001: Cocooning

Sort of proof-read.
Also, this is a long post, and talks about surgery. You have been warned. ^^

I am cocooning right now. I don’t know if that’s a word, but I’m going to use it like it is.

There is so much to catch up on to understand where “here” is for me.

I don’t know where my last post was; when it was. So I’ll start from where I feel I should. January of last year.

I had left my previous job as an auto glass technician. I wasn’t being paid enough to survive. Each month Ox had to help me make ends meet. I couldn’t afford health insurance through the business because it was so expensive. I also couldn’t get the information I needed to get into a government program.

With a chronic condition, I realize just how much of a benefit health insurance is.

I went through an exploratory program that I saw on Indeed. That was in like… November of 2022. Went through the program. It seemed alright. Did the job shadow and interview. Waited to hear yay or nay, and was given a job offer. So that’s where January of 2023 starts. New job. New team. New orientation and training.

It went well. Survived training. Started doing production work. Kept breathing through the fear of getting fired due to my experience with Nelnet laying me off. I didn’t feel part of the team. I didn’t have loyalty to my new company aside from showing up to work, doing my best, and getting a paycheck to maybe recover from the financial strain of the rental I had been in.

Fast forward to September of 2023. I went for a yearly checkup for insurance purposes. While I was there I broke down because my depression was so bad. Like, my doctor almost didn’t let me leave her office. I was put back on Zoloft and given a referral for consoling. I was also given a referral to dermatology for a spot on my check. It might be nothing, but better to get it checked out.

I had my first therapy session in the parking garage at work on my phone. There was a last-minute opening and I took it, but didn’t have enough time to get home to have the remote session on my computer. After ensuring I wasn’t legit driving my car and in a space where I could talk freely, I began the entry evaluation with my maybe new therapist. I wasn’t sure if we would mesh and was aware that I might not see her past the first session.

We got along alright. I disconnected from the session with a second session already scheduled. Headed home like normal and got rearended while I was stopped by someone going 55 mph. My car was totaled.

About a week later I found out the spot on my cheek was skin cancer. Melanoma. I was being referred to a major hospital about an hour and a half away from me since it was on my face. I would have to have the lesion removed and then have reconstructive surgery which may require a skin graft.

I got the car thing figured out. The used car market is shit right now where I live. So I ended up getting a 2022 Nissan Kicks. Electric blue with auto start.

This wasn’t how I wanted to get autostart. I didn’t want a car payment. I didn’t want to have to figure this shit out. My old car wasn’t having issues. It had awesome gas mileage. It was small and comfortable and mine. It was paid off with cheap insurance.

But alas, keeping my car was not part of the equation.

For a week Ox dropped me off at work at 3 AM so he could make it to his own job on time. Eventually, I was able to get a rental set up. It was supposed to be some lame 4 door something something something, but when I got to the rental place, they had this awesome blue car in the lot. And it was available to rent. So that’s how I got to drive an electric blue Nissan Kicks around for a while.

When I got the settlement for my totaled car, I had 3 days to figure out a new car before I started being charged for the rental. Also, cancer surgeries were scheduled for the end of October. I didn’t have time to fuck around with car shit.

So I took a couple of days off work. Couldn’t find a used car on the first day. Only trucks and SUVs and of course, Mazda 2s are no longer made because why would they be…that night I went through the process of figuring out how much my bank would give me for a car loan. I wasn’t going to find a used car that I would like. If I had to drop money on a car I didn’t want to have had to replace in the first place, I wanted to at least like the new one.

The next day, armed with a number, I started searching for Nissan dealerships. I found one. They had an electric blue Nissan Kicks. The same thing I was currently driving, which I knew handled well and got fairly good gas mileage.

I called up the dealership. Asked if they still had it. They did. I put $500 down on it so they wouldn’t sell it. Waited for Ox to get off work. Returned the rental, and then drove roughly an hour to get my new car.

So that’s the story of the car. The day before I drove up to have the lesion on my face removed I paid the sales tax and was able to scratch off the last “car task” from my to-do list. Now I could focus on cancer… again…

I was awake for the lesion removal. I have nothing to compare it to. Having to willing sign a piece of paper saying “I agree to have this done” when the last thing you want is for a stranger to come at your face with a scalpel… To have to lay still while a part of your face is cut away…

Pre-op, my diastolic blood pressure didn’t get below 126. For anyone not medical reading this, that’s a super shitty, not ok number. The staff was all up in arms about me having an energy drink with me, which yeah, may have contributed to the issue, but I fully believe my blood pressure would have sucked regardless because there are not enough drugs in the world to make conscious face cutting ok.

I ended up signing the consent form and taking a Xanax. After about 15 minutes, I didn’t care. I should add that I was trying not to break down the entire hour we waited to get my blood pressure to come down naturally before I signed my consent. Like, I would be borderline sobbing, and the care team would leave the room to give me some space. Ox would comfort me. I would calm down. The team would come back in to take my blood pressure and it would all start over again. The feeling of being unable to breathe, wishing desperately that I could leave without a horrific death related to secondary cancers looming over me.

I did not want surgery. I also didn’t want to die. This whole time they “thought” it was only in the first layer of my skin, which would be awesome. It means surgery would have like a 99% chance of removing all the cancer and I would be fine without further intervention. But they wouldn’t know for sure it was only in the first layer until the lesion was examined under a microscope.

With each level of depth to melanoma the chances of survival drastically dimenision. For statistical reference, melanoma makes up about 15% of reported skin cancer cases. It makes up roughly 70-ish % of skin cancer deaths. So yeah, since we didn’t know what we were dealing with I had to stay overnight in the area in case we had to go back in for more surgery the next day.

Anywho… we couldn’t get my blood pressure into the OK zone for the surgery. Signed consent that I didn’t want to sign, took a Xanax, and then I just didn’t care about any of it. I wasn’t ok with it. I wasn’t magically happy or better. I was just so apathetic that I literally didn’t care.

Oh… You want to cut up my face? Fine. Fuck it. It’s not like it matters. What’s the point of anything anyway? We’re all going to die. I’ll just lay here and cry silent tears knowing that this nightmare is real and there’s nothing I can do about it and all of it fucking sucks.

Ox had to leave the room for the lesion removal. Once it was over my wound was packed with so much gaze and padding it was like I had a softball tapped to my face. And I was sent home like that to wait for test results. Ox and I stayed at a hotel. We went back to the hospital the next day. The nurse told us my results hadn’t returned yet. So we waited. And waited.

When the nurse came back it was to tell me that the margins came back negative. I was cancer-free. No more surgery was needed. While that was good news to hear, it meant I moved to the next stage of the cancer saga. Reconstructive surgery.

I came back home with Ox and lived my first of many weeks of not being able to shower. I couldn’t get the dressing on my face wet. I had to leave it in place until reconstruction. When your morning routine for over 20 years has been “wake up, eat, shower”… the not being able to shower part totally fucks shit up.

It was also the first of many weeks of not being able to eat much of anything. I couldn’t open my mouth wide enough to get more than a level spoonful of food into my mouth, and even then I couldn’t really chew anything. Soups were a big part of my life. If I could eat or drink something through a straw it had a high chance of being successfully consumed. I found out there is a shop in town that does protein smoothies. That became the small bright spots in my day.

It was horrible going there the first time. Taped up, looking fucked up, not able to talk much because I couldn’t move my jaw… The staff members were so kind. They made the shake more liquidy for me so I could drink it easier. They never once made me feel bad or like I shouldn’t be in their shop. They had sympathy, empathy, and compassion, but never pity. Their kindness meant so much to me, especially during that first week.

I had more therapy sessions between the car wreck and the surgery. We talked about my fear of having the mask put on my face for reconstruction because of my thyroid surgery experience. We talked about so many things, trying to… I don’t know, brace for the surgeries? Have less anxiety about them? Something… I think it helped. I also think nothing can ever truly prepare you for the aftermath of surgery.

Before I knew it, Ox was driving me back to the hospital so more of my face could be cut up.

I cried as I was being put under, but at least this time I didn’t have to be awake.

When I did wake up I was in recovery. Not long after I woke up it was discovered that I had uncontrolled bleeding. The surgeon was called in. I was given… morphine I think… something. I was awake while they unbandaged my face, removed the sutures, pulled back my skin, and found the blood vessel that was causing problems. Then my face was stitched back up.

