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dcnovice -> DC Update: "...the knives are out" (3/4/2015 1:12:02 PM)
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March 4, 2015
“…the knives are out”
Dear Ones ---
“Dice are rolling, the knives are out.”
Juan Peron’s words in Evita sum up the latest twisted turn in my medical saga.
Last Friday, I met with my GI surgeon. Yesterday, my wonderful cousin and I met with my wound surgeon. Both are impatient with my slow rate of rectal healing, and they feel it’s time to return to the OR. Exactly when this will happen remains to be worked out. The attached New Yorker cartoon provides my take on the matter.
If I listened between the lines accurately, this next step is a bit of a dice roll. The first order of business is to figure out why I’m not healing. Apparently, going in will provide a clearer picture than even the best scans. Based on what they see, the docs will clear out any dead or troubled tissue, give the place a good cleaning, and perhaps create a “flap,” or bit of tissue, that ensures blood flow to the area.
They will also take a tissue sample to biopsy. I don’t know whether that’s simply a precaution or if something worrisome caught a doc's eye.
All this may happen during a single operation; it may take two (during the same hospital stay). It looks as if I’ll be in-patient for seven to ten days. Perhaps they’ll find a new ward for me to explore! Sitting will be verboten for a while afterwards. No clue how long I’ll be out from work.
I may emerge from the hospital with some sort of “vac” attached to draw out whatever shouldn’t be in there. I’d tote it around in a stylish man-purse much as I did with my chemo pump, and a nurse would come every other day to empty it. I fervently hope to avoid this. Fond as I am of Star Trek: The Next Generation, I draw the line at becoming Borg myself.
At this point, I’d like summon my positive side to tell you how grateful I am for alert docs, medical advances, health coverage, and so forth. And I am. But mostly I ricochet between numbness and feeling shattered. There were clues that this news was coming, but the actual arrival still stunned me.
My dismay so far takes three different shapes: terror of waking up in an ICU with a breathing tube in my throat (been there, done that), anxiety about cat care, and a litany of bitter “Why didn’t I?” queries. Why didn’t I get the goddamn colonoscopy the first time I saw blood in my stool? Why didn’t I manage my blood sugar (a huge factor in healing) better? Why didn’t I overhaul my diet the way I knew I needed to? Why didn’t I take care of myself (a lifelong struggle for yours truly)?
I know, I know: spilt milk. But I’m crying anyway. Knowing how much I brought this mess on myself has been one of the hardest parts of this trek.
I’m sorry to end on that note, but it’s where things stand. I’ll keep you posted as I learn more, and I, as always, appreciate your being there.
Love to you all!
Thanks,
DC
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