One Year Later

This is my first post in long time. The first since I declared a renewed interest in posting posts. My resolve did not last long. So I am starting over with my fresh start.

Here it is August 31, 2011 - not the official end of summer but pretty close. September means school year, and with that the beginning of the long grind toward next summer. I am sure it will be a profitable and enjoyable grind.

One year ago I was between appointments - waiting to hear from which ever doctor was next on the list - turned out to be Dr. Pillay in Regina. One year ago I was just getting used to being full-time at Briercrest Distance Learning. One year ago I was beginning my role as MDiv program coordinator at Briercrest Seminary - a position I enjoyed, even with a three month interruption. One year ago I had no idea how significant the coming year would be - who does?

One year later,

I am deeply in love with Barb,

I am exceedingly proud of Beth and Hannah,

I am thankful for good health,

I am committed to better health,

I am appropriately sensitive to the word 'cancer',

I am a new Mac user,

I am even more fond of the Oregon Coast,

I am excited about new opportunities for personal growth,

I am open to new areas of professional growth,

I am confident of God's faithfulness in my spiritual growth.

What about the year ahead? In October I will begin a series of follow-up tests to determine the status of my cancer treatment. First on the agenda is an ultrasound on October 25. The rest of the schedule will unfold from there.

So stay tuned.

New Kid on the Blog

I am sure that corny line has been used before in the blogosphere, but I thought, “Why not?” Technically I am not a new kid on the blog, but a returning kid. Since my last post was many months ago, it is like starting over. So here I go.

Seven months ago I had surgery for thyroid cancer – a thyroidectomy. Since that time, except for the posts describing my experience in surgery and a turn-of-the-year up-date, I have posted no posts (as you can tell). I tend to be one of those “I have nothing to say” types, so no posts. Barb and others have told me I do have something to say and one avenue for that is the blog. So here I am returning to the keyboard.

My intent over the next few days is to describe my experience of the last few months and then to begin moving forward toward being an old kid on the blog..

So, stay tuned.

Scattered Thoughts from Recuperation Central

More than a month has passed since my surgery and return home from the hospital. Let me get you caught up on life in recuperation central.

On the health front the initial challenge was dealing with the six inch incision running across the base of my neck. Understandably it proved to be tender to the touch, itchy, and the bandages were uncomfortable. The home care nurse came to the house to remove the remainder of the staples (half of the fourteen staples were removed at the hospital), which allowed for lighter bandaging and eventually being able to shave my neck. The muscles in my neck were quite sore, so simple things like swallowing, yawning, coughing, and sneezing were quite painful.

Throughout the month I have been waiting for what we call (accurately or not) ‘the crash’. This is the depletion of the remaining thyroid hormone in my system, leaving me weak, tired, and generally lethargic. While there have been days of more extreme tired and lethargy, I am not sure the crash, as imagined, has taken place. Energy levels have been more of a peaks and valleys experience.

On December 16 Barb and I traveled to the Allen Blair Cancer Centre in Regina to meet with Dr. Behl, a radiation oncologist. There we explored the plan for the future radioiodine treatment and got a big picture perspective on what is ahead over the next two months. It is here that I am told I have a paralyzed vocal cord, which explains my raspy, whispery voice – which, along with a nice looking scar, is the most immediate evidence of cancer surgery. The idea of the Cancer Centre stirs a range of thoughts, most of which are difficult to put into words. It says I am dealing with something serious that requires important and specific follow-up. I am working with a disease that requires a specific medical department devoted to this mysterious thing called cancer. The idea of cancer has become much more personal. Hearing about or reading accounts of people with cancer touches me in a new way.

So what do you do when you can’t do anything? Well, my time has been spent reading (a fine book called The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer – [look for more on this in future posts]), watching TV (TCM and the Food Network are favorites), checking the computer (because it is a way of contacting the outside world), jigsaw puzzles (I am currently on my third one) and dealing with the routine of health issues (taking medications). I describe this time as “useful uselessness”. Taking time to recover is important; accepting the lack of productivity is the challenge.

I believe I have been most surprised by the emotional challenges of this recuperation time. I knew going in that the recovery process from cancer treatment, or any other health issue for that matter, can be a mix of emotional and personal struggles. I knew this, but now, having experienced it, I appreciate more the fact that dealing with cancer is a whole person experience. The sense of guilt, the reality of isolation, the lack of productivity, and the uncertainty of the future add up to a weighty mix of emotions to work through.

While wrestling with all this, I have also reflected on the nature of faith. What does it look like to have faith in Jesus for all of this in the midst of all this? Over the years I have heard people share about those who, while struggling with disease or infirmities of some kind, “They never complained about a thing.” Those people are held up as models of faith. They trust Jesus with such confidence that every detail of life is positive. I will have to confess, I have complained. Is this a lack of faith? I don’t think so. Faith without wrestling with the struggles is not reality. Trying to manage the issues and put a positive spin on everything is really just seeking to have faith in myself rather than Jesus. For me, true faith is a belief that God loves me, and accepts me, and listens to me, and is patient with me, and welcomes me in my weakness. Being genuine before Him is the best option. He sees the big picture and the smallest details.

On The Table

In surgery I was directed to lay on the table – which seems to me was a cloth-covered, flat space designated just for me. Two spaces extended from the table for my arms to rest upon – thus a distinctly cruciform shape – no irony intended. I remember noticing the lights in particular, two round fixtures with a vast array of bright bulbs waiting to guide the process. Dr. V. , the anesthetist whom I had met earlier was there. The nurse directing me in the preparations was very nice. Dr. Miller came into the room and introduced me to the surgical team – I don’t remember them.

