Port Removal

            I yell at the first slice, and the surgeon promptly doses me up with more local anesthetic.  Since the area is already mostly numb, the bee sting effect is muted.

            The nurse has already warned me about the pulling and tugging and pressure, so I am not surprised.  However, I cannot get the chest x-ray out of my mind.  Never--before or since the port placement under sedation just over two years ago--have I considered how long the tubing is.  Seeing it extend from the port just under my right clavicle, down the jugular vein, and past the bottom of my right lung unnerves me.  Pull and tug, pull and tug, and then pressure applied to my neck to prevent jugular bleeding.  I try to concentrate on slow, deep breathing instead of the long tubing.

            The outpatient surgery is done.  The second x-ray is taken, and I am glad to see for myself that the tubing is gone.  But I am still shaken as the nurse walks me back out to the waiting room. 

It’s like old times, proffering my arm to the familiar face at the radiology front desk to have her snip off my wristband.  I compliment her on her new (to me at least) hairstyle, and she is happy to see me.  We high-five over the port removal, and then my friend Mona and I are on our way, first to the check-out counter where I receive my six-month and one-year appointment times, then out to my car and down the highway to Owasso and lunch.

Today, two days since the event, the incision site still hurts, and I am still somewhat shaken.  Seared on my inner vision, the x-ray image of that long and snaky tubing still unnerves me.  In the effort to de-traumatize myself, I’ve thought of all kinds of wordplay to describe Monday’s procedure:  I was de-ported.  I am port-less.  I can refer to my ex-port while examining its import on my life.  Funny that the smallest and last bit of my cancer treatment experience has turned out to be traumatic after all the big and hard parts that stretched out over most of a year. 

Now I understand even more of how amazing God’s presence has been during my cancer treatment.  He gave me peace during all the truly difficult times:  diagnosis, waiting, chemotherapy, pneumonia, surgery, and radiation.  My quarterly check-ups since then have been marked by happiness to see those lovely souls I recognize: check-in staff, technicians, nurses, doctors.  Knowing that God is in control and trusting myself to His will, whatever that may entail, provides peace that banishes fear.  He will help me learn from this tiny bit of trauma, and I thank Him for extending my life.

Dear Anne

Dear Anne,

It’s almost nine years since you took your last breath and flew off to meet Jesus.  I’ve never stopped missing you.

Remember your little black rolling bag that you took to conferences?  I’ve had that bag these nine years and only used it a few times. But recently, as a newly hired adjunct for Rogers State University-Bartlesville, I started using it to transport my notebooks and textbooks for the two classes I teach.

One day, the bag started to catch as I pulled it.  I didn’t know what was wrong until, at home, a large chunk of plastic fell off:  an essential piece that helped keep one of the two wheels aligned.  There was no way to fix the bag, so I threw it away—rather sadly, I must say, for every time I used it I thought of you.

Though I still have many more mementos you left me, I don’t need them to remember you.  How could I ever forget the older sister who terrorized me as a child and who became my beloved friend as an adult?  You were fiercely intelligent, strong, and opinionated.  You were loyal and brave.  Underneath the brazen exterior, though, lived a wounded heart.

The day after you died from ovarian cancer, I cried and howled like I never had done before nor have done since.  It was so hard to have you gone after being by your bedside every day for two months.  Yet I was also relieved for you to be free from the agonizing pain you suffered.  It wasn’t until I had breast cancer in 2016 that I understood more of what you had gone through in your three years of ovarian cancer treatment. 

I miss you every day--especially on holidays when we would call each other--and, of course, on your birthday (June 20) and death day (October 3). Every year that I live past 56—the age at which you died—feels like a bonus gift. 

Someday, we will be reunited in heaven, and I will get to know you as a completely healed person, who God always intended for you to be.  You will be the Anne I always knew, yet also the Anne I can only imagine, free from sin’s harm and bondage.  We will laugh and reminisce and share our exuberance over Jesus, the great healer.

