The Reward

I went to see my oncologist today.

Technically he's my "gynecologic oncologist."

Whatever he's called, I went to see him.

These are unexpected words. And I understand that, even with my constant descriptions on this blog, sometimes people feel out of the loop. There aren't enough words in the world to adequately explain to your friends that your life is changing, and you don't know everything, but you hope they'll support you. Okay, maybe there are enough words, it's just hard to find the right ones at the right time.

So I'll start at the beginning, for those of you who feel like you missed something. There will be fancy links so that you can go back and read those blogs, if you wish.

On February 21st I announced I was having surgery and asked for prayer. I went in for the surgery on February 26th and the next day began describing my experience, in three parts, which you can read here, here and here. A few days later I got the results of the surgery and they were not what I had hoped for. I began the process of life with "pre-cancer" which seems silly to say, but as my doctor would say, "It's nothing to sneeze at." I have a 5% chance of getting full-blown cancer, and am now working diligently to avoid that.

It's almost a month later. I finally had my post-op appointment last Friday, and I am healing up as expected. My doctor re-explained everything to me, which was irritating. I often feel like my doctors think that I'm stupid, or that I am uninformed. They behave as if "pre-cancer" means nothing to me, and clearly I don't do my own research.

I do my own research. I am a woman of words.

Anyways.

So I went to see my oncologist today. I had been dreading the appointment a little bit simply because I know that down the line he'll need to do more painful biopsies and, of course, he's a man. Last week I was discussing these anxieties with a friend, and she suggested that I think of something fun to do after the appointment, so I would have something to look forward to.

But when today finally came, I was so concerned with getting to the appointment on time and then getting to work on time afterwards that I forgot about the reward. I slept in longer than I should have because my bed was abnormally comfortable. As we sat in the car I suddenly realized, and then said aloud, "I really don't want to do this." Still, we made it to the appointment on time, and then I sat in the office waiting for twenty minutes after my nurse said, "We'll be right back."

My doctor looked like a taller, chubbier Ben Stein with giant Fezzik hands.

He also sounded like he had something stuck in his throat. His humorous appearance and voice perfectly counteracted his intimidating height, and I relaxed a little bit. 

Overall, it was a fairly pleasant appointment. My nurse was incredibly sweet and funny--she genuinely laughed at my jokes! They did an exam, so quickly I didn't even know it happened until it was over. We talked about future appointments, and potential procedures, and the options I had for my "therapy" medications.

It wasn't until we were back in the car, trying to find our way out of the parking garage, that I realized how stressed I'd been and how much I needed some sort of relief. I wanted a reward, and so I jokingly said to my husband, "Can you get me coffee today?"

He obliged with the largest soy mocha he could find, of course. 

But it reminded me that all of this is necessary. It's imperative. It might be awkward, and my doctors might treat me like I don't know anything, but it's an important part of the process. The hard work comes first, and the reward comes later. This is true right now, for this part of life, but it is also true for everything else... everything else I'll ever do is just the work I must finish before the great reward.

Yeah, I made that spiritual. Deal with it.

Next week, starting April 1st, I'll begin my therapy (in pill form, thank goodness.) It will supposedly make me extremely hungry, so I might be updating you all as my munchiness progresses. 

As always, I am grateful for the support of those who read this blog.

Thank you for being part of my story.

I Gotta Feeling

As I'm sure some of you have already discovered at this point in your lives, there is no rule book for feelings. There are unwritten, unspoken rules, unclear rules like "don't make mountains out of molehills" and "don't cry over spilled milk." The problem is, even unwritten and unspoken those rules are more about what you do with your feelings that how to have them. The Bible tells us a lot about actions--don't steal, don't kill, don't sleep with your neighbor's wife--things we should or should not do when we feel certain things. We should act on our forgiveness, and not on our lust. We are commanded to love, which might seem like a feeling, but we know it isn't. It also falls under the "behavior" or action category. The Bible doesn't say, "Always be happy" or "Never be angry" or "Stop being such a grumpy pants."