I had blood everywhere. My neck, my ear, matted into my hair. I knew that I should care, but I didn’t. I was just laying there, feeling my blood run over my skin, feeling the sutures being pulled out, and feeling nothing within myself. Just emptiness and helplessness because even though I wanted none of this to be happening, it was happening, and it had to happen to stop the bleeding.

While the surgeon was working, she told me skin from my shoulder/neck area had to be taken to create a graft. So not only was my face full on Frankensteined with stitches and swelling, but I had a lift restriction and another wound to care for because of the sutures at the base of my neck.

Once the bleeding was stopped and I was stitched back together, I was allowed to go home.

Oh… and that whole time they were figuring out the uncontrolled bleeding thing… Ox was in the waiting area freaking the fuck out. He does not have fond memories of those three to four-ish, hours…

For him it went “We started surgery” Hours of silence. “Surgery is done, it went well.” A little later, “Oh… there’s a bleeding issue we’ll let you know what’s going on”… one hour of silence, two hours of silence, three hours of silence… Like… Am I dead, dying? Is it going ok? Something? Anything? Then, finally, someone came out and said, “Ok you can come see her”. While it sucked being in the situation I was in, I cannot even begin to imagine how hard those hours must have been for him.

Through all of this, work was amazingly supportive. With the whole car thing and my trip to the ER because I lost feeling in my arm a week after the wreck while I was at work, to getting the news about my diagnosis, to needing time off to figure out the car, and then more time off for the surgeries plus the recovery…

My team sent flowers to the house along with a card that everyone signed. They also sent money with a note saying they hoped it help provide food for me so I didn’t have to worry about cooking while I was trying to recover. Just… so much kindness and compassion. I cried when I read the card. I still have it.

Anywho… I had to wait like… another week before the stitches could come out. Another week of no showers. Ox helped me with my dressing changes. We took progression pictures to track how the wound was doing. Was it more swollen, more red? Was it showing signs of infection? Nope, it actually looks better compared to the last picture.

It was and still is hard to see those pictures. I will have these scars for forever and there’s nothing I can do to hide them. They will fade and be less prominent, but never fully gone.

That was and is hard.

When I got the sutures removed I was told how good the incisions were healing. It was still another week before I could shower. We didn’t want water to mess with the incisions and injure the blood vessels growing into the rearranged skin on my face.

Ox helped me wash my hair a couple of times. The first time I didn’t last very long. I had to lay across three of the kitchen chairs so I could hang my head over the bathtub while he used the shower head to try to rinse the blood from my hair.

I couldn’t hold that position for very long with the incision at the base of my neck. Supporting my head like that hurt and I could only handle the pain for so long, even while on pain meds.

The first hair rinse almost made me sick because all I could smell was the copper of my blood. The water was filthy with it, and still, I could feel blood on my scalp. So much had washed out and yet there was more. I went through so many q-tips trying to get the blood out of my ear…

The second hair rinse went better. The water wasn’t as dark. I could shampoo more and for longer.

We ended up going to Cost Cutters once my sutures were removed. My hair had grown down to my butt. Not the easiest thing to care for when you’re not able to shower or get your face wet.

Though I didn’t have open wounds on my face, I knew it was hard to look at the fresh incisions, and I knew some people wouldn’t be ok with providing service to me. The lady to met me at the counter was super professional, though. She said she didn’t have a problem at all. We discussed how much of my hair to cut off. We did a dry cut, getting a majority of the length off, then she had me sit at the washing station and washed my hair.

She washed my hair. MY HAIR WAS FINALLY WASHED! I felt so much more human. Holy fuck I can still remember how unbelievably fucking fantastic it felt to have my hair properly shampooed for the first time in over three weeks.

When she was done washing my hair, she took me over the her station so we could do a proper cut. She asked if I had any pain or tenderness with the incisions, and then just talked to me like… I was me. Like I was normal and didn’t have a fucked up face. Just two people, shootin’ the shit during a haircut.

She treated me with respect and kindness. She helped me when I wasn’t able to do something so simple, so basic, as wash my own hair. I gave her a $100 tip for a $10 wash. She asked if I had meant to put that large of a tip and I told her if I were able to give more I would because I appreciated what she did so much.

She may have “just been doing her job”, but for me, it was so much more than that. I didn’t feel human. My face was still extremely swollen and just the thought of going back to work gave me anxiety let alone actually going back, which was what was on my horizon the following week. I felt like I didn’t belong in public because there was no way to not make people uncomfortable, and here she is, telling me about her cats and gossiping and shit with me like I’m just another person. I cannot put into words how much that meant to me. You cannot put a price on priceless things. The best I could do was the extra $100 I had, since Ox and I ended up not having to stay two nights at the hotel for the lesion removal.

Going back to work was hard for me. Everyone was so kind, so supportive. Everyone, in their own time, came to my desk to talk to me. It helped ease the fear I felt; the non-belonging feelings started slowing easing, and work eventually started feeling “safe” because people still joked around with me. I was still invited to have lunch with the girls. My co-workers would still make eye contact with me, which helped me feel seen and like I mattered. I was still me.

So this was like… the second week of November. My return to work. With cancer taken care of for the most part, that let me focus on my shin because, during the car wreck, my left shin had smashed into the break peddle and formed a crazy massive bruise.

When I had gone to the ER for my arm, I mentioned my shin. A large black scab had formed which didn’t seem like a “normal” scab and there was a clear-ish yellow liquid leaking from under the scab.

They did x-rays and nothing was broken or fractured in my leg. I was told not to worry about the scab. So I didn’t. The scab ended up washing off in the shower one day. Since it was then an open wound, I put antibacterial cream on it, covered it, and went about my day. The car was still an issue and after that, I had cancer on my plate. If my leg wasn’t actively falling off then it could wait its turn.

Well… here we are, still have an open wound on my shin, and not much progress has been made in the healing department even though my face is healing well. So that turned into a couple of ER visits because it developed cellulitis and the antibiotics I was given weren’t helping. So the second visit I got an IV antibiotic and a referral to wound care.

That led to bi-weekly debridements of my wound, which sucked. On January 19th I was given a skin grafter for that, which finally allowed a scab to form. It is 100% officially healed now, in February… It took from September until February for this thing to heal completely…

The skin graft was over 5k. The only reason I know that is that the hospital misfiled it as workmen’s-comp, so it was rejected by my insurance.

Debridements are $500 if you were wondering because one of those got misfiled too… Thankful that has been adjusted because there was no way I was going to pay for something that I was told would be covered by the other insurance. Like… I just had two surgeries on my face, I can’t afford to own an additional $5000 because someone else destroyed my car with me in it.

So… things are settling down. I just had my one-year review at work. I have exceeded all goals that were set for me. I will be promoted in July to Drafting I. Therapy is going well. I have had a few EMDR sessions with my therapist, and so that’s where I am currently.

Cocooning and figuring out how to incorporate all of the bullshit my life has been for the past six-ish months.

So what is cocooning?

For me, is when I withdraw and become introspective. I’ve been watching a lot of comedy stuff on Netflix recently. I don’t have the drive or will to play a video game. I don’t want to read or cross-stitch. My mind I shifting through my truths and figuring out who I am in the aftermath of all of these events.

I can’t do that around people or while I am engaging. It might seem like I’m laying in bed doing nothing, and on a physical level, that is accurate. Internally, I can feel that I am changing, morphing, growing, transforming.

It’s like when you physically blank burrito… only that’s what my brain is doing. Snuggling under the warmth and safety of isolating myself from extensive external stimuli so I can work through the backlog of experiences.

Writing is part of that process. I’ve given the bulk of the events an initial dump onto a screen because you have to start somewhere, right? Normally in the cleaning process, you have to make a mess before you can figure out what you want to keep or toss, and how you want to organize the things you keep.

So yeah… most likely still going to be cocooning for a while, but I’m getting back to the gym, I dyed my hair this weekend, I’m in therapy, and I’m working on figuring some things out. I’m figuring out who I want to be so I can be that person once the cocoon phase is over.

Daily Post 203: The Return Home

Today hasn’t been all that eventful. Mostly because it was a workday. Woke up and did my morning routine. It was hard not having Dagger there, knowing he was at the vet alone. Saber and I cuddled together all night. She missed her brother. She kept looking for him.

Saber: Meeeooow. Meeeeoooooow.

Me: I know, Saber. I know. I miss him, too.

Ox had agreed to pick Dagger up from the vet once he was off work. I didn’t want to go this morning. I wanted to call in and say I couldn’t be there. Dagger needed me. I wanted to call out last night. Since our clinic has such a bare-bones crew, though, I knew I couldn’t. I had to go to work. I had to be away from my little tiger. It sucked.