Love,

Your little sister, Janis

My Greatest Need

            On page eighteen in Rick Warren’s book, 40 Days of Prayer, were two questions: “What are you lacking in your life simply because you’ve never asked God for it?  What is your greatest need?”

            My written prayer response on February 23, 2018, was brief but heartfelt: “My greatest need and what I’m lacking in life is energy.  Most of the day I rest—wasting hours on Kindle and the Internet (instead of spending time in the Word).  I want the energy to fulfill God’s purposes in my life.  Forgive me, Father, for wasting time.”

            Naturally, my vision for God’s answer was far different than His.  Though I lacked the faith to really believe God was going to restore the energy I lost to fibromyalgia over twenty years ago as well as the energy I lost to cancer treatment two years ago, I hoped for a miraculous answer delivered immediately.

            However, what followed was not what I expected.  Having recently recovered from influenza and a sinus infection, I was hoping for health.  Instead, what followed was hard-hitting seasonal allergies, an ear canal infection, an eye infection, and then a severe outbreak of what I did not know.  A biopsy revealed atopic dermatitis (a type of eczema), the treatment for which was a high dose of steroids (60 mg) for three weeks. The dermatitis disappeared, I temporarily felt great, and then came the month of tapering the steroid dosage.  Once I hit 20 mg per day, the eczema reappeared with a vengeance, and my energy tapered down to zero, just in time for the birth of my granddaughter on May 24. 

            It was horrible to be unable to help my daughter and her family.  Just walking across the street to their house was almost more than I could manage.  Fortunately, they managed with the help of friends while I rested in my recliner at home and took multiple naps in my bed every day.  A month later, after the itching became ferocious, I decided to go back to my dermatologist.  She explained that the next line of treatment would be oral chemotherapy.  I could not face that. I decided to try a detox diet developed by Dr. Mark Hyman, who, by the way, was a co-author of another Rick Warren book, The Daniel Plan.

            The next day—Wednesday, June 27—I started the process of giving up coffee, which took a week.  But I immediately jumped into all other aspects of a new way of eating:  organic fresh, non-starchy vegetables; a little bit of organic fresh fruit; lean meats; and proteins such as farm-fresh eggs, tofu, nuts, and seeds.  That was it.  I quit dairy, gluten, sugar, artificial sweeteners, and artificial flavorings and preservatives. 

            Within a week--though my eczema was no better and the itching was just as intense--I noticed something unusual:  fatigue had disappeared along with most of my usual aches and pains.  I had energy I wasn’t used to.  All through July, August, and now into September, the old fatigue has not returned, my thinking is clearer, and I no longer live in my recliner.   On August 2, a job fell into my lap:  as of August 21, I am teaching two composition classes at Rogers State University, Bartlesville campus.

            That’s a lot of history to put you through, but it is for a purpose.  Clearly, God answered my prayer asking for energy.  However, it was not the way I thought it would be.  I did not expect to sink down into more health issues and a greater fatigue than I had ever known before, but that is what it took to get me to do my part (about which I was clueless).  I know that God can heal instantly and miraculously, but often His purposes require our response, too.  The hardest things, it seems, are intended to bless us through growing our character if we cooperate with Him.  There is no way I could exercise the self-control it takes to stay on my limited diet on my own; I have no doubt that the Holy Spirit is helping me every single day. 

            By the way, the eczema has slowly improved, and I have hope that the sores and the itching will disappear in the coming months as I continue a healthy diet.  But even if they don’t, I have what I lacked and sorely needed:  energy to fulfill God’s purposes in my life.

           

My Enemy's Name

            As I drive home from Tulsa, a familiar weariness settles over me, yet a burst of clarity cuts through my foggy brain. I suddenly know my enemy’s name.

            My enemy is not my health insurance, though it stings to pay a coinsurance of $240.02 for my annual mammogram.  (I must digress here to say I received another “everything’s fine” from the radiologist’s reading of the films.)  My enemy is not even my eczema, which is gradually getting better, though new sores appear here and there.  (I’m sporting two types now:  atopic and dyshidrotic dermatitis.)  What is my enemy, then?  Sugar.