This leads to a life full of questions about the way we feel. Feelings are these complex, intangible things that prompt us to speak out of turn or behave in bizarre ways. If we happen to understand the Bible a little bit we know that certain feelings should not make us act--our most passionate anger should not cause us to kill someone or act violently. It's also true that even if we never follow the directions about how to act, we do know where to look for those rules, and even if we don't feel the Bible will lead us to the answers, they are still prevalent in most societies. Don't kill. Don't steal. Respect other human beings. These are commonplace rules about what to do or not do with our feelings. But there is still a chasm of uncertainty about how to simply have feelings in the first place.

To some this might seem like God doesn't care about our feelings, that he put them out there for us to use without any proper guidelines--but it's the opposite. If he didn't care, he wouldn't allow us to have them, wouldn't give us opportunities to let our feelings push us in one direction or another. He wants us to have them, to some degree. And we certainly have them. We have them often, inappropriately, unnecessarily, abundantly, intensely, and sometimes they come out of nowhere. But the problem with feelings, even after you've figured out how to have them, is that most of the time that's not enough. We want to do things with our feelings, and that's why the rules about actions are so much clearer than the rules about possession (so to speak) of feelings.

This is why we have thirteen-year-old Katie professing her "love" for a thirteen-year-old boy. (Granted, my friends convinced me that I had to tell him, but they were also thirteen.) 

This is why people bite their nails and smash things and flip people off in the car.

This is why we have dating sites and music therapy and talk shows and... drugs?

See, in spite of the fact that there aren't really any rules about your feelings, you can still expect to have them, and you can still expect the world to tell you what you should do with them. Nobody on earth really knows what you should do, but they'll tell you anyways. They'll tell you to go after that girl/guy you are hopelessly in love with, and to let go of your anger because it leads nowhere good (which is a bold-faced lie, fyi). These are the same people who believe "happiness" is the end-all be-all in life and that you can choose it, therefore your clinical depression is a mind-over-matter issue and that, of course, all your other feelings are also dictated by your attitude.

All. Lies.

I firmly believe that all of our feelings and emotions are valid, and by that I mean we are entitled to feel things even if we got to that feeling by mistake. For example, I once had a delicious cup of coffee I had been saving and I left it on the table while I went to the bathroom. When I returned it was half gone, and I was irritated because I thought my husband had done it. It was actually the dog. My irritation was valid, simply because something important to me (my cup of coffee) had been violated or compromised. If I had punched my husband in the face in my irritation, I would be in the wrong. However, simply feeling irritated because something went wrong is completely reasonable. I would have had the same emotion if I had spilled my own coffee. You can see how this would apply to other situations. The actions which our emotions lead us to are not always valid, but the way we possess our feelings is justifiable. 

I mentioned the other day the tiny bottle brimming with ibuprofen that I was prescribed after my surgery. At first glance, I thought, "Well, I'm gonna be needing those!" They wouldn't give me so many if I wasn't going to need them, right? I will be feeling pain and therefore I should want to get rid of it. 

And at first I told myself I didn't need them. And then I did. And I do right now.

But if I had wanted to, I could have said, "Nope. No pills for me! I'm invincible!" I didn't say that, because I don't actually enjoy pain, but I could have. I could have chosen to fully feel the pain--I would have been choosing pain over all other feelings. I would have chosen pain over the joy of reading a good book, over the relaxation of a hot shower, over restful sleep and being able to eat without feeling nauseated, over laughter and long conversations and coherent thoughts.

What I'm really trying to say is that in the face of different feelings, we get to choose which one to focus on. It doesn't mean the pain is gone, or that I am completely at ease with all of this post-surgery nonsense. I am not. I am quite suddenly bombarded with the confusing burden of "pre-cancer" and there is definitely a part of me that just wants to panic and be sad. And yet, there is this other part of me, this resilient part that is absorbing the support of all my beloved friends and this part of me feels unstoppable, unshakable, unafraid. There is something so uplifting about knowing that if I wanted to scream and cry there would be support all around me. If I want to do the opposite, if I want to find joy and beauty in the midst of the pain, I find support there as well.

