April Fools Day
In
the fall of 2008, our family joined the Calamity–of–the–Month Club, bringing us
all a bit closer together. In
August, my daughter, Casey, tearfully announced to us that her marriage was
ending. We all mourned it because
we loved our son–in–law, and all of us thought the two of them well–matched.
At
the end of September, our other daughter, Carrie, discovered she had a liver
full of tumors, most likely benign adenomas or Focal Nodular Hyperplasia. The adenomas would be a bigger concern,
since they can change into cancer later on. Focal Nodular Hyperplasia is harmless and left alone.
Carrie
had a biopsy, and a week later, went back to the surgeon to hear which of the
above diagnoses she had. After she
left his office, she wound up at my front door, crying. He told her she had a “well–behaved”
liver cancer. The good news was
that, once the tumors were removed, she would not have cancer anymore. The bad news was that, once the tumors
were removed, there would not be enough liver remaining to sustain her
life. She would need a liver
transplant.
For
four days we all anguished over Carrie’s prospects. Casey was already mentally putting herself on the other
operating table to donate part of her liver to Carrie, and I imagined both my
daughters in the operating room.
Then, Carrie received a call from her surgeon, who happily proclaimed
that, after having sent specimens to the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology,
her tumors were Focal Nodular Hyperplasia. That was when I discovered what nervous exhaustion must be;
the next day, Saturday, I could barely get out of bed. I had a hair appointment, and a nail
appointment, and I didn’t know if I had the strength to keep either one. I imagined what it must be like to have
a gun pointed at your head, and then to only hear a click.
In
November, I finally got to keep my appointment with a new (to me)
gynecologist. I had to cancel the
September appointment because I got my period; she had canceled the rescheduled October
date because she was sick.
The
visit was uneventful, except that I told her I had, in addition to my regular
period (every 23 or 24 days…at Age 58, for crying out loud!) six days of
unexplained bleeding. That worried
her, and despite my protestations that it was purely stress from all of our
trials, she was unmoved. She told
me that if she did not do an endometrial biopsy, and pooh–poohed it, sending me
away, and six months later I turned out to have cancer, then she had done me no
service. Of course, she was right,
and the biopsy was scheduled for December. A few days later, she called my cell phone to tell me I was
anemic, that my hemoglobin was 9.9.
That meant absolutely nothing to me, since I had no idea what that
number meant, and I thought anemia was not a big deal…especially with the
amount of bleeding I was doing.
She told me to take iron, so I took iron.
Now,
I’m not usually pessimistic about things, but suddenly I just knew I had cancer.
I had lost ten pounds between August and November that I hadn’t been
trying to lose. I could make the argument
that I was eating less, but I still had a conscience about it.
November
20 I turned 58, and my daughters, taking a cue from our occasional references
to the Twilight phenomenon, bought me the four books of The Twilight
Saga.
I must have been the 90 zillionth female to become captivated and
addicted to the story. I read the
set in record time, and then started re–reading them. Those books took me away from all my worry and stress. I would turn to my precious husband,
Craig, and say, “I have to be with Edward now,” and I would leave the room to
read. He was mildly amused.
At
some point in my reading I told Craig that he is truly my Edward. He has a perfectly beautiful face, is
intelligent and selfless, and completely devoted to ensuring my safety and
happiness. There is another
parallel: Craig and I met in our
junior year of high school, just as Edward and Bella had.
The
endometrial biopsy on December 1 came back normal, and I had my last period on
December 8, 2008.
New
Year’s Eve couldn’t find two happier people than Craig and me. We had escaped 2008, down one son–in–law,
but otherwise unscathed. Everyone
was healthy, and that was all that mattered. We were very happy, indeed.
In
February, I called my gynecologist and told her, “I think you scared it out of
me!” She laughed and said,
“Good! Come in and I will take a
blood test to check your hormone level.”
I went in February 26. A
few days later, she called my cell phone again, and told me my hemoglobin was
down further: 9.3. Now she had my
attention.
I
went straight to my internist who asked me if I were a vegetarian, been taking
any weird herbs, or had any weird viruses. No, no and no.
He said it was possible I had some internal bleeding, so he prescribed Nexium and ordered a blood
test, and a fecal coliform test for which the phlebotomist gave me a card. Oh, goody…my favorite test. Three days of trying to catch shit.
I was told the blood test results would be in within a couple of days.
I
forgot to call for the results until the next week, and when I did call, I was
told that the doctor would have to call me back with the results. I didn’t want to be a pain, so I
let another week or more go by before I called again. This time, the young woman on the other end looked into it,
and came back with, “The doctor hasn’t signed off on the blood test yet, and
the other test is special, and it takes a long time to come back.” Oh...kay.
At
one–month–past–the–blood–test, I started having a meltdown and called the
doctor’s office again. I told the
woman who answered the phone that it had been a month, and I needed to know
what happened to my blood test.
Secretly, I dreaded having to take the other test again. After
putting me on hold briefly, she told me the phlebotomist was on the phone with
the lab, and that she would call me back.
When the phlebotomist called me back, she told me the fecal coliform
test was done in the wrong "container", and that it would have to be done
again. My voice started to rise,
as I pronounced, “It was lost, wasn’t it?