            You see, after my mammogram at Hillcrest Medical Center, I do what any salad-loving person would do:  have lunch at Panera.  Somehow I resist the temptation of the scrumptious-looking bakery items, but I decide to test my gluten tolerance by having a half sandwich with my strawberry poppyseed salad.  Both are delicious.  I even eat the bag of potato chips.  However, I drink water instead of coffee. 

             As my energy flags on the drive home, I realize that between the slice of white bread, the potato chips, and the sweet salad dressing, I am experiencing a carbohydrate crash.  It’s a good thing I did not add a muffin to my meal, because then I might have fallen asleep and had a car crash, too.

            So little sugar, so much effect.  When I get home 45 minutes later, I go straight to bed and sleep.  Waking up an hour later, I still feel weary, so I eat a small handful of pepitas to fuel my body with protein.  I scratch my intensely itching hands.  Later, I make a delicious stir fry for supper: zucchini, green pepper, red pepper, and onion seasoned with olive oil, pink Himalayan salt, black pepper, turmeric, garlic, paprika, and basil.  As soon as the vegetables are crispy-tender, I crack two farm fresh eggs and mix them in.

            The next day, my eczema flare flares up a little more.  The weariness has left, but my awareness remains.  It’s a happy/sad feeling to know that a couple simple carbs and a little sugar can momentarily destroy my newfound energy and well-being.  Sad because I do love the foods I’ve given up, but happy because finally I have the energy to live a life beyond my recliner.

Is my cat a dog?

                Tango, my champagne tabby, came from ARF (Animal Rescue Foundation).  A highway worker found her on Highway 60, between Bartlesville and Nowata, and brought her in a year ago last spring. I adopted her in November.

When I first got her, Tango wanted constant attention.  If I sat down, she was on my lap.  Well, not exactly.  Her idea of lap sitting was stretching out across me right under my chin.  That was, admittedly, better than the in-the-face sneezes from one end and the stinky farts from the other. 

                Sometimes I wonder if no one taught her how to be a cat.  For instance, she likes to lay on the floor at my feet, just as a dog would.  Though I have never owned a dog, I have had many cats in my life over the years and none of them ever laid at my feet waiting for my attention.  She also comes when called, though she doesn’t believe in obeying other commands unless they are reinforced by the presence of a certain spray bottle.  What’s more, she does not jump or step into cardboard boxes—she doesn’t even seem tempted to.  Instead, she chews onardboard and shoes and thin electrical cords.

                Every morning, Tango scratches at my bedroom door within seconds of me getting up, often even before I turn on the light.  She wants breakfast, of course.  Early on, before I found a dry cat food that did not upset her sensitive stomach, the food would go down and then come right back up.  Thus, I started the unfortunate habit of feeding her four tiny meals a day, a practice she appreciates that I hope to discontinue someday.  However, I am a sucker for her persistent pleas for food at the appointed hours.

                She does have a lovely, soft meow and an expressive purr.  She has claimed most windowsills as her territory but has kindly not jumped up on the kitchen counters yet.  She enjoys playing with and eventually eating any unfortunate insects or spiders she sees and even catches flies. 

                So maybe she is more cat than dog after all.

                 

The Itch

                Since I started this new way of eating—no dairy, gluten, sweeteners, or preservatives—on June 27, the most unexpected results have been the return of energy and the reduction of pain.  These are big-time results since I’ve had fibromyalgia for over twenty years.

                 One of the first things I noticed is how long the days are when I’m not sleeping in or taking at least one nap every day.  That means I’m getting a lot of things done, right?  Wrong.  Instead, I spend a lot of time on itching.  Unfortunately, the itchy eczema has not gone away. Yet.