So I am taking those painful feelings and I'm going to put them in my pocket for a little while. I'm going to take a break from being sad and just let myself be at peace.

The pain and fear and panic are present, but only among so many other things to feel, and to do. I'm about to have an incredible weekend, during which I will get to support some wonderful people and in turn be supported. I'm going to work hard, and in that space if I find myself sad or anxious or joyful or excited, the support will still be there.  I'm going to feel all my feelings and it's going to be beautiful.  Nobody else gets to tell me how to feel. If doing this makes me feel fulfilled, joyful, encouraged, loved, precious, exhilarated, invigorated, or whatever... nothing is going to stop me.  I might hurt at the end of it, but it will be worth every second. This is my pain, and this is what I'm doing with it. 

And so I just want to encourage anyone reading this that you should own your feelings too. Owning them doesn't mean you're going to run people over with your car when you're angry, or call your ex-boyfriend when you're sad, or buy an expensive and unnecessary trampoline when you're really excited about life. (Even though that sounds really awesome, and if anybody actually goes and buys a trampoline, please invite me over to play on it.) You just get to hold your feelings, and look at them, figure out why you have them, and then... you get to decide if you want to something with them. And what sort of thing you might do with them. Or not.

Today I choose to do, to behave fearlessly, and I'm going to feel incredible about every moment... because that's what I've decided.

Recovery, Results, Requests

They gave me this bottle of high-dosage ibuprofen. This little tiny bottle was literally brimming with pills, as if to say, "You're really gonna need these!" My first couple of days home I took them as a precaution, just to ward off the pain I feared would come. Even though I was mostly just sore, they helped, and made me more comfortable if nothing else. By Sunday I was actually feeling some significant pain, so I took them as a necessity. I have a very high pain threshold, but everything is a bit overwhelming right now and the added sensation of sharp stabbies and hard pokies made me very anxious.

Overall I was feeling pretty good about everything. Even the minimal pain I felt was tolerable, the cramping had subsided, and my limbs stopped aching every time I breathed. I knew I was well on the road to healing when I could sneeze without any trouble. I was under the impression that things would soon go back to normal, I would have my post-op appointment with my doctor, and I could begin the process of making tiny humans.

Then yesterday my obgyn called me with the results of the surgery.

This part is hard because I feel like nobody wants to hear it. Nobody really wants to read a blog about my uterus. (Even writing it is weird. It shouldn't be.) It's hard to blur the lines of me vs. my body because I know I'm not writing about my body... I'm writing about me. This story is about me, not my body, not my organs, not my cells. Me.

And I could write all the fancy medical terms to explain what's wrong, except that wouldn't cover it either, since it doesn't really answer much. It doesn't tell us what's wrong overall. It's just a piece of what's wrong, another jot or tittle in the story I'm telling.

So here's the gist of it: I have pre-cancer. There are 4 stages of this particular kind of pre-cancer and I have stage 2. I'm looking at 3-9 months of therapy, the details of which are not yet clear. I also have to have regular colposcopies and biopsies.

If I wasn't clear the other day, the one colposcopy I had back in December was the singularly most painful experience of my entire life. I'm sure that my brain lights up like a Christmas tree when I think about the trauma endured during that procedure. It was not only painful physically, but mentally as well. I felt messed with--I was told I would have a local anesthetic, and I didn't. I was told it would be "relatively painless," and it wasn't.

The fact that I have to go through the same thing regularly is devastating.

Thus, I am here again, asking you all to pray with me. In the face of this painful and confusing situation, I am not about to doubt God. I know he hears me. I don't know why any of this is happening, but I know he hears me. He hears us. So please continue to pray for me and with me. Pray that the therapy is only required for a short time. Pray that the colposcopies and biopsies would be quick, short, and that I would be provided with anesthetic or (even better!) that they would just put me out for the procedure. Pray that this entire thing is merely a detour... and that soon I can move on to the process of becoming a mother.

As a side note... in the spirit of honesty, I want to express how thankful I am for the people who were so indescribably supportive last week after my surgery. It was such a blessing to be able to tell my story on my blog. You not only read my words but you shared your feelings with me afterward. I am grateful for your time and your friendship, and hope you'll stick around as I continue this journey. You are all incredible.

