quote:

ORIGINAL: dcnovice

April 15, 2016
Breathing Easier


Dear Ones ---

It’s hard to believe I haven’t posted an “official” update since before Thanksgiving. Apologies or congratulations, as seems fit.

Long story short, I had a shortness-of-breath (or SOB, as medical folk so perfectly call it) episode after Thanksgiving/birthday dinner. Both were on the same day last year. That led to a 20-or-so-night stay in the hospital, the centerpiece of which was a procedure called a pleurodesis. A thoracic surgeon went in, took some photos, and coaxed the outer wall of my lung to cling to the inner wall of my chest cavity, thereby removing the venue in which the Fluid Family had been hosting its reunions. That would prevent fluid buildup from compressing my right lung and compromising my ability to soak up oxygen.

I made it out of the hospital in time for Christmas but still wasn’t in great shape. I needed supplementary oxygen 24/7—a new development—to maintain anything close to a decent O2 saturation in my blood. Even with it, walking the length of my modest apartment left me gasping. I was back at Georgetown by Epiphany. There, I was disconcerted to learn that fluid was now collecting inside my lungs (aka pneumonia). I spent about seven days getting IVs: antibiotics to battle the pneumonia, diuretics to push fluid out of my system. It worked. By the time I left, I was on “room air,” as they call ordinary breathing, when not exerting myself. And the amount of oxygen I needed for the latter dropped.

Two realizations around that time underscored what a long, strange trip it’s been. A dear friend picked me up from the hospital and took me home. En route, she asked how long I’d been in. “This was a short one,” I replied cheerily. “Just a week.” It then dawned on me that most Americans in 2016 would not consider a weeklong hospital stay to be “short.” Later, looking back over things, I realized I’d spent about 90 nights in the hospital in 2015. Plus seven or so this year.

Since then, things have definitely improved. I’m feeling stronger, and my oxygen tank sits bored when I’m at home or work. I do pull it along when I’m out and about, though I’ve managed a few forays (two experimental, one unplanned) without it. I’ve managed stairs, up and down, both with and without an O2 tank.

And I’m back at work. That’s been a mixed blessing. It’s better to be out of my house and my head, and creating cool stuff is wonderfully rewarding. On the other hand, my gray windowless cube can be a downer, and I’d definitely forgotten how long a five-day week can be! Not to mention how many egos and agendas can need massaging on the trek from pixels to print. (I edit the member magazine of a small nonprofit.)

Then there are typos. It’s always been a point of much (and, I honestly think, largely warranted) pride that my work is crisp and clean. But that’s something of a struggle right now. Some combination of “chemo brain,” mental and physical fatigue, and juggling a complex medical life atop a job has left me prone to small, stupid mistakes: leaving a word out, getting a tense or a homophone wrong, forgetting a suffix, and so forth. A recent proof, for instance, included the caption “Young golden lion tamarins hitchhike about their dad.” Obviously, I meant “aboard,” but that’s not what I typed. Nor, apparently, what I read while proofing. (Minds notoriously correct their own errors.) These glitches have not gone unnoticed, which is both dispiriting and worrying.

Typos made this a rugged week, as did an out-of-the-blue medical worry. I’d noticed a few weeks back that I had a thumb-size sore spot just above my right nipple. Initially it didn’t perturb me; odd aches are something of a collection for yours truly. But then I felt a lump just below the skin. It had no parallel on the other side, which suggested it didn’t belong there. I figured it was probably nothing, but fear lurked anyway. I’d picture myself landing back in the radiation clinic and chemotherapy center, and my whole soul would just shrivel. (About one percent of breast cancer cases occur in males. At least I’d finally be a one-percenter!)

Knowing that ignoring symptoms in the past hadn’t proved one of my better ideas, I made an appointment to see my primary-care doctor this afternoon. She examined me and wasn’t dismayed. It’s probably some sort of fibrous buildup, likely aggravated by caffeine. So I’m to pare my tea consumption and take an herb called evening primrose. I’ll also go for a just-to-be-sure ultrasound. I’ll call Georgetown on Monday to schedule it. Leaving the doctor’s, I couldn’t believe how much lighter I felt; clearly, this had preyed on me much more than I realized.

While I’m on the phone with Georgetown, I’ll also book a CT-guided needle biopsy of a node in my left lung. It was detected back in January 2015 and has grown a bit since. Normally, docs would have gone in for a peek long before now, but they didn’t want to pose any risks to my left lung until they were sure the right was up to the job. Physicians feel strongly that a patient needs at least one working lung. I can see their point.

Opinion is divided on how worrisome the node is. The thoracic surgeon warns that it’s likely malignant. But then, she expected to find me full of malignancy last December, and didn’t. She was stunned. My oncologist is pretty sanguine. He points out that my lungs have been scanned and tested eight ways to Sunday, and cancer hasn’t shown up yet. My own theory is that it’s a wad of gum hastily swallowed on the schoolyard when I realized Sister Mary Whatever was about to spot it in my mouth!

I fear this has turned into something of a bleak bulletin, which wasn’t my plan. Overall, I’m incredibly grateful to be on the mend and returning to normal life. I had a glorious Easter that included a magnificent service, lunch with one set of loved ones, and dinner with another. My folks passed through town on the way to and from Florida, and we had a great adventure (Hillwood, Alexandria) each time. I’ve gone back to Wilson House for vintage-game night and a guides meeting. And I’ve been contributing posts to the house’s Facebook page. Best of all, I haven’t been near a hospital bed (aside from one visit to a friend) in several months. So things are looking up!

As always, thanks for being there! It means much more than you know.

Cheers,
DC