Looking Back

Has all this really happened? I am writing this update during the 'lull in the storm', ie the period after mostly recovering from the surgery and before radiation and chemotherapy get underway. It hasn't been a terrible storm, actually - people go through far worse. I don't know how people do it without a faith of some sort, let alone faith in the One who is unshakeable. Hillsong United's song 'Still' has been particularly special to me during this time. The image of being hidden under the wings of God Himself is one I was 'given' over and over. You can listen to the song here if you like. The words are below. The pictures relate to another storm, one I experienced with some special people just after Easter this year, in an area that I'm keen to get back to as as 'regular tourist' once this current metaphorical storm is over.

Hide me now
Under your wings
Cover me
Within your mighty hand

When the oceans rise and thunders roar
I will soar with you above the storm
Father You are King over the flood
I will be still and
know You are God

Find rest my soul
In Christ alone
Know His power
In quietness and trust

(Hillsong United - Still - 2006)

This current storm began in Asia last year but I didn't recognize it for what it was, nor did the medical people I consulted. Fair enough, I'm told - I'm in the wrong demographic - this cancer is usually found in older ladies. It was diagnosed first as fibroids (which were present), then later as a thickened uterus wall (which was a description, really, rather than a diagnosis) and I was given medication to (somewhat) manage the frustrating symptoms, including chronically low iron levels. It wasn't until July 10th that I underwent a day procedure to get to the bottom of it all. I woke up from the anaesthetic to be told that I had cancer, but was encouraged that it was one of the 'better feminine cancers' to get. Cancer? Surely that happened to other people, but not to me, right? Let alone when I was on the cusp of a whole new chapter of life......

After that, there was a lot of waiting. Waiting to have the gynaecologist's diagnosis confirmed and clarified after getting the pathology results a week later. Then waiting to see the gynaecological oncologist. Then waiting for the surgery date, only to have it delayed by 'unclear images' from a CT scan, which necessitated a PET scan. 

I had an annoying cough at the time of the PET scan which had been hanging around for weeks and which gave us all a scare because it showed up on the PET scan as something which needed further investigations. What a relief it was when further tests showed that it was an infection which was healing rather than a growth which was getting worse.  While waiting to see the lung specialist, I watched a family emerge from his office. The husband was struggling to breathe even with an oxygen cylinder which he pulled on a trolley, his wife supporting him with tears streaming down her face. Their teenage son walking behind somberly. In stark contrast, I emerged feeling like the magnolia looked. This magnolia picture (inserted) was taken at the hospital the day I received that good news.

September 14th finally arrived. After an epidural which the anaethetist assured me was so effective that they needn't give me a general anaesthetic(??!!! eeek!), they thankfully put a mask on my face and that was it until I awoke several hours later in the high dependency unit. High dependency?! Apart from my oxygen being a bit low, I was okay and it turned out that I was just 'parked there' for the night because the ward I should have been sent to wasn't open yet. 

That was an interesting though exhausting night. One of the other patients, an elderly man who had just had his larynx removed, was accompanied by his middle-aged daughter. She fainted and an ambulance was called to take her from the cancer hospital to a general hospital with an emergency department. Poor lady. As for her father, he had a terrible night, coughing painfully and quite distressed. After many unsuccessful efforts at communication, the staff brought him a whiteboard and asked him to write down what he wanted. The answer? His mother. The other patient in our ward complained of terrible pain and desperate thirst and vomited all night, despite the best efforts of the staff to make him comfortable, including a midnight epidural and ice chips. Morning finally came, and when the doctors did their rounds, both patients reported that they were doing fine, with a 'thumbs up' from each of them. My doctors finally came too, having had trouble finding out where I'd been 'parked'. They reported that surgery had gone well, that I'd had everything removed, including both sets of lymph nodes near the uterus, all the 'lumpy lymph nodes' up higher (the para-aortic lymph nodes - they can't take them all out but had gone through feeling each one and removing any with lumps) and also my 'fatty apron' simply because it had been in the way. A fatty apron? 

It was a relief to be moved to the gynaecology ward where I shared a room with a spunky old lady who was almost constantly cared for by one or the other of her family. After that, recovery was slow but steady and more-or-less on track with what was expected. The first time I stood up, two days after surgery, was a bit scary - my blood pressure dropped and I felt quite unwell. The next time was much better though, and before long I was one of the many patients doing very slow gentle walks up and down the hall. 

The first couple of days, I was on a 'clear liquids only' diet, which was a bit sad for someone who enjoys her food. Finally, on day three, I was permitted 'real food'. Porridge has never tasted so good, though I can't say the same for International Roast coffee. Lunch was a real disappointment though, as it was everything that I'm meant to avoid with my fructose issues (cream of onion soup and wheat-laden sandwiches). They helpfully exchanged it for a salad and icecream though left me with only a soup spoon! After that, things picked up.

We hired a comfortable 'lift chair' for the recovery

Finally, the body did all that it had to do (I'll spare you the details) to allow me to go home on Friday, just a few days after surgery. With great delight, I shuffled out and went back to my parents' home, where Mum has looked after me so very well ever since. 

There were still some little squalls to be endured in my metaphorical storm. It turns out that I'd picked up one of those hospital bugs that are resistant to most antibiotics (pseudonomas) and over the following few weeks, my wound got rather messy at times. The rest of me didn't feel so crash hot either, especially if I did anything even slightly energetic. The ladies up at the local medical centre have been fabulous in managing it (a doctor and a couple of nurses there). They've all commented on how positive I am and one of the nurses, also a Christian, and I have been quick to attribute that to the difference it makes being a Christian. And really, it does. I don't know how people do it relying on their own 'inner strength'. 

The waiting game still continued. Ten days after surgery, I received the much-anticipated phone call which I had anticipated would contain the results of the pathology ... except that it didn't. The doctor who called was most apologetic as she explained that the results still weren't in, and it would be another week. The following week she called again and explained that there had been cancer in the lymph nodes, muscle around the uterus and of course the uterus itself, but that all visible cancer had now been removed. Nevertheless, they would need to 'mop up' any remaining stray cancer cells with radiation and chemotherapy. She said, incorrectly, that it would be six cycles of three weeks of chemo, plus six weeks of radiation, but thankfully, it turns out that it is only six weeks of chemo once a week along with six weeks of radiation therapy five days a week. 

Which brings me to now - the lull in the storm. I have six tiny tattoos now (just spots) which are the markers they'll use to do the radiation therapy. Both it and the chemotherapy should start next week, November 5th, God willing. If everything goes smoothly, it should all be over by mid-December, though there will be three-monthly blood tests for a while to ensure that the cancer doesn't pop up anywhere else. Oh, I hope all goes smoothly!

The godly prayer request is that God be glorified in the journey, of course, but He also knows that I'd really like to avoid unpleasant complications. These include infections and hair loss (it's only a low dose of chemotherapy so it won't be quite so damaging as it could be), lymphodema in the legs (due to the removal of the lymph nodes - the risk is highest for the next two years apparently), a low blood count (due to the radiation also affecting the bone marrow) etc. Yet even if He chooses to allow more discomfort, like he did with Paul's 'thorn in the flesh' that wasn't removed despite his ardent requests, I hope most of all that God will be glorified somehow in it all. He was in Paul's case - God's strength was made perfect in Paul's weakness (2 Corinthians 12:9). But oh, it'd be VERY nice if He could be glorified in my situation with the minimum of fuss in terms of health issues!