Side note #2... my blog got a makeover. :)

Surgery, Part 3: The Flow

It's nothing like sleep, but it feels like it should be. One moment someone is telling you to "hop" from your hospital bed to the metal table, and the next moment you're somewhere else and despite the quiet atmosphere and the dim lighting you feel full of chaos. I'm a pretty flexible person. I can change a lesson plan in five seconds if I have to, I can think of another way to get somewhere in about five minutes, and when I make a mistake during a conversation I don't waste time pretending it didn't happen. I go with the flow--it's the most efficient way to do things.

But I felt incapable of going with the flow. There was no flow.

I woke up feeling extremely irritated that I was sleeping on my back. I hate sleeping my back. Actually. to be more accurate, I can't sleep on my back. I wake up. Like every two minutes. But I was in this stupid hospital bed with a stupid mask on my face and it didn't fit right so every time I breathed a puff of air went into my eyes.

I thought, "Maybe I can roll over." I kept looking down at my arms, realized I didn't have my glasses or contacts, noticed there were giant pillows under each arm, and fell back asleep. There was a nurse to my right, and I could hear her say they couldn't find my husband.

This news caused my achy, sore body to be filled with rage. Where had Joey gone? Didn't he know I was in surgery? He was actually there in the waiting room, but had his headphones in and didn't notice anyone calling his name. But I didn't know that. I didn't know anything. I was just busy trying to find the flow so I could go with it, but it couldn't be found. So I just stayed mad, and remembered I was still trying to sleep on my back, and got even more mad.

It felt like I was laying there forever, and I wanted to talk, but I couldn't. So I groaned, like a grumpy old man. I would wiggle my feet around and hated that they were touching the curtain at the edge of the room. There was a guy in the bed next to me, and if I turned my head I could see that he wasn't wearing an oxygen mask, and that pissed me off even more. So I just kept wiggling around and groaning and trying to wake myself up enough to get that stupid mask off my face, and kept angrily glancing at the man in the bed next to me until he seemed to stare right back with just as much venom.

When the nurse removed the oxygen mask my rage and fury subsided. A male nurse with beautiful brown skin suddenly appeared at my side, wheeled me down to the recovery room and then disappeared just as quickly. I felt fuzzy and sore all over, kind of happy, and kind of confused.

Another nurse helped me out of the bed and into a fancy chair, all the while saying, "Oh, your hair is so pretty!" and I wanted to tell her I dyed it, but couldn't remember the words. I felt dizzy, and as I scooched from the bed to the chair I realized once again that I was wearing a gown and everyone could see my bum--except now they could also see the weird post-surgery underwear that had someone gotten onto my body. I ignored how terrifying and humiliating that was and sat in the chair where I immediately curled my legs up in front of me and asked for some water. 

At some point, Joey appeared, carrying my purse and coat and my bag of "comfortable clothes." He gave me my glasses and a kiss and fluffed the pillow behind my head, and informed me that he'd called my parents to let them know I was okay. My first sip of water was next--it felt like acid. My throat was so sore from the breathing tube, but it was my first food or water in 17 hours and I was parched.

I remember talking, but don't remember the words. I remember my nurse asking me over and over again if I wanted any food or juice. Another nurse hooked me up to some fluid because, "Yes, doctor wants her to empty her bladder before she goes home."

My apple juice smelled like bananas, and also felt like acid. Why was everything refrigerated? Why can't I have room temperature juice? Nurse #1 kept pestering me about food. "We have pretzels, and cookies. Chocolate chip? We have Lorna Doone cookies!"

I said "okay" because I felt a little like I'd found the flow. The flow is being forced to drink apple-banana juice (kind of like onion banana juice, eh, ATLA friends?) and eat Lorna Doone cookies. My only problem was that I had no recollection of Lorna Doone but some part of my brain hoped whoever she was made cookies that were similar to ice cream, or maybe french fries.

They were shortbread cookies. They tasted fine but they felt like wood chips.