                So I scratch. Or try not to scratch.  Or research itching and atopic dermatitis.  I keep hoping to find some new (to me) homespun remedy, but I haven’t yet.  So I apply coconut oil head to toe four or more times a day.  I ice the itchy spots.  I do bits and pieces of work around the house but avoid any activity that could raise a sweat.  I take cool to lukewarm showers and use glycerin bars for hand and body washing.  And I keep trying not to scratch, which is really hard when everything itches.  My skin is so sensitive that when I scratch, it looks like I’ve been clawed by a cat. 

Dealing with the itch takes a lot of energy that I’d rather spend elsewhere.  However, my bad back limits what I can do (though it does not prevent frequent baby-holding sessions at my daughter’s house when Ava is fussy and Dana needs to make dinner).  So does my extreme aversion to sweating:  I can’t face doing anything strenuous because sweat triggers more itching.

A couple days ago, I looked at my wood music stand and thought about playing my flute again.  It’s been months since I’ve picked it up because I did not have the energy. Before I could act on my good intentions, a new eczema spot erupted on the pad of one of my fingers.  It hurts when I just touch it, so flute playing is out for a while longer.

                It appears that my eczema is getting creative, too.  Besides the atopic dermatitis, there is an outbreak of dyshidrotic eczema on my hands.  A scaly bump has appeared on my scalp.  A sore showed up on a skin tag, and other sores have cropped up on moles.  And there are sores in other places I won’t mention.  Rashes come and go.  Most sores erupt complete with their own deep scabs.  Sections of skin are raised and rough.  For several days, my neck burned even though it had no sores.

                Ah, yes, I am complaining.  I was just itching to tell you all about it.

Amazing Day

            It’s been an amazing day doing normal household tasks.  Before I tell you why such ordinary stuff is amazing, let me indulge my pride by telling you what I’ve done.

            Saturday morning means farmers’ market, just a few miles away.  After getting some cash at an ATM, I was ready to start strolling through the market at 8:30 am.  It was already hot by my standards but nowhere close to the 106 degrees heat index that arrived midday.  Fifteen dollars got me a dozen eggs, lettuce, cucumbers, grape tomatoes, red cabbage, and a white onion.  Pleased with my purchases, I put them in the cooler I keep in the car.  Good that I remembered the ice packs today.

            Getting in my car, I realized that now was better than later to round out my shopping at the local Walmart.  First destination:  produce section.  There I picked up a few sweet potatoes, heads of broccoli and cauliflower, jicama, organic celery, bananas, and a bag of organic Pink Lady apples. From there, I wandered the grocery aisles, picking up organic peanut butter, and pea protein-fortified unsweetened almond milk.  I hit the Omega-3 jackpot with canned tuna fish, red salmon, and smoked herring fillets—all sustainably caught or wild. Yum.

            Back at home, I unloaded the car, put away the food, and cut up some celery, cucumber, and jicama.  Instead of dipping them in hummus, I ate them plain along with a handful of grape tomatoes.  And then I was ready for a nap, and it was only 10:30!

            I never ignore my body’s siren song for naps, so I dutifully obeyed, waking an hour later.  After applying round two (or was it three) of coconut oil to help ward off the itching attack that was threatening, I added the protein I had neglected at my exceedingly early lunch:  peanut butter on banana.  What an exquisitely sweet treat along with my second cup of Teeccino/coffee for the day.  (I’m at the half and half point still.)

            Then, what to do?  I remembered the bills and paid the first of the month set.  From there I started some laundry, cleaned my bathroom sink and my BI-PAP accessories.  Three loads of laundry were done by suppertime, which was a lovely boiled dinner of sweet potato, broccoli, and onion, followed by a can of sardines.  (Kind of a strange combination, but it was good.)

            And still it is only six pm.  Now comes the explanation of how this ordinary-sounding day has been amazing.  A mere week ago, any one of those activities would have worn me out for the day.  Seriously, that’s how bad things have been energy-wise.  It felt so good to do the things that other people easily do in a day, instead of dragging them out over an entire week.  It’s an amazing new normal.