As my patients came in and asked me how my week had been I got to tell them about the good news regarding my cancer. I also got to tell them the craziness that was yesterday with Dagger eating one of my cross-stitching needles. When Ox finally called me to tell me he was off work I didn’t know what to feel.

I wanted to be the one picking him up. I wanted to be there when Dagger got home. I wanted to be there to say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving my project out. I’m sorry for hurting you. I’m sorry for not giving you a choice with the surgery. I’m sorry you’re in pain. You’re my little tiger and you were so brave and I love you so much.”

I was grateful for Ox being there in my place. I was also grateful the day was smooth for the most part. I left the clinic by 4 pm. I was able to make it to the vet around 4:30 to pay half of the $600 bill I have with them. I plan to pay the rest on Tuesday on my way to school.

Ox stayed at the apartment with Dagger and Saber while I was at work. I hadn’t expected him to do that. I knew he was going to be there for a little bit, but he ended up sleeping here at the apartment with the kittens cuddled up against him.

Finding that out, that he didn’t leave Dagger alone, warmed a part of my heart. We hadn’t talked about it. I hadn’t asked. He hadn’t offered, and while I joke about the kittens being his fur babies, in my mind they aren’t his responsibility. I didn’t really give him a choice when I got the kittens. I just did it. He didn’t have to stay here to comfort them, to keep an eye on them.

He didn’t have to give up his whole afternoon, but he did and there aren’t words for what it means to me. It was an act of selflessness and I won’t forget it. It’s added to the ever-growing list of kindnesses he has done for me; to the times he’s been there for me even when I haven’t asked.

While I was at the vet they gave me the needle Dagger swallowed. It’s the most expensive needle I own. I’m seriously thinking about framing it or something. I know it’s stupid and no one would want to inherit it when I die, but it means something to me. One of those moments in life.

Anywho. The vet was extremely kind in letting me split the payment up. She understood this wasn’t an expected expense. I’m still waiting for a check from Ox to clear with my bank. That should happen Monday.

I ran by the gas station to pick up a Bang for Ox. Originally it was going to be a Reign but the gas station didn’t have those, so Bang it was.

When I got to the apartment I finally got to see Dagger. He’s doing well. Still sore, but he’s moving around and seems to be himself. Ox and I clipped the kittens’ claws while he was here. He left not long ago.

I don’t think I’m going to do much with the rest of my night. I’ve packed for work already. I’ve washed the dishes. I’ve eaten. I’ve written.

The only obligation left is to give Dagger his med in an hour. I’m thinking about coloring since I haven’t since Monday. I think that would be nice to do while listening to music. And then, eventually, going to sleep with both my kittens knowing that they’re both ok.

The Victorious Tiny Tiger

Daily Post 188: First Week Post-Surgery

There’s a lot to write about. A lot to process through. A lot to be grateful for. A lot still on the horizon.

I suppose I should start from where I left off last. It was before surgery. I was able to get the $700 needed for the deposit I was blindsided by. Work went well. My patients were extremely supportive during my last days at work.

Tuesday I went to my first day of class. Introduction to Sociology. I was able to talk to the instructor after class. It was nice to have a face to go with the voice I had heard over the phone earlier the week before. We talked about the day I would be missing. She gave me the makeup work. She wished me well during surgery.

After class, I went to the airport and picked up my dad. It was good to see him. We stopped at Arby’s on the way back to my apartment for lunch. We chatted for a bit. He got to meet the kittens. He got to meet Ox. That evening we went out for dinner at Brewsky’s. They have pretty good wings. My FA and her family showed up.

It was a thing I tried to work out with most of my co-workers; my “Cancer Eviction Party.” Not many people showed up but when you work the crazy hours we do I was sort of expecting that. It ended up being pretty awesome regardless. My FA is an extremely important person in my life. She is one of the biggest advocates for my development in the company. I know it may seem childish but I’m glad she was able to meet my dad. He spent a really long time talking to her and it seemed like she genuinely enjoyed the conversation. There were lots of jokes and laughing and shared stories. It was exactly how I wanted to spend my last night before my surgery; with good people having good food and a good time.

I had my last cigarette with Ox before driving back to the apartment. My dad camped out in the living room on my air mattress while I slept with the kittens in my room. I woke up early. I didn’t eat. I had a bit of chicken broth to drink, but that was it. We got to the hospital around 10 am. I got checked in and was shown to my pre-surgery room. I had to take my piercings out. I had to wipe down with antimicrobial wipes. I had to wear a hospital gown. I had to wait a really long time. I had to answer a bunch of questions. I had to give them the paperwork for my living will so it could be in my medical record.

The surgeon came in and talked to me. I think he could tell I was scared. Remarkablely, he was extremely kind to me. There was something different about his eyes. Something different in his voice. Something about the way he held himself said, “It’s ok to be scared. I’ve got you.”

Eventually, 30 minutes past when my surgery was supposed to start, I was wheeled down the hall to the surgery room. I was ok going into the room. The staff helped me transfer over onto the surgery table. They started putting EKG electrodes on me. They were talking to me, to each other. I was told to rest my head just so on the pillow.

I could feel the tears running from the corners of my eyes. I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be doing this. I didn’t want to have surgery. I didn’t want to be in the hospital. I didn’t want to have cancer.

The tears kept coming as everyone moved around getting things ready. It was harder to breathe. To keep it even and normal. Harder and harder to not cry. They put the mask over my face saying it was just oxygen. But I knew it wouldn’t stay just oxygen. I knew they were going to put me to sleep with no way to promise that I would wake up. I started crying as someone stroked my forehead saying that I was doing really well.

No, I’m not. No, I’m not. I’m not doing well. Please don’t do this.

That was the last thing I remember.

After that, I was waking up with two nurses in my room. I don’t remember the beginning of the conversation but I remember saying that I knew mom was still dead and breaking down because it hurt so much all over again. I woke up and she still wasn’t going to be there.

Somehow we got onto the subject of my kittens, most likely because they didn’t want me crying so hard with my incision being so fresh. Ox and Dad weren’t in the room yet. I could hear Ox’s keys as he walked, though. I knew he was close. I remember looking out the hospital room doorway and seeing him and reaching for him. I needed him near me. I need him to touch me. I needed him to be real.

Me: I woke up.

I remember saying that. I remember explaining that I remembered mom was dead and crying again. I remember my younger brother talking to me on the phone and saying it was good to hear my voice. I was still pretty out of it. I felt sick; nauseous. I didn’t eat anything for another four hours. I drank a lot of water during the moments I was awake enough to do so. I was able to walk to the restroom by myself on my first try. That was important to me. I don’t know why, but I needed to prove to myself that I could.

Dad stayed with me through the night. Around midnight I had half a bowl of oatmeal. My throat was extremely sore from being intabated which apparently they had to do that twice to me. The seal broke on the first one.

Around four in the morning, I had a small container of applesauce. I was still nauseous feeling and the thought of anything more solid than that wasn’t appealing. I had a few cups of chicken broth throughout the night as well. I was extremely dehydrated after the surgery.

I ended up having a pain pill as well. 5mcg of hydrocodone with 375 mcg I believe of acetaminophen. It wasn’t enough to make me one with the Universe or anything, but it took the sharpness of the pain down to a dull ache that I could work with.

I had a drain in my neck. Not sure if that’s really important in the grand scheme of the story, but I feel I should mention it.

My RN for the evening was amazing. Shelby. She was so kind and quiet. She’s the type of nurse I want to be.

In the morning I had blood drawn to check my calcium levels. I was kept until noon because of the drain. The PA thought it was still draining a bit much for her to be ok with me leaving in the morning. My dad and I played a few games of cribbage to kill the time. Breakfast was brought up. Two pancakes, one piece of sausage and a single strawberry. I ate it all which I was proud of.

Eventually, I was rounded on again. The drain was doing fine. The PA removed it which totally sucked. God did it fucking suck. Thankfully it was over quick. My morning nurse went over my discharge instructions, talked about incision care, and follow-up steps once I was at home. Kristen. She’s another nurse I want to be like.

I asked for all of the names of people who helped take care of me while I was in my post-surgery room so I could write thank you cards. Kristen got me the list.

I walked all the way to the lobby of the hospital. I didn’t think I was trying to be a badass. I didn’t think it would be a hard thing to do. I was beyond grateful to sit and wait for Ox to pull up with the car. I was so tired from walking the relatively short distance.