And then, as if a heater had just clicked on overhead, my entire body flooded with warmth and I needed to pee--now. Thus began the adventure of the supervised bathroom trip. That morning when I'd first gotten to the pre-op area I'd noticed there was a curtain in the bathroom, and I thought--well, must be nice, for the elderly or people who just had foot surgery or something. There was a sign on the door explaining our safety was more important than our privacy.

Nurse #2 showed me some compassion and put a secondary gown on my back so that the world did not see my bum, and allowed me to take her arm as I hobbled to the bathroom and she held my IV bag. Once in the bathroom she hung it up on the wall hook, pulled the curtain, and left me there with the toilet containing two plastic measuring receptacles.

I will not tell you anything more about the bathroom, except this: As we hobbled back to my fancy chair Nurse #2 called out to Nurse #1, "She did it! Almost 300 milligrams!"

I passed the pee test, and there was much rejoicing.

It became clear to me that whatever I thought was normal, whatever I thought "going with the flow" was, it didn't exist for post-surgery Katie. Post-surgery Katie would have walked down the hallway by herself and shown her bum to the world, if they had let her. Post-surgery Katie (who was called Katherine all day, just for the record) didn't care about the curtain in the bathroom or glaring at the man in the other bed.

As we left the hospital I couldn't help but feel absolutely fearless. I couldn't help but be impatient, to make my follow-up appointment, to find out the results, to see what the next step would be, to turn into something greater. I couldn't help but feel like I was a brand new person. I had left that other woman on the metal table. Her chaos had followed me into waking but I left that behind too.

New day. New person. Time to find a new flow. 

Surgery, Part 2: What the Heart Wants

**Read Part 1 HERE.**

I'll begin by saying I don't like being asked personal questions on somebody else's watch. I'm a pretty open person and I'll give anybody details as long as I'm comfortable with that person, but even from close friends and family I don't like the suddenness of "What are you having surgery for?" It doesn't mean I "don't like you" if I don't answer... it's just a very personal issue. It's my story, and I get to choose when it's told. That time is now.

You've already been informed that the fancy hospital socks were not the highlight of yesterday. But this was. 

So Tim the chaplain was holding my hand. He had kind eyes and a sincere smile as he asked me if there was anything or anyone else I'd like him to pray for. I looked up at Joey, and up at Tim, back and forth until I look back down at my own hands. I told him what I was there for, why I was having the surgery, and what I hoped would happen next. My answer for him was brief, and included some awkward hand motions because I felt so incredibly overwhelmed, but this is the back story for all of you:

I want to have kids. For reasons unknown to me, it just hasn't happened yet. We've been trying for three years, not knowing what to do, or if it's anyone's fault. When we finally got health insurance last summer I knew the time had come to figure all this out. So first I got the surface stuff out of the way--allergies, vitamin deficiencies, physicals and all the basics. Then I did the hard stuff like "lady doctor" visits. I was reprimanded for not having a ob/gyn visit sooner, but I wasn't "active" (yeah, I went there) until I was married. So, yes, I went 6 extra years without one because I didn't need one. I'm not sure if making that appointment sooner in my life would have solved anything, but it's too late now to make a difference. 

It was after that appointment that the adventure really started. They discovered I had "abnormal cells" and I spent a month worrying that I had cancer. I scheduled a colposcopy, which they rescheduled three times for various reasons. It was an anxiety-filled month. When the colposcopy finally happened they did seven biopsies (you can look colposcopy up, if you want to. Just understand it was the most painful experience of my life, even worse than this surgery [so far] and it's a pretty gross concept. So do your research, but you have been warned.)

My doctor called with the results of the colposcopy about a week later and said there was some polyp tissue. Polyps are pretty harmless, in general--except that they take up space. She said it was possibly the polyp, if it really was there, was simply taking up space and inhibiting fertility. So I went in for an ultrasound, but they couldn't see anything because my uterus was too flat. Yes, that's right, too flat. The layers were all stuck together. My doctor said I could do a secondary ultrasound during which they would dilate the uterus, if I wanted to, but if they saw the polyp they would end up doing surgery no matter what. She gave me the option going straight to surgery, and I said yes. 