It was lost!” No, she said,
it has to be done in a different container, and I needed to come in next Monday
to get my kit and instructions.
And: “The doctor will have to call you with your blood test results,” to
which I replied: “If anybody from your office calls me back, it will be a
freakin’ miracle!” And I hung up.
The
doctor called me back quickly.
“Donna,” he asked, “how are you?”
Now, of course I know he was really
asking me how I was, but instead I gave him the chronological litany of
complaints about the calls to his office.
He acknowledged he wasn’t happy about the snafu; my hemoglobin was
8.6. Oh.
He
asked me if I had lost weight, and I got a little defensive about it. I told him yes, but that I had been
eating less. I had absolutely no
idea that was the only sign I would get that I was in big trouble. The doctor asked me to come in for
another blood test on Monday, since the results of the one he was holding were a
month old. I did so, and I made an
appointment to come in to discuss my results on the following Wednesday.
When
the doctor came into the room, he quipped something about my coming in person
this time for my results. Then he
said, “We’re not looking for internal bleeding anymore; it’s coming from your
bone marrow.
He
said something else, but I didn’t hear him; I was staring into the space he had
just walked through, thinking, “What the Hell kind of thing is that to
say?” Then, I turned to him and
asked why he thought it was coming from my bone marrow, and he simply replied,
“Because you were taking iron and it didn’t help.” Well, that was an evasive answer if ever I heard
one!
He gave me the name of a hematologist, and told me, “He may want to do a bone marrow biopsy.” Ya think?
He
also handed me the results of my blood tests to bring with me to the blood doctor.
When
I got home, I examined my lab reports for any clues I might be able to
decipher. I saw one line
underlined, with an “Alert” for Serum Protein. Didn’t look good, but I didn’t know what it meant. Then I saw five lines on the bottom of
the page, describing my red blood cells.
I Googled every term I didn’t understand, and I learned that some of my
red cells were too large, some were too small (which just turned out to be a
genetic anomaly), some were oval instead of round, they were pale, and some
were malformed. Two diagnoses kept coming up on my computer screen: Leukemia or Multiple Myeloma. I turned to Craig, and I said, “I think
I’m in trouble.”
Dr.
K saw us the very next night, examined me, took my history, and then met us in
his office. The
first parts of the visit were ordinary enough, consisting of a patient history
Q and A, following by a general physical once–over. Then Craig and I sat in Dr. K’s office, where we were
cautioned against doing too much Internet exploring. I confessed, “I Googled; I Googled! I looked up the terms at the bottom of
the lab report describing my red cells.
And then I stopped.” Then
Dr. K told me not to read too much into my research. Um, right, I will try to remember that.
He
said he would need a bone marrow biopsy…soon. My ever–loving Craig piped up, “Like tonight?” My head spun over to Craig so fast,
you’d have thought I was auditioning for a part in “The Exorcist”.
“Tonight?!! Tonight?!! I squeaked. As if the scene had been rehearsed, Dr.
K rose from his desk and mused, “Hmmm.
Let’s ask Lidia.”
“Lidia? We are asking Lidia?” Not really
knowing the significance of asking Lidia, but sensing I was screwed, whoever
Lidia was, I went to the ladies’ room, seriously considering locking myself in.
When I got back, everything had been set up (thanks to Lidia confirming
there were no other patients coming in that night…gee, thanks, Lidia.), and I
was being assisted into a face–down position on the examining table. Craig sat to my right, and I got a
death grip on his hand.
Dr.
K explained he would be giving me a shot of Lidocaine to numb the skin,
informing me it would sting a bit.
It was Craig’s answer to him that floored me: “Don’t worry, she’s tough.”
“WHAT?!!! WHAT?!!!” I
shrieked mentally. “He’s trying to
make the doctor feel better??”
I
spent the entire procedure as rigid as my politics, gripping Craig’s hand,
although I had long since lost any sensation in my fingers, and desperately
searching with my other hand for something to grip on the left side. However, I immediately released the thing I
found, when I realized it was a lever to raise the back of the examining
table. Oh, great…yeah, pull the
lever and flip the upper part of my body into the “L” from Hell…and do who–knows–what
to the doctor’s heart rhythm.
Finally,
the doctor stopped the boring motion and stepped over to a counter. “Are we finished?” I begged. “One moment,” he mumbled. Then he
proclaimed, “We are finished.”
Soon,
they were sliding me backwards off the table and onto my feet, then back into a
chair. A paper cup of water was
put into my hands, and then the shaking began. The more I tried to calm myself, the worse the shaking got.
I
thought the ordeal took ten minutes, but Craig said it was probably five. Then he drove me home and got me
into bed. Having held my body so
rigidly for so long, I was exhausted.
Then, I
remembered, “If ever again a doctor has
an oil derrick stuck in my backside, and you tell him, ‘Don’t worry, she’s
tough,’ I will make the rest of your life a living Hell!”
Six
days later, I was called in for my diagnosis: Multiple Myeloma.
Except for my Googling expedition, I had never heard of it. Well, I always try to learn a new thing
every day, and I sure got a lesson that night: April Fool’s Day, 2009.