Once I was in the car, holding the vase of flowers from Allison’s mom, my dad drove to the Chinese place where Ox and I like going. I got an order of the seafood soup with a side of fried rice and the three of us ate lunch before going to pick up my medications. I got my Synthroid as well as 15 more pain pills. I also got a container of peppermint Tums since I had to take four tablets a day to make sure my calcium didn’t drop post-surgery.

I was exhausted after lunch and going into Walgreens. Dad drove me home and I went to sleep for I don’t know how long. I think we went out to dinner for food but I don’t remember where if we did.

I don’t remember breakfast the next morning. I do know we went to Walmart and got a 3D crystal puzzle. It was the purple dragon on. Dad and I put it together, well… together. It was nice. We did a few more games of cribbage, too. I was still taking a pain pill every six hours. All of my body hurt. My neck, my shoulders, my abs. Laying down in bed sucked more than getting out of it.

Oh! Ox got me a purple weighted blanked which arrived just in time for me to use at home. I believe it was delivered Thursday.

Anywho. It wasn’t until Saturday morning that I started feeling ok pain wise. I had another pill that morning before we drove into town to have breakfast with Ox, the kids, and his parents. Which reminds me… I had breakfast with dad at Greenfields on Friday. Saturday was Village Inn.

It was a good breakfast. It was nice for dad to meet Ox’s family. There was more good conversation and overall I think it went well. I worked on my make up assignment for school. I napped. We went to Brewsky’s for dinner and tried out the Mettle Grill for lunch. All of it was good.

I talked to a lot of people through Facebook and phone calls in between the days. Everyone wanted to know how I was doing. Dad and I were able to have some really deep and important conversations while he was with me. He got to explain his actions and choices after the diveroce. I got to explain how it felt as a young girl and that I realized as an adult that some of the things he said and did weren’t meant the way I took them.

I got to tell my dad, in person, that despite all of the times he wasn’t there for marching band competitions or graduation speeches, that when I needed him to be there for me, he was, and that I would always be grateful for him. We both took a lot of steps to mend our relationship. There were a lot of tears but they were healing tears. Painful tears but at the same time good tears. They were tears that needed to happen. To be shared and shed.

We talked about mom a lot. He explained what he remembered about the situation when mom had her surgery.

My dad isn’t much of a cat person, but he did go onto Amazon and buy a laser toy for them since we were having so much fun tormenting them with a handheld laser pointer. It’s a tower with a rotating top that shines a laser on the floor. It spins around, moving the laser randomly. The cats have yet to conquer the red dot of doom.

Monday night Ox, dad, and I had dinner again. Dad told Ox that he was extremely pleased that I had Ox in my corner. He told Ox to take care of me. Dad thinks I’m doing well. He thinks I’m where I need to be surrounded by people who care deeply about me and my wellbeing. He thinks I’m headed in the right direction with my life and that all I need is time. He thinks I’ll get to where I want to be. It was validating to hear him say those words. That he was and is proud of me.

It meant a lot that he liked Ox as well; that he thinks Ox is a good person.

The whole week was amazingly nice. I didn’t have a lot of alone time. I didn’t have a cigarette the entire time my dad was here. I had breakfast with him at a diner I really like. We drove to the airport and said our goodbyes. I had my post-surgery appointment later in the day and I promised to keep him posted on how it went.

I didn’t cry when he left. It didn’t feel like a goodbye. More like an “I’ll see you later.” It was nice. It felt like I still have a parent and like I’m not an orphan.

I went to class after the airport. It was a good class. We talked about shootings, and game violence and suicide. Pretty deep and heavy topics and how different cultures respond differently to different things and what could be some cultural underlying issues to social problems. Very thought-provoking discussions.

And I guess for now that’s where I’ll leave this writing. There’s a lot more to catch up on, but this was my first week post-surgery. Quiet, slow, full of recovery and kindness and empathy. Full of love and family and connectedness. Full of my dad becoming part of my life again and seeing a glimpse of my world and being proud of the tiny corner I’ve eeked out for myself here in the middle of nowhere.

Daily Post 187: 30 Minute Roller Coaster

So… I’m still not the best at posting daily. I’m ok with that. Giving myself credit for making the effort.

The rest of Wednesday was a pretty good day. I went to counseling. We talked a lot about the upcoming surgery and my feelings regarding it. My biggest fear is not waking up.

We talked about how I told Lil’ Ox and Ornery Ox about my surgery. The next time they seem me I’ll have the incision on my neck. I didn’t want them to feel betrayed by not being told what is going on. I wanted them to be prepared to see a mark on my neck.

We talked about my feelings regarding my dad coming out. We talked about my upcoming sociology class.

All sorts of stuff… good stuff mostly. I didn’t cry this time. Go me!

After counseling, since our meetings are on campus, I went and picked up my books for my class. That was $180. Fuck my life… Mama Ox gave me $130 to help cover it. The last bit of birthday and Christmas since she wanted to help. Really it was more of an unspoken, “I’m going to help you and your going to accept it and I’m a mom and there’s nothing you can do to stop me because I have that special mom glare that I’ll use on you if you try to not accept my help” sort of situation.

After getting my books, I walked around the school until I found the room where my class will be held. I feel better knowing where to go next Tuesday rather than hoping I don’t get completely lost and end up being late. Nope. I know exactly where I want to park and what sidewalks to take and all that jazz. I’m actually really looking forward to Tuesday morning.

I sent a message to the instructor asking her to call me when she had time. I said I had some medical things going on the first week of class I wanted to let her know about and felt it would be best discussed on the phone rather than through an email. I was able to talk to her later in the say, so she knows what’s going on. She let me know what things I could do to get a head since I won’t be able to do much Wednesday and will be missing class on Thursday.

After I was done gallivanting around the campus, I met with Ox for lunch. We have been going to a new sports bar. Well… new to us. It’s been around for a while. They have good wings. I like going there. The server isn’t super friendly, but I’ll let it slide since their food is on point

While we were waiting for our food, I got a phone call from the hospital. They needed to get more information from me and wanted to walk me through what check-in would be like the day of the surgery. They told me where I needed to park, what entrance to take, what I needed to do the night before; fun stuff like that.

After eating, Ox and I went and did some errands. We got a case of Bang for me and a case of Reign Sour Apple for him. That stuff is amazing by the way.

We hopped across the street to PetSmart to get wet cat food for the kittens. I got two cases so I won’t have to worry about going out next week for it after the surgery. From there we went to Costco. I got gas for my car along with some grocery stuff. More stocking up for the coming week where I most likely won’t want to do much.

We finally went home after that. I was tired. It felt like one of the fullest days I’ve had in a while. Ox and I napped a bit. There was failed sexy time but that wasn’t the soul-crushing experience it normally feels like. It makes me wonder if the Zoloft is already starting to do stuff.

I slept alone last night at the apartment. It took a little bit to fall asleep, but I slept deeply the whole night. I woke up early and thought about writing, but I had left my backpack in the car and didn’t feel like going out to get it, to come back in, to go back out again for work, so instead I cuddled with the kittens and had a relaxing morning before getting ready.

Ox and I had a cigarette together. I was tired, but who isn’t at 3 AM? I felt ok about going to work. I got even better when I realized I was working with my FA today. Work went smoothly. No complaints. We got lunch from Taco John’s and I didn’t even feel bad about eating carbs. I haven’t been eating much lately so when I have a full meal I’m actually sort of proud of myself. It’s not just half a protein bar or a yogurt with a cheese stick. I had a whole burrito. Go me!

It wasn’t until after work that my day turned into the roller coaster of doom. Not even exaggerating.

I had a missed call that I returned. It was from my surgeon’s office. They wanted to let me know that they had gotten in touch with my insurance. Since my deductible hasn’t been met for this year, 2020, I will need to put a $700 deposit down by noon on Tuesday before they will do my surgery.

Me: … Ok…

I literally didn’t know what else to say.

Not once in any of the phone calls or appointments or emails has ANYONE said ANYTHING about even the potential of me having to pay something upfront before having this procedure done.

I don’t have $100 to put towards it let alone $700.

What the fuck? And I only have five days to figure it out.

Again… WHAT THE FUCK?

I knew my deductible wouldn’t be met, but everything has been billed to me afterward. I have a payment plan with the hospital. Who the hell has $700 that they can just blow for a deposit on a surgery?

I, for sure, am not one of those fortunate people.

So… yeah… I got off the phone with that chick, still in shock. I called Ox after about three minutes of staring off into the distance, not knowing what to do with my life because what am I suppose to do if I can’t somehow find $700 to cover this deposit? I’ve already taken time off of work. My dad already bought his plane tickets. How the fuck do they suddenly pull this?