It was one of those moments where I knew the answer right away. It was imperative for me to answer right away. My husband was in the shower, and I briefly thought about calling my mother to ask her advice, but it only took a second to realize this was my decision. I thought my heart was going to pound out of my chest, but I said yes.

So that brings us back to Thursday, February 26th around 1pm. Tim the chaplain is holding my hand and I'm telling him that I hope this procedure will allow me to have kids. He thanked me, because it was very personal information, and he began to pray.

He prayed that Joey and I would have peace and comfort, that I would heal quickly. He prayed for a successful procedure and a smooth recovery. He started to pray about having children, and he began with my least favorite words: Lord, let your will be done.

Even if you haven't been reading my blog for long you know that I find this prayer pointless. God's will is going to be done, even if we don't ask for it, even if we don't want it. While he does want us to seek his will, he also wants us to communicate with him, to tell him what we want. Even if he says no, he always hears us.

Tim the chaplain was in the middle of those blithe, careless prayers about the will of God and I had started thinking, "Wow, what a disappointing prayer," because I had hoped his words would be encouraging. As he started to ask God to help us understand if children weren't in our future, I began to feel immensely depressed. 

And then Tim laughed and said, "But we know you better than that." He quoted Matthew 18:19-20, which says, "Again, truly I tell you that if two of you on earth agree about anything they ask for, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven. For where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them." I could hear the joy in his voice as he spoke about God hearing us, and as he prayed that God would bring us children.

My tired eyes were filled with tears as Tim gripped my hand tightly, smiling down at me, and then he left. Joey and I were speechless for a minute or two, sharing in the joy of what has just happened. 

He hears us. He is with us. He hears our hearts and I believe can grant us those desires. I believe my heart wants what it wants because he put it there, and he doesn't do anything without a reason. 

It wasn't long before another crowd of nurses and doctors came in, asking me more questions and I had to tell one more person I didn't have PCOS. I was given a dose of something to lay the foundation for the anesthesia, and became very sleepy as my surgeon informed me I couldn't take a bath for two weeks after the surgery. (This is literally the most difficult part about the whole ordeal. Taking a bath is like therapy. I can't live without it.) I handed Joey my glasses and he kissed me goodbye, and as they wheeled me into the operating room some part of my sleepy brain had this song stuck in my head.

 To Be Continued...

Surgery, Part 1: All of the Questions and None of the Answers

I'm going on an adventure!

It's about 3:30, just a little more than 24 hours after my surgery. Apparently it's the norm to schedule a surgery at one time but not have it until a much, much later time. In my case it was only an hour and a half later, and I didn't even notice--I was that overwhelmed. And if you're interested, you can read all about it below. A new experience calls for a new story, and I'm not letting this one go to waste.

We got to the hospital at 11:15 and a friendly old man told us to go up the elevator. I was greeted by three good-humored grandma-type nurses who seemed to be wearing an exorbitant amount of sparkly brooches and pins on their scrubs. They sent me over to Kris, the registration nurse, who kindly made jokes with my nervous husband and then put on my ID bracelet.

Less than five minutes later we were ushered through some enormous doors to the pre-op area. I put all my stuff in a locker--immediately regretting that I left my chapstick behind--and then got to step onto the industrial-sized scale. It gently beeped out my weight in kilograms, which was very kind of it, because I don't know what those numbers translate to in pounds. I also got to tell the pre-op nurse my height, which has become really fun for me since I recently realized I'm actually 5'3 and not 5'2.

Once in "my room" I was asked to put on the "gown" (aka "high-necked bag dress designed to choke you AND show the world your bum at all times"). I asked if I could keep my socks on and she said, "Oh, we've provided you with fancy socks." I actually clapped and said, "Oh, yay!" In retrospect, I think I was just excited about being able to wear socks, but it definitely sounded like the "fancy" hospital socks were the highlight of my day.

They weren't. But I'll get there.

