Finals Week

Remember finals week?  A week of one trial after another.  People on campus didn’t talk much – everyone was buried in their books – sequestered in the library – or hunkered down at a coffee shop. 

Sometimes life becomes a series of final exams – designed to test your will – your fortitude – that inner strength that pushes you beyond which you thought you were capable of coping…  that’s what last week was for me.

When I arrived home from Baltimore a couple of weeks ago, my left arm was noticeably swollen.  I mentioned it to my chemo nurse the next day and she thought perhaps it was a result of flying and my altered diet from normal of Neil’s home cooking to eating out on the road.  Over the course of the next week, the swelling went down a bit, but it still felt tight and not quite right.  My next chemo treatment – a week later – I mentioned this condition again to my chemo nurse, and she immediately went to chat with my doctor.  While they weren’t worried anything was life threatening, it was still something I should get checked out.  So the treatment went on as planned and I left with an appointment for an ultrasound the next day.

Friday afternoon, I head in for my ultrasound and there is definitely some kind of blockage going on.  So at 5:30 I get sent to the ER to be administered a shot and get started on blood thinners.  Lovely – just where I want to go on a Friday night.

I arrive at the ER and am escorted to a curtained “room” with a bed and told to hang out.  My neighbor to the right is a woman who has fallen at her house and broke her shoulder in 4 places.  My neighbor to the left arrives via the EMTs – her name is Patricia – a nice little old lady that has dementia and keeps complaining of chest pains (this is her 2^nd time here in 2 weeks) and she answers ‘yes’ to any question posed to her.

Finally, the doc comes to see me and confirms that yes, I have a blood clot – though apparently clots that develop in the arm aren’t prone to be life threatening, but they want to make sure it doesn’t get any worse and I don’t develop any more.  Fair enough.

I get to hang out for a couple of hours and I’m visited by a variety of nurses.  Finally one comes in with my very own ‘home injection kit’ and I’m told that I have to self-administer shots to my stomach twice a day for the next 5 days.  Are you kidding me?  She pulls out a syringe and asks if I want to do it?  Um – no thanks, why don’t you do the first one?

I leave with a prescription for 5 days of shots and pills and told if I hurry, I can make it to the pharmacy before they close.

Test #1 complete.

The next morning, I open up my little injection kit and just stare at the little needle.  Really?  For once, I’m grateful for the added padding around my mid-section, so I pinch a good inch, swab it with alcohol, pick up the syringe and take a couple deep breaths…. 3 – 2 -1 – Go.

Test #2 complete.

Sunday morning I take Neil to the airport – he’s off to Austin, TX for a conference.  I meet a friend for coffee and then head home to mow the yard.  Mom and Dad are due to arrive in a couple of hours for a visit.

The next couple of days are spent visiting with the folks and just hanging out.  They take off around lunchtime on Tuesday and I head off to meet up with Dr. Chemo to talk about my blood clot.  Turns out he’s not too concerned – he’s sorry it happened but knows that with my chemo almost over, this won’t be happening anymore.

I came home and made some cupcakes – I wanted to make something special to take to the chemo nurses on Thursday for my final treatment.  I spend the evening just hanging out with the dogs and turn in around 10pm.  As I turn out the light, I hear a strange noise from the backyard.  The dog door has opened, but it didn’t shut properly and now there’s a weird noise coming from the gravel below.  I get out of bed and look out the window, trying to see something in the darkness.  What I see makes my heart stop – there is Mocha, my dog of 14+ years… her back legs aren’t working and she is pulling herself through the gravel and off into the bushes.  I race down 2 flights of stairs with the other 2 dogs in hot pursuit and I pause at the back door just long enough to pull on a pair of old sailing boots.  I get to Mocha before she’s managed to drag herself under the depths of a spiny, thorny bush and the poor girl is in a panic and absolutely covered in beauty bark.  I manage to pick her up and carry her upstairs (thank you, CrossFitX).  I call the emergency vet and they agree that I should bring her in, so off we go.  X-rays are taken and nothing very decisive is learned, so blood work is done and her protein levels are very low.  This leads us to believe that there may have been a tumor that ruptured and the resulting internal bleeding weakened her enough that her already weak backend couldn’t function.  They want to keep her the rest of the night to monitor her and will continue to check her blood every 4 hours.  I’m to return at 7:30 the next morning to transport her to my vet so they can perform an ultrasound and we can hopefully find out more.