Them: We won’t touch you until you give us $700 even though we told you the surgery was approved and you’ve already taken all these steps to have it.
Me: Fuck you guys.

After my three minutes of mental floundering, I called and told Ox about the conversation. I told him I was going to reach out to people and see if they would be willing to help. If I asked 7 people for 100 each, no single person would be completely screwed and I wouldn’t have to die. Seemed like a plan. Beg for money because I’m not financially stable enough to save my own life. Thanks, Universe. Fuck you, too.

I ended up talking to Allison; my friend from high school. The person I was the maid of honor for. Someone I think of as a sister, but who I also do not understand. I don’t feel I deserve the best friend status she gives me, and yet I have it.

I called her and explained that I was a mess at the moment because of a phone call I had not even 10 minutes previous. I explained about the deposit and asked if I could borrow $100 and I would pay her back with my tax money when it came in.

Her: Of course. Is that all you need, though?
Me: No. I don’t have any of it.
Her: Well, why don’t I give you all of it and then you don’t have to worry about it anymore.

Queue me breaking down into tears of gratitude because I do not deserve this level of kindness in my life.

She asked what would be the best way to send the money. I couldn’t think with all of the 180s my life was doing at the moment. I said I didn’t know.

Her: Do you have a PayPal account?
Me: Yes.
Her: If you send me your information I can transfer the money to you.

We talked a bit more. I drove home. I set up my laptop and figured out the PayPal thing. My life isn’t falling apart. I can still have the surgery. And I have some pretty awesome people in my life.

I’ll never complain about how I had to wear a dress at her wedding ever again. Ever. I would wear a dress every day for the rest of my life if that’s what she wanted me to do. Instead, all she asked is that I take care of myself and send her the address of the hospital so her mom could send me flowers.

For now, I’m going to go over to the house and cross-stitch and relax before going to bed. I have work tomorrow. I work with the nurse I really like. I need to come up with names for the two nurses so I can write about them without it getting confusing… Problem for a different day…

Point being, I’m looking forward to tomorrow. I’m actually able to think about days in advance and not feel overwhelmed by them. I can think about them, plan them, envision them. It’s a good feeling. I haven’t been able to do that for a while.

Not looking forward to waking up at 2:30, but I am looking forward to working with this particular coworker.

And with that, I’m done. Crisis averted. All is well. At least as well as it can be with cancer and a shitty health care system.

Daily Post 185: Post Pre-Op

I had my pre-op appointment today. I’ve smoked way too many cigarettes between then and writing this. I can tell because my body is pissed at me. Fuck you, body. That’s what you get for having cancer.

I suppose to some people that type of humor isn’t appropriate, but it’s getting me through my day, so there’s that.

My surgery is cleared. I had some blood work done before leaving so they can check for anemia and such. I spent the majority of my forty-five-minute appointment crying. It started with my primary physician coming in and asking how I was doing.

Seriously. Fuck that question. >.<

I mean… I appreciate it. I truly do, but if you want to open the floodgates of my emotional reality, that’s how you do it.

I told her about my diagnosis. I finally got to tell her thank you. Because of her care, we were able to find out about my cancer and to take the needed steps to remove it. I told her how the past month or so has been hard and getting progressively harder as the surgery date gets closer. I told her about the night I looked up overdosing, how I’ve been going to counseling, how Ox and I have had more open communication.

I told her about my nightmares and fatigue and how silly, stupid, “normal” things feel overwhelming. Crushing. I told her how I understood this wasn’t a forever type of situation but how everything post-surgery felt so nebulous and far away and unknown and that post-surgery is where I feel like I will struggle even more.

She asked if I was opposed to taking something for depression and anxiety. My reply was I felt like taking medication would be treating symptoms rather than addressing the root cause of the issues.

She understood my perspective. She also countered with relating mental and emotional health to a viral cold. When you have a cold there really isn’t anything you can take to make things “better”. You have to let the body work itself out. You can take decongestants, or Tylenol to lower a fever, but nothing is going to make the cold go away faster. The meds help you function for those 10 or so days where you feel like crap.

They help you sleep at night. They help you breathe easier. They help keep the sinus pressure bearable so you can still go to work even though you most likely shouldn’t but bills are a thing and so off to work you go to infect all your coworkers…

She thinks it would be a good idea for me to start taking Zoloft. It would be one of the lowest doses. 25mg. One tablet every day. It will take about three weeks for it to build up to a consistent level in my system.

It won’t be a miracle pill. It won’t make me bright and sunny and happy. It won’t make unicorns gallop under colorful rainbows with pots of gold at the end. In theory, it WILL help me think clearer and calmer. It will help keep me from having as many super-low days.

There’s a whole list of side-effects that it could have; one of them being worsening suicidal thoughts not to mention the lowered blood pressure leading to dizziness and falling down. Let me tell you how much it would suck to fall down while I’m trying to cannulate a patient…

So… I now have a choice…

I can keep going as I am, struggling and feeling like I’m not doing well and that I’m constantly falling into a hopeless pit of despair. Or… I could try taking a medication that may or may not make things worse.

I’ve talked to Ox pretty extensively about it. He’s hesitant for me to start taking Zoloft when I’m about to begin taking Synthroid after the surgery. I share those concerns. I feel like it will be hard to tell which medication is doing or not doing what.

I spoke with my FA pretty extensively about the situation, too. She thinks it would be good to try it.

Both Ox and my FA agreed to be a safety net for me. If they begin seeing behavior that “isn’t me” they will let me know. They also agreed to check in with me to see how I’m doing emotionally. A lot of that will hinge of me being honest about how I’m feeling, something I’m not always the best at…

Both Ox and FA agree that beginning to write daily again could help gauge emotional stability and track emotional changes. It would allow me to reflect on myself and to be aware of how the medication may or may not be affecting my thoughts.

I think going back to my daily to-do lists would also be beneficial. I don’t have to make endless pages of tasks, but I could give myself one or two things to start with. That’s it. Just those two things. It could help give some sort of structure and stability to my day and give myself a visual representation of what my day was like. This day I got all of this done. This day was harder but I got these things done. This day was fantastic and I got all of this done. My to-do lists would let me track my energy a bit easier, a bit clearer, than what I might get from purely writing.

I’m scared to try this medication. I’m scared of surgery. I’m scared of the unknown. On the flip side, I do think I have a strong support system full of people who care about me and who will look out for me.

Ox and I agreed we will give it one week; one week to see if things get worse. If they do, I stop. If not, we give it one more week. If it gets worse, I stop. If not, one more week and so on and so on.

The one-week method seems doable. It gives me a clear, defined timeline to track and measure for improvement or decline, not just in mental and emotional status, but general health. Am I having GI issues, drowsiness, insomnia, panic attacks, or any of the other number of potential side-effects, and if I am, do the pros, if there are any, outweigh the cons?

So yeah… One week. I will give it one week.

I will write a quick note each morning about how I feel, emotionally as well as physically. How did I sleep? How do I feel about the coming day? Is my stomach upset? Do I have an appetite or no?

When I get home I’ll write another note. How did the day go? How did I do physically, emotionally? How do I feel about sleeping and waking up for the next day?

So, today, at 2:30 PM, I am taking my first pill, my first dose, of Zoloft. It is one week and 12 hours before my surgery. I have an army of supporting people who love me. I WILL survive this situation.

This begins my one week. I’m nervous yet at the same time desperate enough to try this method. Other’s can only help so much. I know I would benefit from help internally, if just until things settle down and normalize to the new normal that will be my life post-surgery.

This isn’t for forever. This is for right now. We don’t look down on people taking a pain med when they have broken bones. This is my first step towards not looking down on myself for taking a medication for my mental health.

I love you, self. Forever and for always, I’m here for you and we’ll get through this together.

Daily Post 184: Sick

My days have been going alright.

I’m sick currently with my pre-op appointment tomorrow at 8:30 AM. I talked to my boss about it. I’m concerned about my surgery date being pushed back even though the surgery is still a week away. I’m sure I’ll be over my sickness by then but I’m not sure I’ll seem well enough for my appointment tomorrow. My boss said if it’s just a cold they most likely will keep the original date, but there’s no guarantee. All I can do is continue to take it easy and see how tomorrow goes I suppose.