So I put on the gown and the fancy socks and got into the bed with the pre-heated blankets from heaven. (I haven't mentioned it in a while, but it's winter here in Chicago. That means it's 16 degrees outside, before the hellish windchill.) I sat there fiddling on my Kindle and talking to Joey for about thirty minutes before there began a constant barrage of nurses, anesthesiologists, more nurses, surgical nurses, and more nurses asking me the same questions over and over again. They put two more paper bracelets on my wrists indicating I had seasonal allergies and was a fall risk because I would be put under general anesthesia.

During most of those questions there was one unfortunate nurse trying to get my IV in. Because I had the blood tests done just yesterday she had a lot of trouble, ended up poking me twice, and had to sit on the floor to get the right angle because there were so many people in my room. 

But that wasn't the most annoying thing. I'm accustomed to my difficult veins. What I'm not used to is being ignored by the people who are supposedly listening to me and writing down my answers. I told four people today that I did not have diabetes or PCOS. (Look it up, I'm not wasting time explaining it.) You would think that by this point, if I had diabetes, I would have told someone. I would have told my surgeon, the nurse that called me on Monday, and the first nurse to check me in. Doctors and other medical professionals tend to assume I'm diabetic because of one of my medications, and because--well, I'm not exactly a runway model. The medication is often used for the 'betes and PCOS, but those are not the reasons I take it!!! I actually laughed when one of the nurses assumed I had it and she became haughty and offended, like she knew better than me.

So, for the rest of the world, let me be abundantly clear: I do not have diabetes of any kind, even the ridiculous "pre-diabetes" and I am not "in danger" of having diabetes. You can look at me and make assumptions based on my size, but you will be wrong. I'm actually a pretty healthy person, despite your judgments. The next time a medical professional assumes that I have it (or PCOS) I may actually flip a lid--or maybe I'll just eat a cookie to prove them wrong, or something.

Anyways. Between all the nurses and technicians coming in we were also visited by the hospital chaplain so that we could sign the POA (Power of Attorney) papers.

The first good sign: His name was Tim, and he had a daughter named Katherine.

Obviously he introduced himself, and asked for our names. My first job was to name "an agent" to make decisions for me. I'm sure you can all guess who I picked. After that we had to talk about what I wanted to happen if I was put on life support for any reason. I'm not going to tell you what I decided because, well, first of all it's weird, and second of all it's none of your business. This conversation was daunting and surreal, in spite of the fact that Joey and I have had it before. It's just different, when you're there, with the IV in one arm and the other hand signing away your life, essentially.

The chaplain got to know us a little bit. We talked about Trinity and why we were in Illinois (people always ask that after they realize our phone numbers are from Washington) and I mentioned how ironic it was that he was a pastor named Timothy with a daughter named Katherine, when I'm named Katherine and have a pastor/father named Timothy.

And then the chaplain asked if he could pray for me. I had been hoping he would. He told us the basics of the prayer--for peace and comfort, safety and success in the procedure and all that. Then he asked if there were any other people or issues I'd like him to pray for.

So, this is the part where I get to tell you the back story while continuing to tell this story. This is the part when I tell you why I was there, why I had the surgery, did the blood work, endured the torture of answering five questions a million different ways for an hour, why I wore the "gown" and actually let a crazy nurse MEASURE how much I peed before I was allowed to leave the hospital.

But you'll just have to wait until the next post to find out. :)

Imperative

Last week when I asked for prayer and sort of announced I was having surgery, I don't know what I expected. But I was overwhelmed with love and support, and it was incredible. The prayers for the pre-surgery issues were at least a success. It's scheduled for tomorrow, and I'm all ready to go. But getting to this point was like climbing a mountain while wearing roller skates--clumsy, and uncomfortable to watch OR experience, and felt like I was getting nowhere most of the time.

I did get here, and that, at least, is a blessing. But it was so difficult I actually feel compelled to retell the last several days.

Friday was when I called the nurse hotline to ask about the blood tests I would need to get done, and it wasn't until this Monday I was informed I wouldn't be getting them done until the day of surgery. While on the phone I said, "Oh, okay," and moved on. 