I get back home after midnight and Mambo and Murphy are both on edge.  I send an email to the office to let them know that I won’t be to work the next day and then fall into bed.  At 5am, I get a text from my friend, Pam, asking me what is wrong with Mocha?  I tell her what I know and she agrees to meet me at 7:30.  Back at the emergency vet, we’re told that Mocha was stable through the night but that she had not tried to stand at all, so they prepare to carry her out to my car.  Suddenly, from the back we hear an exclamation, and here comes Mocha walking through the door!  She had heard our voices and, in typical Mocha fashion, wanted to come out under her own power.  Stubborn old broad!  She got to where I was standing and then collapsed.  No worries, Girl – we got you.  I try to thank the vet, but the tears are too close to the surface and my voice just cuts off to nothing.  She says ‘I hope you’re able to have more time with her’.  Dear God, I hope so too.

Now at Northshore Vet, we talk to Dr. Colleen Coyne.  She tells us that she’ll take Mocha upstairs with her to the surgery area and let her hang out with her for the morning until the 2 other vets can perform an ultrasound.  So now we wait.  Pam and I head off to a local coffee shop and are soon joined by Michele Bodtke.  Together, they try to keep my mind off what my heart is dreading.  After a couple of hours, Pam heads home for a bit and Michele and I head downtown to grab a sandwich.  Just as we are entering the restaurant, my phone rings and it’s the vet.  So, standing on a sidewalk, with both of our heads tilted toward the cell phone, we listen.  The ultrasound suggests carcinoma tumors on her gallbladder, her spleen, her left kidney, plus an enlarged liver and lymph nodes.  It doesn’t take a trained oncologist to see the writing on the wall, though we are given various surgery options if that is a route we wish to pursue if I feel the need to prove what my heart is already telling me.  We thank her and ask if we can have an hour or so to talk things out.  We’re told to take whatever time we need, so we head into the restaurant and our poor server has to deal with 2 crying women.  After a solid hour of talking through all the options and discussing whether waiting for the next day so Neil could also be present was the right thing, we came to the conclusion that what was best for Mocha would be to quietly end things today.  We communicate our plans with Pam and the 3 of us rendezvous at Northshore Vet.  “Mocha’s Posse” has arrived.   We are escorted upstairs and meet once again with Dr. Coyne to let her know that I have made up my mind and am confident that we are doing the right thing at the right time.  She lets me know that she doesn’t have any commitments that evening, so if we wanted to take Mocha home for a bit, she could come by the house after work and take care of things there.  That was the best news I had heard in the past 18 hours, so we loaded Mocha onto a stretcher and I brought her home.  The next couple of hours were wonderful.  She laid down on her favorite pillow in the sun and we all sat around and petted her while she napped.  A little after 5pm, Dr. Coyne and a vet tech arrived and it was all very peaceful.  Mambo and Murphy both got to sniff her and say their respective doggie good-byes, as well as her human family.  I couldn’t help but wonder at the irony of it all… that Mocha passed on the eve of my last chemo treatment.  God gives and God takes – her vigil over me was complete.

I pick Neil up from the airport at midnight and once we’re home I head upstairs to fall into bed.  The day I have long dreaded is done.

Test #3 complete.

The next morning, I am solemn but collected.  Though my heart is heavy, I am at peace that I did the right thing at the right time. 

I spend the morning finishing up the cupcakes for the nurses and then it’s time to head to the anti-coagulation clinic to have my blood numbers checked.  They check out within the range they are hoping for, so from there it is on to the Cancer Center.  There are 2 other women that are also on their last treatment, so it is a party atmosphere when we walk back to the infusion area.  The cupcakes are a huge hit and are quickly devoured by the wonderful staff.  As the pump alarms go off for the other 2 ladies, signaling the end of their final bag of whatever chemical they have had to endure, there are claps and cheers and tears all around.  There aren’t as many folks left at the Center when my final alarm sounds, but the cheers, joy, and elation I feel is not lessened at all.  The nurses hand me a Certificate of Completion, signed by them all and I walk out of the infusion wing for the final time.  This horrible, life-altering part of my cancer journey is done.

Test #4 complete.

What is next only time, fate and the miracle of modern medicine will tell…but I am strong, and in the words of Neil’s boss, Tony, ‘they can’t make it hard enough….’

Bring it!