I missed a training session I was supposed to have at Omaha yesterday for work. I spent most of yesterday sleeping, trying to get better. After sleeping for 16 hours I do feel better. I’m not as congested. I’m not coughing as much. I’m not as tired though I am still a bit under the weather. I know the steps I need to take to get the annual training rescheduled. I’ll take care of that Thursday when I go back to work.

My Sociology class starts next Tuesday. My dad flys in next Tuesday as well. I work Thursday, Friday, and Saturday this week so our other tech can have her sinus surgery. The kittens have had their surgeries so I can not become a legit crazy cat lady. They’re recovering well and are back to terrorizing each other.

Ox has had the kids the past week since it’s been the holidays. We haven’t been spending much time together. Not only has he had the kids, he’s also been sick. I most likely caught whatever he had. Much lame… There hasn’t been a lot of cuddling. No kissing. All in an effort to keep me well enough for surgery. I’ve been handling the lack of contact better than I would have six months or a year ago, but it still sucks. I don’t know what else to say on the topic. I want to be touched and held and I can’t be. I feel denied and deprived of things I want and need and it didn’t even do anything in the end. I still got sick so what was the point in feeling like crap this whole time? What was the point in feeling so alone?

There’s a part of me who wants to work out and have the motivation and drive to do something other than “survive” but the larger portion of my self doesn’t care. It all feels pointless. I’ve been cross-stitching and watching stuff on Netflix. If I’m not busy and distracted with work then I feel depressed and apathetic.

As far as today goes, I want to make my shopping list for the week. I want to go out and actually do the shopping. I want to not be completely tapped out energy-wise after doing that, but I have the feeling I will be. Mostly from being sick, but also from the depression I feel in my bones. It’s like my body is lead. The effort it takes to move and do things outside of work isn’t “normal”, isn’t right. Isn’t “me” even though it is.

I know this isn’t how things will be for forever, but it’s hard to see a light at the end of the tunnel when I don’t know exactly what will happen post-surgery. Everything is nebulous and maybe this and potentially that. There doesn’t seem to be anything solid or real or tangible to grasp onto.

There was a day, this past Thursday I think, where I had been fairly depressed all day, but ended up cleaning the apartment fairly well. I found a pair of socks I had been missing for months. I have a trash bag full of things to donate. I cleaned up the computer desk and went through my “in” pile. It ended up being a good day. I felt better for having taken care of things that were bothering me.

There are a few projects I would like to get done before my dad gets here so the apartment can be a bit more presentable. Getting the kitchen table set up is one of those projects. I don’t have a place where we both could sit and talk. My space really isn’t set up to entertain guests and while that isn’t an issue most of the time, I feel like it will become one once my dad is here.

So… yeah… grocery shopping will most likely be the highlight of my day. Well… meal planning and then shopping… It feels like a lot. I’m already tired thinking about it.

Hopefully, this too shall pass.

Musing Moment 141: Post-Consultation

This is the first day where I have the space, the silence, to really sit down and have a talk with myself about recent events.

So self… How are you? And no, “I’m fine,” isn’t an ok answer between us. I’m here for you. I will always be here for you and I need you to be honest with me; with us.

How are you feeling about having cancer?

Having cancer isn’t really the thing that bothers me. The thought of having surgery bothers me. The thought of my life depending on a daily medication bothers me. What happens if there’s a zombie apocalypse? A nuclear bomb? What happens if I’m kidnapped or taken hostage and I’m denied access to my medication? What happens if I can no longer obtain it?

Having my thyroid removed will keep me alive. I get it. There’s something inside my body that while yes, it is slow-growing, doesn’t spread, blah blah blah… it’s still trying to kill me and will succeed if I don’t remove it. I accept that. I have to have surgery in order to stay alive. But after surgery, the only reason I can keep living a “normal” life is because I live in a place, in a time, where I can give my body the thing it will no longer be able to create on its own.

So what happens if that changes? What happens if the time and place no longer work the way they currently do and I’m left without what I need to live?

Ox and I have an understanding. I called him on my lunch break at work on Friday. We talked about this. I know for a lot of people it may seem silly, stupid, to entertain such far-fetched ideas; things that will “never” happen. But I need to know. If.. IF… they did happen, what would we do?

I told him that I needed him to promise me, if this became a legitimate issue that he would take me out, or if he couldn’t do it himself, to let me do it myself.

Of course, I was in tears as I made him promise me.

If I have no control over my need for this medication, then I want to have the control to at least not suffer if I’ll never be able to get it again. I need the people in my life to understand not only is this the type of issues I’m having to contend with and reconcile within myself, I need them to understand that these are my wishes, while I’m still of sound mind and body.

Me: Don’t let me suffer.

I’ve talked to Jon and he’s agreed to be who I name in my living will, because there are no guarantees in life. This surgery is safe and very rarely are there complications… more blah blah blah blah…

Mom was about to be discharged to go to rehab when she had a pumonary emolism, ok? Don’t give me your bullshit about everythings going to be fine and I don’t need to worry about things like that.

Yeah… I fucking do because unless you can show me my contract where it says I’ll have no complications and go on to live a full life and die many, many years later, then you can’t tell me this isn’t something I need to worry about. You’re not the one literally having your throat cut open by a stranger who’s an asshole and didn’t even have time to answer your questions.

I want to have things in place just in case there’s a complication after surgery. That way the people I love aren’t left not knowing what to do because we never talked about the real shit that mattered. I’ve already started looking into a last will and who would get the hope chest my grandfather made for me and mom’s china hutch and china set and my cross stitch stuff or my magic cards. I’ve already asked Ox what would happen to the kittens if I were to die because I need to know they’ll be ok.

That’s the type of shit I’m having to think about while my patients ask me how my Thanksgiving was.

Me: Do collectors get to take their due out of the life insurance I’ve left for my brothers? Oh, yeah… Thanksgiving was nice. Not a lot happened…

Except everything happened. I was diagnosed with cancer and have had to have non-stop conversations with countless people about it and I still don’t have a surgery date because my insurance has to “approve” my surgery.

What the actual fuck?

Are you saying it’s possible to be denied a life-saving operation? Should this be something I actually put energy into worrying about because it’s a thing? I need approval for a medical procedure when I’ve paid thousands of dollars on health insurance from when I first started working until now? Thousands of dollars that I’ve never actually used for anything other than yearly checkups?

No wonder so many people have fucking issues with our health system. I’ve done more than my part and yet I need “approval”?

Go fuck yourselves.

I’m having to think about things like, “if I were to die should I be buried or cremated? If I’m buried, where should I be buried so the people who would want to visit my grave can do so without having to spend thousands of dollars to do it? If I die somewhere far away from my burial site, how expensive would it be to send my body to the burial location? Is that even a thing? If so do I have to be imbalmed to do it?”

God. So many fucking questions. And I have a group project I haven’t even really touched for school this coming week. Not to mention all of the reading for this unit that I haven’t done. Not going to feel bad about prioritizing reassuring family and friends that I’m not dying as I prepare for the possibility of my death over reading nursing school BS assignments that haven’t helped me score better on the tests because your tests are BS to begin with. Arg… >.<

There’s so much going on inside of my head that I don’t even know where to begin.

Does having surgery make you less of a cancer survivor? I mean… It’s not like I’m fighting it. I’m not going through chemo. I’m not having to do a lot of stuff that most people diagnosed with cancer have to go through. I have this surgery. It’s removed. I go about my life… That’s not heroic. That’s not really “fighting”, is it? I’m having someone else cut me open. They’re doing all the work and I’m hoping they do it well enough to not fuck up.

That seems sort of like a cheap way of fighting cancer. Not cheap as in “not expensive”. But cheap as in, “I’m not having to face the same hardships as others”, so does my experience really count? Would I really be a cancer survivor?

So that brings into question, how do I feel about mom? She had cancer. The same cancer, in fact. Do I think of her as a cancer survivor?

Honestly, I never really thought about it. I knew she had thyroid cancer at some point; before I was born. I knew she had surgery. I knew she took medication. But I never talked to her about it. I never questioned it. She was mom. She was awesome. I didn’t think to talk to her about it. I didn’t think to explore that experience, that side of her. And now that I’m facing it myself, there’s no way to go back and have those conversations.

There was this whole side of her that I never knew anything about and I’ll never know it because I never thought to ask.

I do think of her as a survivor. I do think of her as a badass; even more badass now since I’m facing something she went through. So if I think of her that way, why am I different? Why wouldn’t I think of myself in the same way, the same light, as someone who went through literally the same thing I’m going through?

That’s not fair. That’s not logically. What is it about me that makes me unworthy of the same mentality? Why am I put into a different box of “non-survivor” status?