On Monday night I felt differently. On Monday night and then again on Tuesday morning, I remembered some important details. 1. My veins literally move around after a phlebotomist finds them. In order to compensate for my sneaky veins I drink approximately 60 oz. of water before I donate blood or have blood tests taken. 2. The times I have tried to donate blood/have blood tests while not hydrated have been horribly painful and I end up looking like someone beat me up because my arms are covered in bruises. 3. I am not allowed to drink or eating anything after midnight tonight, therefore. 4. Getting blood tests done tomorrow morning before surgery, while hungry and dehydrated, would be a terrible experience.

I had two anxiety attacks thinking about how awful it would be. I was scared. And angry. The nurse had also told me that, despite the hospital's letter explaining I would need the tests done a week prior to surgery, my doctor "is new to this hospital" and "we're just getting used to the way she does things." It seemed backwards and nonsensical. 

Tuesday afternoon the nurse called me back to confirm my medications and other details. It was then that I told her about my concerns, and she said I could call my doctor's office to change the time for the blood tests. I did, gladly! And I went to get them done today.

Of course, it couldn't be that easy. I drank my 60 oz. of water and felt great when I got to the lab. They didn't immediately mention I needed a urine test, so when I asked to go to the bathroom they let me go. A few minutes later my nurse read the entire chart and, YES, I did need a urine test. AND... they needed to take blood from both arms.

Wait, what?

Yeah, that's right. Both arms. I didn't ask them why because all the explanations they were already giving were WAY over my head. I was tired (because I'm also not allowed to take my vitamins for a week prior to surgery) so I just told them how difficult it would be to use both arms, but they could try.

So here I am. I have cotton ball/masking tape bandages on my both arms. I am exhausted (because no vitamins) and stressed (because I'm at work and trying to get everything ready for my absence) and really, really... excited.

When I was teaching 6th grade language arts we had long discussions about the different types of sentences--declarative, interrogative, imperative. They could never remember the last one because it didn't have a matching word. Declarative sentences declare things, interrogative sentences interrogate, but imperative sentences don't imper... or perat... or anything. So they just had to memorize the facts: if it's imperative, it has to happen. It's a confusing word but it is so important. 

And this feels the same way that word must have felt to those 12-year-olds... It's so confusing. And it's hard to remember the facts. There are all these other things that make sense, all these other things I can remember and wrap my head around. And this is baffling, the process is making me tired and cranky, but it has to happen. 

When it's over, I can't wait to find out if everything was successful. I can't wait to hear the results of all this exhausting work. I can't wait for what comes next, the following step in this very incredible life I have been given. 

Two Simple Requests

I guess this is as good of a time as any to say what I need to say. I have been trying for about a week to figure out how to ask for what I need from the world--the world being whoever is about to read this blog.

I'm supposed to have surgery next week, on Thursday. I had written up a long post about how I'd like you to pray for me and explaining why I was having it, but I think that's a story for another time. Today it's something else.

See, the thing is, I'm supposed to have surgery. My first one ever. I'm not nervous about it but the process of getting there has become more than I can handle. My surgeon has not communicated well with me, or with my regular doctor. I have spent the last two days trying to get a hold of her, with literally no success. I can't even leave a message for her.
So I have two requests.

1. Please pray that I get there. Pray that all this communication rubbish is over with by Monday and that I don't suffer for my surgeon's mistakes. I have already rescheduled the surgery once and don't have the energy to do it again, to rearrange my life and work for something that should have already happened. 

2. Pray that this is the last procedure. Pray that this one surgery is all I'll need and that after my body has healed I can move on with my life and do what I want to do. (If you already know my story, you know what this!) Pray that the next thing on my to-do list is a joyful blessing, and not another surgery or another horribly miserable biopsy (also a story for another time) or trips to see more specialists. 

And I don't want your placid "God's will be done" prayers, or "whatever you think is best, God" prayers. God's will is going to be done whether you ask for it or not! Furthermore, God invites to ask for the desires of our heart. That doesn't mean he will necessarily give us what we want, but we are welcome to ask. I'm going to ask, as fervently as someone can ask God for something, and I need you to ask with me.