marked the sentinal nodes in my armpit and I was sent back to surgical admissions. I had a couple of hours to waste before they prepped me for theatre so I wandered the halls of the hospital, read my Martha Stewart Living magazine and all the text messages wishing me luck from family and friends. Before long it was midday and time to get changed into the incredibly glamorous paper knickers, green stripey gown, compression stockings & paper booties. If only I'd had a camera, I totally rocked that look!

I started to feel a little scared just before I was wheeled into theatre at 2pm. My surgeon came and drew what resembled a roadmap on my chest, the anaesthetist came and had a chat and several nurses popped in to confirm and reconfirm my details. I'd had three previous surgeries during my lifetime. One took away my failed 2nd pregnancy and the other two delivered beautiful, healthy little babies into my arms. This time I was losing part of myself, a part I was immensely proud of, a part that had fed my babies for the first 12 months of their lives and given my husband and I great pleasure for the last 12 years. I couldn't help but feel sad at the loss. Thankfully the anaesthetist had a cracking good sense of humour and a wife who had also endured a double mastectomy and survived breast cancer so I was put at ease.

Just like my c-sections, the theatre was filled with people all busy with purpose. The room was incredibly cold and the blanket covering my body was toasty warm. One of the nurses held my hand and then...

...I woke up...nearly six hours later.

 

Posted with Blogsy