The quiet time
One of the only good things to come out of metastatic cancer is that my marriage has become even better. Don't get me wrong, I never had a bad marriage. We just had a happy-in-our-rut one.
Now, it is like a role model for other marriages. We seldom, if ever, argue. There isn't time and there is too much to say. We know that our time is very limited, so we are careful with each other, eager to talk, to touch, to just...hang out.
Today, was a hard one. I had to get a port put in AND get a liver biopsy. I lucked out. I had a doctor who was fast, efficient, and kind. All of the old problems surfaced. They couldn't find a usable vein to give me my twilight sleep. In fact, after the first nurse gave up and brought in "the vein genie....he can always find a vein" and well, he couldn't, I was despondent. What now?
The nurse was exceptionally gentle with me. He went over all of my veins carefully. I told him that this was why I needed to get a port, my veins were lousy. I looked up into his face and was surprised to see such a look of kindness that I almost teared up.
"What you must have been through with these veins, honey," he said gently. "I don't know that I've ever seen such beat up ones. But, don't worry. We'll get that medication in you. It'll just be when we open a vein for your port. In your neck. It'll be okay. And this is the last time you will be tortured by one of us searching for your vein."
I came close to crying right there. Because he hit it right on the head. The worst part of any procedure for me is supposedly the easiest part: accessing a vein. And now that would be over.
It wasn't fun. The biopsy hurt much worse than getting the port. And after all the tents around my head were put up, I heard Dr. B tell the tech to turn on the camera so that he could get a look at the veins in my neck and felt myself tensing up and then heard the magic words.
"There's a nice juicy one. Okay, Mrs. L....we are in and everything is going well."
I didn't get the twilight sleep. It never works on me. They did give me something to "relax" me but I didn't feel any good highs. But, it wasn't horrible and in the background, I heard Bruce Springsteen softly singing.
It doesn't get much better than being able to hear the boss if you must get a liver biopsy. When Dr. B was doing the biopsy, I turned my head to look at the screen and it hit me.
At least five or six dark blobs on this big organ. Blackish blobs. Two were large, about the size of quarters and right next to each other. The others were in different parts.
So, cancer. There you are. You are ugly. But, I didn't feel angry or didn't imagine them being bludgeoned by white blood cells. I just calmly gazed at them and asked them to please stop growing. They could stay there. They weren't hurting me. Yet. I just politely asked them (in my head of course) to please stop growing. Stay there. Take up residence. Just don't grow. Enjoy your new cushy house. Just don't invite friends over.
Please.
Afterwards, I had to stay for an hour to make sure that I wouldn't start bleeding and then they let me leave. T and I picked up a coffee for me on the way home.
"You are going to be very tired and weak today," the doctor had warned me. The nurse warned me that when we went on our trip to California that my port would set off all the alarms at the airport and gave me a card and a bracelet to wear.
I felt pretty good. We got home and watched television for a while. I can't take a shower for 24 hours, so T gently took a warm washcloth and washed all the orange off of me. We joked that I was washing Donald Trump tan off. Then, I stood up and felt like my legs were jelly. T led me to the bedroom and tucked me in under the blankets. She got in next to me.
"Let's just have some quiet time together," she said, her hand gently stroking my hands, badly bruised from all the attempts to find a vein. We finally lay side by side, holding hands.
I felt a contentment that I have only known since I was diagnosed. I felt like we were two kindred spirits who were floating together on a planet that we often felt was alien to us. But, we were linked. Our hands sought each other. Always.
Thank you for this, I thought. Thank you for not letting me go through this alone.
I heard her breath get heavier and then she began making those little snorts that she always does when she falls asleep on her back. I turned my head to look at her and this love we share tucked in all around us and for the first time in a very long time, I felt safe.
Eventually, I fell asleep, too. We awoke two hours later and a soft rain was falling.
Now, it is like a role model for other marriages. We seldom, if ever, argue. There isn't time and there is too much to say. We know that our time is very limited, so we are careful with each other, eager to talk, to touch, to just...hang out.
Today, was a hard one. I had to get a port put in AND get a liver biopsy. I lucked out. I had a doctor who was fast, efficient, and kind. All of the old problems surfaced. They couldn't find a usable vein to give me my twilight sleep. In fact, after the first nurse gave up and brought in "the vein genie....he can always find a vein" and well, he couldn't, I was despondent. What now?
The nurse was exceptionally gentle with me. He went over all of my veins carefully. I told him that this was why I needed to get a port, my veins were lousy. I looked up into his face and was surprised to see such a look of kindness that I almost teared up.
"What you must have been through with these veins, honey," he said gently. "I don't know that I've ever seen such beat up ones. But, don't worry. We'll get that medication in you. It'll just be when we open a vein for your port. In your neck. It'll be okay. And this is the last time you will be tortured by one of us searching for your vein."
I came close to crying right there. Because he hit it right on the head. The worst part of any procedure for me is supposedly the easiest part: accessing a vein. And now that would be over.
It wasn't fun. The biopsy hurt much worse than getting the port. And after all the tents around my head were put up, I heard Dr. B tell the tech to turn on the camera so that he could get a look at the veins in my neck and felt myself tensing up and then heard the magic words.
"There's a nice juicy one. Okay, Mrs. L....we are in and everything is going well."
I didn't get the twilight sleep. It never works on me. They did give me something to "relax" me but I didn't feel any good highs. But, it wasn't horrible and in the background, I heard Bruce Springsteen softly singing.
It doesn't get much better than being able to hear the boss if you must get a liver biopsy. When Dr. B was doing the biopsy, I turned my head to look at the screen and it hit me.
At least five or six dark blobs on this big organ. Blackish blobs. Two were large, about the size of quarters and right next to each other. The others were in different parts.
So, cancer. There you are. You are ugly. But, I didn't feel angry or didn't imagine them being bludgeoned by white blood cells. I just calmly gazed at them and asked them to please stop growing. They could stay there. They weren't hurting me. Yet. I just politely asked them (in my head of course) to please stop growing. Stay there. Take up residence. Just don't grow. Enjoy your new cushy house. Just don't invite friends over.
Please.
Afterwards, I had to stay for an hour to make sure that I wouldn't start bleeding and then they let me leave. T and I picked up a coffee for me on the way home.
"You are going to be very tired and weak today," the doctor had warned me. The nurse warned me that when we went on our trip to California that my port would set off all the alarms at the airport and gave me a card and a bracelet to wear.
I felt pretty good. We got home and watched television for a while. I can't take a shower for 24 hours, so T gently took a warm washcloth and washed all the orange off of me. We joked that I was washing Donald Trump tan off. Then, I stood up and felt like my legs were jelly. T led me to the bedroom and tucked me in under the blankets. She got in next to me.
"Let's just have some quiet time together," she said, her hand gently stroking my hands, badly bruised from all the attempts to find a vein. We finally lay side by side, holding hands.
I felt a contentment that I have only known since I was diagnosed. I felt like we were two kindred spirits who were floating together on a planet that we often felt was alien to us. But, we were linked. Our hands sought each other. Always.
Thank you for this, I thought. Thank you for not letting me go through this alone.
I heard her breath get heavier and then she began making those little snorts that she always does when she falls asleep on her back. I turned my head to look at her and this love we share tucked in all around us and for the first time in a very long time, I felt safe.
Eventually, I fell asleep, too. We awoke two hours later and a soft rain was falling.
When I started this post, the Boss was on, I'm on Fire. When I finished it, Dolly was singing, I Will Always Love You. I think Spotify is reading along with me. If you find your port is sensitive when they first start accessing it, ask for a little EMLA cream you can put on at home before you go in for labs.
ReplyDelete