I don’t have an answer for that. At least not yet. But I know it’s there so that’s at least a step in the right direction.

The surgeon himself is a jerk. I had to dig out my surprised face for that one… He came into the room and didn’t even know what I was there for. He “believed” I was there for thyroid issues… yeah, because the last time I checked cancer is sort of an issue… He didn’t know if I should have a partial removal or a full removal… Well… based on the information from my endocrinologist, there’s a questionable nodule less than a centimeter big in my left lobe, so her recommendation was for a full removal instead of a partial… You know, taking out everything since you’ll already have to take out the right side. It would be better to have a baseline of ok rather than a baseline of “what’s this weird shit over here going to do later down the road,” sort of a thing…

It felt like I was doing his job for him because he knew nothing about my case.

He gave me his sales pitch, telling me how experienced he was and how post-surgery would go then stood to leave. I mentioned that I still had questions, not mentioning that it was four pages worth of questions since some of them had already been covered.

Surgeon: Well, I’m already 30 minutes late for a surgery so I really can’t stay.

Fuck you, dude. If your nurse practitioner wasn’t amazing I would be looking for someone else to cut me open. Actually, I dislike you so much I almost would rather die of cancer than let you save me. Seriously. I came to this appointment because you were supposed to have time for me and to know my case, which apparently you couldn’t do either of those things.

I flipped him off when he closed the door, leaving me and Ox alone in the room, waiting, as he flagged down his NP to come clean up his mess.

The NP is amazing, though, and literally the only reason I’m staying with this particular surgeon. One of my coworkers knows of him. She used to work at the same hospital. She said even the other doctors think he’s an asshole, which is saying something. If other doctors, who are assholes, think you’re an asshole, then you must be a special type of special.

But yeah, his NP is fantastic. She was so kind and compassionate. She understood when I explained the situation about mom and how at the moment I felt relatively fine but that pre-surgery would most likely be extremely hard for me. She assured me she would be in the surgery room with me, helping the surgeon, and that she could even be with me pre-surgery if it would help. Knowing she’ll be there makes it seem more doable. I won’t be alone. I’ll know someone. She said she would most likely be the person checking on me post-surgery as well since they’ll have to keep me overnight to make sure there aren’t complications. She even answered all the questions I had in my notebook, never indicating that any of them were stupid or silly. Even my question about “Will it being winter affect my recovery?” was answered with kindness and compassion and an informative response; which depression is a big worry about surgeries in winter, in case you were wondering.

If I’m unconscious for the whole time I’m around Mr. Asshole and conscious for all the other times with the NP, then I think I’ll be ok.

The NP actually had a thyroidectomy herself… when she was 20… Holy fuck? You had just graduated high school and were told you had cancer? What the actual fuck, Universe? I want to talk more to her and hear her perspective. How did you feel being told that young that you had cancer? How do you feel now? Do you feel like a cancer survivor? Do you ever feel vulnerable or less than or unworthy because you’re missing part of yourself?

Jon, Jason, and my dad have wanted to know if I want them there. I’m not sure yet. I’m hoping to have the surgery between the 18th of December and the 9th of January. There’s a part of me who’s hoping for the 20th of December so I can avoid all of the birthday stuff…

Me: Sorry guys, I would love to have a party… but, you know… cancer… so I can’t… Maybe next year, though. Love you. Bye. : D

Oh, and trust me… I’ve been making a ton of cancer jokes. I mean… if my choices are crying about it or making extremely inapproiate jokes about it… I’m totally going to joke and laugh.

I want to have the surgery before my winter break from school ends. Though, I still don’t know what I want to do with school yet. I haven’t told my instructors since it’s been holiday break.

At the moment I’m inclined to tell my family, “No. Don’t come”. It’s the holidays. Traveling is going to be a nightmare and ridiculously expensive for something that is a borderline outpatient surgery. I mean… everyone keeps making it sound like, “You’re sick. You go to the doctor. They make you better. You go home.” Why would I have people waste time and money to be there for something when in two to three days I’ll be back at work? Shouldn’t I be able to handle that alone without having to drag everyone through that emotional and financial expense?

It’s confusing. My friend Allison, who just had a baby not even two weeks ago, talked to me a bit about that part of the situation. Which, you want to talk about raining on someone’s parade…?

Me: Congratulations! By the way, I have cancer. How was childbirth?

She said that maybe Jason, Jon, and my dad WANT to be there. That it would make them feel better TO be there, rather than being home, by themselves, no knowing what’s going on. Not being able to see me before or after surgery.

She has a point. It’s not fair of me to make decisions for them. They’re adults. They can decide if seeing me in a hospital is something they can or cannot handle. It’s not my place to say if it is or isn’t. It’s not my place to take the choice away from them.

I won’t know until early this coming week when surgery will be. I have to make it through at least another day of work, maybe a day of school, with not knowing. What if it ends up being Christmas week when it’s my turn to work Sunday at the clinic since New Tech covered this past Sunday for the Thanksgiving holiday? What if I’m unable to cover my three days at the clinic?

Even though I’ve been told by my boss, who has also gone through something similar with her thyroid, not to worry about work, I’m me and I’m going to fucking worry, ok? Telling me not to worry is like telling me not to breathe. Let me get right on that…

I worry about my team. I love my team and this is going to affect them just as much as Ox or anyone else in my life. Maybe more so since I spend so much time working beside them.

It is going to take a bit of time to figure out the dosage of medication I’m supposed to be on. There’s math and stuff to help figure out a “right” dose but that’s more of a starting point rather than a miracle number. Every person is different and every person responds differently. We won’t know until about six weeks post-surgery if their numbers are working. If they aren’t, does the dose need to be increased or decreased? After the adjustment is made it will be another six weeks before lab work and be redone to see if the dosage is better or worse. Finding the right dosage is going to be a process, a long one, and during this time because the thyroid controls your metabolism and energy levels, my moods are going to be all over the place.

If my dosage is too low, I’ll be tired and fatigued, and not the kind that coffee and a shit ton of caffeine will help with. I will be physically, bone-achingly tired because my body can’t process energy the way it’s supposed to. If my dose is too high, I basically feel like I’m on speed, unable to sleep or focus. Unable to stop or sit still. Not all that awful aside from the health complications that go along with not sleeping and the potential heart arrhythmias… At least the apartment will be clean when I die? That’s a bright side, right?

So I’m supposed to go six to 12 weeks of potential “wtf” inside my body that I have absolutely no control over while going to nursing school three days a week and working another three at the clinic and only have Sunday off, ever, to do the rest of the shit that needs to happen in my life, like paying bills and laundry, food shopping and cooking, followup appointments, vet visits, mental and emotional breakdowns…

Yeah, all of life gets regulated to a single day next semester. How am I supposed to be successful at anything with everything I have going on?

I don’t have an answer for that either, at least not yet.

I want to talk to the head of the LPN program to see what my options are as far as school is concerned. I’ve already taken out loans for the program. What happens if I stop? Does the school refund the money? It’s not like I’m, “Naw. I’m not feeling this whole nursing thing. I’m going to go be couch potato instead.” I literally have cancer and I don’t want to have to worry about school assignments while I’m trying to be mentally and emotionally ok because I’m really not mentally and emotionally ok right now.

Can I sit out this coming semester? Maybe take a prerequisite for the RN program like Microbiology? Something online so I don’t have to worry about traveling anywhere on my days off from work but still something moving me in a forward direction and keeping me “active”? Could I hop back into the LPN program but do it full-time instead of part-time? I mean… I was already having to look at cutting back my time at work anyway since the part-time program meets Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. If I’m having to cut back at work anyway, why not get it done faster? If I can’t reenter the program full-time can I wait until the next occurrence of the part-time program? Would I have to redo the first semester even if I pass it? Would I have to pay for anything if I step back for a little while or would you guys hold onto the money I already gave you? How does all of this work? Am I fucked and I have to do next semester even though in any other situation I’m sure this would be a “qualifying life event”?

Why are all of these systems so fucking broken? Why are half of my worries even fucking worries? I’m worried about not dying and who will take care of my cats if I do. I shouldn’t have to worry about approval for the surgery and how fucked am I if I don’t keep trucking along at school.

And yet, here I am, having to figure all of it out because that’s how our systems work. I have to have approval to live.

I still need to cook meals for the week. I still haven’t put my clothes away from this past Monday. I haven’t touched schoolwork in a week, which luckily, it’s been the holiday break so there wasn’t really anything major to worry about. Still… I was hoping to use this week to get ahead for the final exam. Totally did not go how I thought it would and I can’t bring myself to care. I’ll figure it out somehow, just like I’m having to figure everything else out.

