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Posts Tagged ‘Surgery’


My cousin’s favorite holiday is Thanksgiving, and we shared the holiday with her and her husband for many years. This year, she was in the midst of packing to move and I wasn’t travelling, so we endeavored to have Thanksgiving at our house, even though I wouldn’t be able to assist in preparations. Our family, cousins and sister’s family chipped in on the cooking and cleanup to make a beautiful Thanksgiving feast. And to my utter delight, I was able to take my first bites of food beginning that week. Thanksgiving was particularly poignant as we all were so grateful for my survival and beginning recovery. Recovery began and proceeded, marked by small advances through December and January. One drain out; then another. First shower. First food after months of IV feeding. Weight gain (I had lost 15 lbs.) Walking further. Driving. Pain lessening. I scheduled the prophylactic mastectomy for June, sure I would be well enough to have the next surgery in seven months.

To be continued . . . . . .

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Murphy’s Law, if you are unfamiliar with it, says that if something can go wrong, it will. I don’t ascribe to pessimism, so it didn’t occur to me that anything would go wrong. Yet, this time, it did – in spades.

After three hours of probing to find the parts to remove, and much blood loss, my doctors abandoned the robotic surgery and opened my abdomen. (SQUEAMISH WARNING: if you are easily repulsed by medical description, stop here.) Due to multiple abdominal surgeries, there was a lot of scar tissue and many adhesions. An open surgery allowed them a better view of what they were dealing with. Eventually, after 6 hours and a transfusion of 7 units of blood, they accomplished their mission. But not without consequence. The early days were tenuous and my survival uncertain.

During the next 3 weeks, there were multiple additional surgeries (they called them “cleanouts”). I was in an induced coma for most of it, with occasional moments of lucidity when they needed me to answer questions and/or when anesthesia unintentionally wore off. All I can remember of that time are snippets: hallucinations of my surroundings, when later considered, were variations on the same room I was in throughout; never-ending pain that made me want to die; paranoia that others were doing things to me against my will (sort of true when my husband had to act as my healthcare proxy); things I thought I dreamt, when I actually was experiencing them, and things I totally imagined; feeling stupid, angry and frustrated when I couldn’t find the pain pump or nurse call buttons; and did I say unremitting pain?

In considering death, I begged my family to let me go. I had carefully considered the ages of my children. While not entirely grown, they were old enough to survive without me, I thought. It wouldn’t be their preference or mine to leave this world then, but it was a good alternative to the hell I was living. But everyone kept telling me I was strong – that I would survive and that I should keep fighting. All that did was make me angry. They didn’t know, couldn’t know, what I was physically experiencing. I asked for (I think I asked – or did she just know to come?) a trusted Rabbi and friend who listened to me. She reiterated the considerations of entering hospice (no turning back), yet said she would intervene with my family if that was what I wanted. I was heard! My family couldn’t possibly hear me – they were too close to the situation. I breathed my first sigh of relief.

But something interesting happened during that meeting. Because I felt I finally had a voice in what was happening to me, I loosened the grip on my death wish. I got incredible support from the ICU nurses, helping me get out of bed, even if only to slide over to a chair. My family and friends rallied, prayed, sent cards, took care of my husband and son. My LA son came east to visit twice during my 2-month hospital stay, which was shorter than the 4-6 months predicted by the doctors.

To be continued . . . . . . .

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My last blog entry was on September 7, 2014. If you follow my blog, you might think I fell off the face of the earth. As a matter of fact, I almost did – permanently. But by some miracle, I still roam the earth, though the past year has not been without it’s challenges.

Background:

In early summer 2014, I learned from a family member that my father’s line carried a defective BFCA1 gene. My cousin spent the previous year dealing with breast cancer, a BRCA1 gene mutation, followed by a hysterectomy, a mastectomy and reconstructive surgery. Now, she urged all her cousins to be tested for this gene, which has a 50% chance of being inherited from a carrier.

Having this gene defect raises a female’s risk of breast cancer to at least 65% (compared to 12% in the general population) and to 40% for ovarian cancer (compared to 1.3% in the general population). There is also an increased risk for fallopian tube and peritoneal cancer. Men with the gene defect have a moderately increased risk of breast cancer and increased risk of prostate cancer. Both men and women have an increased risk of pancreatic cancer.

I met with a genetic counselor, who evaluated my risk and determined whether I should be tested. Family history revealed many cases of breast and/or ovarian cancers among my father’s first cousins. Also, because two of my first cousins tested positive, I was advised to be tested. No hesitation there.

My results came back positive. Rather than being devastated, I was already mentally prepared to move forward with preventive surgeries, if I had the gene defect. I am a take-charge kind of person, impatient, and unwilling to wait around for disaster to strike, if I can do something to prevent it.

I quickly got recommendations for the best surgeons in my area. They recommended preventive surgery and I was fully on board. I chose to first undergo a full hysterectomy, since ovarian cancer is often not detected until it is more advanced. The minimally invasive, robotically assisted, laparoscopic surgery was scheduled for September 9th. That would give me 4 weeks (more than enough time) to heal and leave for my 3-week trip to France with my husband.

To be continued . . . . . . . . .

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I thought this saying up after the mini meltdown passed. Maybe no one recognized the meltdown, least of all, me. It came in the form of 6 awakenings each night, worrying about everything BUT the actual situation I am facing. Apparently this resonated with a lot of people when I posted it, even though the majority of them had no idea I was referring to a specific, new challenge.

No matter how many challenges life throws my way, I never think, “Why me?” for two reasons.
(1) If not me, it has to be someone else and I wouldn’t wish my challenges on another.
(2) It makes me a victim and takes away my power.

So now, I concentrate on number 2.

I am not a victim! Well, actually, that’s not entirely true. We all are victims of uncontrollable events in our lives to some degree, but how we deal with them mitigates them. So I call upon my superpower, victim- fighting arsenal called family and friends, as well as my foundation of having survived 20-ish surgeries, two near-death experiences, one divorce, one spousal death, 11 moves, countless jobs, 6-7 careers and laying beside a live cheetah. Whew!

I have the BRCA1 gene. It means either lying in wait for the likely possibility of getting ovarian (40%) and/or breast cancer (85%), or I can have prophylactic surgery to remove these body parts. I’m not a patient waiter and I like taking the better odds. I can get through another few surgeries.

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