Then things got under way. The nurse held a blue oxygen mask over, but not on, my face. Dr. V. gave some instructions about falling asleep. Here is my most distinct memory of the preparations for surgery. I was breathing the fresh oxygen when, coinciding with the anesthesia, the fresh oxygen turned to a distinctly sour smell. I have thought about that a lot. Either the gas coming from the oxygen mask changed or the overtaking anesthesia altered my sense of smell. The sense of smell establishes the strongest of memories, and this is one I continue to carry with me.

The next thing I knew was waking-up in post-op. I noted the sensation of waking there is quite distinct from waking from the fainting spell. There was less confusion, less fear. Comforting voices reassured me that all was well. My greatest need was for water, but that would come in due time. After a time, I was brought back to 217, resettled in my bed, and greeted by Barb and Beth.

I recorded these events of surgery day while recovering in the hospital because I did not want to lose the memory of this multi-sensory experience. We are created to take in the world around us; to live and learn through each experience God brings our way. I am thankful for being able to ‘sense’ my way through surgery day.

Up to the 5th Floor

Coming out of that fainting spell is difficult describe. The memory is distinct, but the mix of sensations is a challenge – from dark to fuzzy to foggy. The first point of re-entry is the voices – Barb’s I believe – asking if I am okay. The voices are disconnected from my experience. Then my wide eyes begin to catch hold of the room. Since I am lying back, I am looking at the ceiling of the room – which adds to the disorientation. I cannot explain where I am or what has happened, but the fog is beginning to lift. By this time the nursing staff are there helping me out, much to the relief of Barb and Beth, I believe.

Soon I was back to normal and back into the waiting process. We waited for a while longer in the room – all the nursing attention had subsided and now it is looking to surgery. The next step was transport to the 5^th floor – surgery. No, first I was taken to room 217 prior to going to surgery. I remember being in the room because of the procedure – the side-rails of the bed being put up. Pastor Jon came by after seeing Arturo and Elizabeth to the airport. I am thinking there was a round of taking vitals, perhaps taking some blood. This happened enough after the surgery that prior to surgery seems likely.

Then transport to surgery – the surgical nurse came with a wheel chair – I remember the blanket across my lap and being taken to the elevator – Barb, Beth, and Pastor Jon waving good bye. I rode up with a woman who was to have cataract surgery; we visited in the waiting area. I was moved from the wheel chair to a table/gurney to wait my turn. I was covered with the most wonderful heated blanket – the best thing ever. I met my anesthetist, which added to the reality of the setting. Several times I was asked the questions – any medications? No. Any Jewelry? No. Any piercings? No. Diabetic? No. These questions, or rather the frequency of asking them, show how thorough the process is and how seriously the professionals take their responsibility. I lay there for some time watching the traffic in and out of surgery – a busy place.

Finally it was my turn. I walked into surgery – not very medical drama – but at the same time it illustrates what I am dealing with – a manageable yet important health issue – thyroid cancer.

Next Stop, Surgery

On October 28, 2010, I was told I had thyroid cancer.

On November 24, 2010,I went for surgery to remove my thyroid.

The weeks between were filled with waiting, emotions, communicating, preparing, appointments, and more waiting. Finally, surgery day arrived.

We arrived at the hospital at 9:15AM – checking in at the admin/admissions desk (I believe I was number 15). Being a surgical patient gives you a sense of priority – your name/file/papers are all arranged and sorted. After the processing of the paperwork we were sent up to the second floor – the surgical nit. I had been given a private room, not by my request, which we look back on as a gracious provision. The room – 217 – was not ready (a patient was being discharged) so we were sent to the TV room, also known as the Quiet Room – though it was not necessarily very quiet. (The TV room became an important place during my stay – because we could watch The Food Network – a favorite of Beth and me.) The process began. Nurse Lea Ann gave instructions for me to change into gauze underwear and a gown and robe (the gauze underwear may have been cut off me at some point – I am not sure). As well, I was to preserve a urine sample (the questions concerning pee and other bodily functions are a regular part of the hospital experience). Paper booties proved useless as my toes tore through the ends right away. So there I sat in gown and robe and gauze and booties, waiting for the next step - the IV. Dr. Miller wanted me on an antibiotic prior to surgery, so an IV was needed. Lea Ann carefully prepped me for the procedure and when all was in place inserted the needle into the back of my left hand. This was painful – far more so than the average injection or drawing of blood. The IV was hooked up and I began to feel it. Barb noticed me becoming pale and I was becoming that dizzy-before-fainting feeling – not your standard dizzy. Apparently I passed out with some type of seizure reaction – a twitching, jerking, I don’t know action – Barb says for about 15 seconds. This proved to be the most traumatic moment of the day. More to follow.

Getting Started Again

It has been a while since I posted to this blog, for any number of reasons. Often it is because I forget about it. At other times I would say to myself, “I should blog this” but then get distracted and not get around to it. Once in a while I would get the urge to write, but then feel as though I had nothing to say, thus, no blog post. Now it is time to revive the blog.

I am inspired by my daughter, Hannah, whose blog http://todayinmyteenageangst.blogspot.com/ is a work of art and a model of consistent development. I am not sure I will be able to attain such lofty heights, but I do want to stretch my creative energies.

So in many ways, this is starting over, or more accurately starting afresh, in Standing in Grace.

I will keep you posted.