For now, I’m going to go and cook since I’m hungry and after that, I’m going to cross stitch because fuck it. It’s my only day off. The only day I haven’t had to call people and tell them, “Hey, funny story… I promise it’s really not that bad, but really I’m trying to convince myself of that, too, so hopefully, you believe me because I don’t have any energy left to convince myself.”

All of my problems and questions will still be there, waiting for me, regardless if I cross-stitch or not, so I’m going to because I want to feel like I did at least one thing for myself this whole week.

Fuck you, Cancer Kevin. You’re an asshole.

Musing Moments 140: Pre-Consultation Writing

At the moment I’m trying to keep up with my life and figure out my emotions so please bear with me. It’s going to take some time and effort to sort through everything, and it begins with these initial writings.

Written Wednesday, November 27th.

The past few weeks/months have been a bit of a ride, medically speaking. And in true “Jen” fashion, I haven’t been keeping up with writing or checking in with myself, so this is going to be a huge “catch up” post in a relatively short amount of time since I have to leave soon for an appointment.

It started with my yearly checkup for work insurance purposes. My primary care physician thought my thyroid was swollen. She ordered lab work to be done and said even if my levels came back fine, because of my family’s history with thyroid issues, she would like for me to have an ultrasound on my thyroid done.

That took me to an endocrinologist who ordered yet more lab work and got me set up for an ultrasound at one of the hospitals here in Lincoln. I went to the ultrasound alone. In hindsight, that most likely wasn’t the smartest option. At the time I wasn’t worried about it. It was a non-invasive procedure. Nothing to worry about, right?

Wrong. Very, very wrong.

Being in a hospital again, laying down on a table and having medical staff doing things to me brought back all sorts of emotions from when mom was in the hospital. It didn’t matter that it was three years later. It didn’t matter that it was me and not her. It didn’t matter that it was a non-invasive procedure or even that the two hospitals were totally different and that it was a billion degrees outside in Vegas all those years ago while here it was borderline snowing.

None of those facts, none of that information, mattered. All of the hurt and loss and loneliness and vulnerability simmered at the edges of my mind as I checked in for my appointment and only grew the longer I was there, the further my procedure went.

I held my emotional shit together long enough to make it back to the car and to call Ox before completely breaking down. I sobbed into the phone for I don’t know how long, terrified. I was terrified of having to go back to the hospital. I was terrified of having to be ok enough to drive home. I was terrified of losing everything that I had fought for in the three years since mom died. And as stupid as it sounds, I was terrified of losing mom again. I was terrified of being alone and facing all of these intangible things by myself because how do you fight things you can’t see or touch or feel?

I was scared and hurt and alone and the only thing I could do was cry alone in my car, clinging to my phone as if Ox were my life support getting me through the overwhelming crush of my emotional tidal wave.

Eventually, after listening to his voice and talking and lots of crying, I was ok enough to drive home. The only thing there was for me to do at the point was wait to be called with the results of the ultrasound.

The results came back early the next week. There was a nodule on the right side of my thyroid. Since we didn’t know what it was they wanted me to schedule a biopsy. You know… because poking at random, unknown things inside your body with needles is a great idea… said no one ever.

I had the biopsy. I still feel like I got punched in the throat. Ox was there with me for that procedure and I faired better emotionally, most likely because he was there to help keep me grounded and outside of my head.

I got a call Monday evening from my endocrinologist herself. She took the time to call me personally, after hours, to deliver the results of said biopsy.

The nodule is positive for cancer.

Yeah…

You read that sentence correctly.

I have thyroid cancer.

I was blindsided by her statement. I wasn’t expecting cancer. Maybe a benign tumor because my T levels kept coming back fine… but cancer? Fucking cancer…?

Do you realize what this means for me?

Do you realize that I now have to call my brothers and tell them I have cancer only three and a half years after mom died? Do you realize how many people I have to inform, personally, because this isn’t something that I can make a post about on Facebook?

Me: “Hey guys! Just wanted to let you know I have cancer. Oh! And here’s a picture of a cat. K. Bye. : D”

I know mom had thyroid cancer before I was born and was able to take daily medication and still live an extremely full life. I know logically that as far as bad news goes, getting thyroid cancer is pretty much the best bad news you can get.

That hasn’t stopped me from having nightmares about it. That hasn’t stopped any of the emotional reactions that I’ve had. That hasn’t changed the fact that I realized, finally, why I can’t fight that evil voice in my head when it starts giving me shit and telling me that I’m a failure.

I know I’m not a failure. I doing well in nursing school. I’m doing well at work. I’m still making ends meet, if just bearly, financially. But when it started saying “You’re a failure,” shortly after having to schedule the biopsy, I couldn’t figure out why it felt true. I know it’s not true, so why does it feel that way?

I realized it’s because unconsciously one of my biggest goals since mom died has been to be healthy enough, stable enough, for my brothers to not have to worry about me. Looking at it objectively, that’s a fairly unrealistic goal. Regardless of it being realistic or not, it was my goal and I failed to achieve it, since now I have cancer and all of this medical shit on the horizon, and so I’m a failure.

Right now, I’m waiting to go into town with Ox to have my consultation with the surgeon. I’m waiting to figure out where and when I will have part of my body removed. I’m waiting to tell everyone in my life what the next steps will be and when.

I’m waiting.

I’m not good at waiting and underneath everything else I have going on in my life is the fact that even though we did everything right with mom, even though we followed all the steps the way we were told, we still lost.

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to meet with the surgeon. I don’t want to have surgery. I don’t want to have to figure all of this out and how to pay for it and how to not fuck up shit at work and put more stress on my team.

I don’t want to do this.

Not only do I not want to do this. I don’t want to do it alone. Last night while I was alone for a little bit I started crying as I laid in bed with the kittens. I started talking to mom. I told her I missed her and that I wanted to come home and be with her. I know she went through this exact thing, but I never got to talk to her about it. I don’t know what she felt or experienced. I don’t know what post-surgery was like for her. I never thought of mom as a cancer survivor, but she was. Was she scared when she found out? Did she cry? Did she feel alone? Did she struggle with wondering if she would be less human after the surgery because part of her was missing?

I want her to hold me and to tell me it will be ok.

I know it will be. It will be as ok as it can be, at least. Ox will be there. My dad offered to be there. So many people have been supportive and understanding. Apparently, a lot of people in my life think I’m a badass and that I’ll kick Kevin’s ass. I was told to name my cancer to make it more real, more tangible, then referring to it as “thyroid cancer”.

Sorry for any Kevin’s out there who may take offense to me using your name. It was a random name thrown out there by Mother Earth and so it has stuck.

I don’t feel like a badass. I feel scared and vulnerable and alone all over again and all I can think of is how I’m going to look so much like mom, in a hospital gown, in a hospital bed, completely out of it from the anesthetics… I can’t have my brothers there. I can’t put them through that again. I wasn’t supposed to put them through this. I was supposed to be ok.

I want to say I can’t do this. I want to give up and tell Life that it wins and this joke isn’t funny and I’m ready to go home and not play this shitty game.

I’ve been freaking out over the next semester of nursing school since the third week of this semester. How am I supposed to go through a surgery that’s going to fuck with my hormone levels and leave me tired and still go to school three days a week and work full time and still figure out laundry and dishes and meals and bills… I just want to say fuck it to everything.

I want to hide away under the blankets in my darkened room with the kittens and pretend that the bad things don’t exist and they can’t get me and I’m not hurting the people I love the most.

I don’t want to do this, but I have to. I have to try to be ok because I have too much debt to die now. I have too many people who care about me to not have this surgery. I have too many conversations I want to have with people I love. Too many goals at work that I haven’t reached yet. Too many things Ox and I haven’t done.

I don’t want to do this but I’m going to because fuck Kevin. He doesn’t get to control my life. Fuck you, Kevin. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on. I’m angry at you for making me drag everyone in my life through this. This isn’t fair. Three years isn’t long enough. We aren’t recovered enough to go through this all over again. Fuck you, you inconsiderate asshole.

At the same time, thank you. Thank you for not being terminal. Thank you for being treatable. Thank you for not spreading or destroying my entire life. You’re an asshole and I’m still angry at you, but thank you for not being worse than what you are.

Please be with me, mom. Please don’t let me go through this without you. I love you. I miss you. I need you. Please help me, mom. Please be here with me so I can do this.

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