Life has a funny way of letting you know when you least expect it just how insignificant you are. Just when you think you have a nice lease on life, a firm grip on the handle of reality, something unexpected just hops in there and reminds you that your “firm grip” is actually quite well greased with some E.V.O.O. and that it doesn’t really matter what you’ve been through, or what your track record is, that you are just a fragile human.
To preface the story, let’s start at the very beginning. Sam, who is age seven now was born in July of 2002. While I was pregnant with Sam, the doc told me that I had some mild dysplasia on my cervix. Nothing to be alarmed at, chances are that it would go away with my pregnancy. Upon my checkups after having Sam, I didn’t get any information from the doctor that would scare me. In fact, she had said that the chances of it turning into cancer were quite slim.
Skip ahead to Logan, who is now age 4, who was born in March of 2005. During that pregnancy, doc said that I had severe dysplasia on my cervix, which was slightly more alarming as that’s the last stage before cancer. I had full intentions of having this all taken care of, however, Logan was born 2 months early, was promptly moved into the Neo Natal Intensive Care Unit of University of Michigan’s Ped’s Hospital, and then my husband’s employer laid him and 49 of his closest co-workers off about 4 days after Logan was born. About 15 days later, we lost our insurance. My mind was on other things, and pretty much stayed that way until this year.
From February to today, my health has been rapidly deteriorating. I don’t have energy I once did. I tire very easily, I can’t eat the way I used to, and I just don’t feel good. I get the flu and colds very easily, so my immune system is weakened. Finaly, in April, I felt like I got kicked in the left lower side of my abdomen by a horse. A big horse.
Jas took me to the hospital to see the whatup, and it turns out, I had a nice sized cyst that exploded on my left ovary. I told them my history, and after receiving quite blatant reprimands for being stupid with not getting checkups after my last child was born to take care of this, they referred me to a well known OB/GYN.
I go through the gamut of testing. Starting with a pap, ultrasounds, x-rays, blood tests, etc…, Dr. Kelly finally scheduled a colposcopy. A colposcopy for the blissfully unaware is an exploration of the cervix. The doc pours vinegar over your cervix, and then looks at it all through a neat little scope that causes the abnormal cells to fluoresce. Mine showed a significant amount of abnormal cells, with an obvious amount up near the top of my cervix. She chose to do biopsies of the areas during the colposcopy. 7 biopsies were taken on July 16th, and sent off to the lab.
The procedure is extremely painful. By extremely painful, I of course mean, to empathize you should imagine a rabid raccoon up your who-ha, biting big chunks out of your squishy insides. Then, to get the bleeding to stop the doctor first tries to apply pressure. So, now, imagine the rabid raccoon pushing with all his might, trying to push your organ out of a different area from which he came in. That, I think is a fairly accurate description of the pain. Next came the cauterization of the biopsy spots because with such extensive tissue damage, it can’t clot itself. Then came the paste that helps it to stop bleeding as well.
I kind of expected the pain. What I didn’t expect was the emotional slippery slide that you climb on when you hear the words from the doctor “So, as you probably know, you have cancer.” It is a very humbling experience to have your nose rubbed in your own mortality as if you were a bad puppy who just peed on your favorite rug.
To give me that first little push down the never ending slippery, well watered slide, the doc made a few comments such as “I’m going to start conferring with the oncologist now.” And “After your results get back, we’ll have more to do before we can go right ahead with surgery. It’s very important for us to do the right surgeries at the right time. If you cut through cancer, it can cause it to spread, so we’re going to be very proactive in testing and making sure that we take the most direct approach to getting it out of you.” And my very favorite: “I don’t want you to worry. We’ll come up with a plan. I won’t say you’re going to be ok, but I will say by taking these steps, you will have the best chance of survival possible.” And then the last that has caused a perpetual head tilt since, “You also have a small mass in your right ovary that is not a cyst. We’ll need to follow up on that as we get all of this other stuff figured out.”
In the time it took to do a colposcopy, about a half hour – ish, my life irrevocably changed. I find it very ironic that after surviving my mother’s murder, a divorce, three premature children born, two of which spent a collective 8 months in a neonatal intensive care unit, starting a business and so much more only to find out that it’s my own body that is trying to kill me now.
How bizarrely ironic.
{ 2 comments… read them below or add one }
Your blog was of course amazing again even though it was terrifying for me to read what happened to you.You turned what could have been a very bad thing into something funny and positive. Do take care. Also your live radio news broadcast was also amazing.I love you xoxox
I admire your wit and courage through everything you have gone through since our high school days together. I to have experianced the truly humbling event of having a micro-preemie at U of M. I also have experianced the awesome shock of a abnormal Pap and the dreadful events that quickly follow and follow and follow and haunt. Even though we have gone through some of the same events you have given me a unique perspective and reminded me that I to once had laughter and humor to guide me through unsettling waters,and you have given me the inspiration to get that back. Thank You! Now who has a spork?