Unexpected Turn of Events

Last Monday or Tuesday, I bragged on my Facebook page that I had managed to whisk my kids to SC and back to visit my dad without any problems; I was #kickingcancerlikeagirl and proud of it. On Wednesday, I was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia, and stayed there for two days. Now I'm tethered to an oxygen tank - which to my mind is just as claustrophobic as scubadiving but without the  fun of all the fishies and coral. 

I'd had a cold when I left for my dad's house, sure, and the cough got worse while I was there; I actually had floated the idea of a doctor visit to my regular nurse practioner before I left, but she suggested I try some cold medicine and said I was probably fine. Okay, I was just being a complainer, I told myself when I woke up for the day feeling ready for a nap. My dad suggested that it was probably due to the high pollen count. So we had our nice little vacay and returned to Denver on Monday and I went to work the next day...but when it literally took me almost half an hour to get out of the car to go inside after work on Tuesday evening, I knew I probably should check in at the oncology clinic. 

It was, of course, spring break for the kids, so although I suggested that I could navigate this appointment on my own, my husband insisted on accompanying me, and one of our dear friends kept the kids for what we assumed would be a few hours and wound up being the whole day. On the way up the stairs to the doctor, I got dizzy and suffered a terrible coughing fit. Nick guided me to a chair in the waiting room. A check of my vitals revealed that my O2 levels were at 86, which the nurse didn't like, so we tried it again - 92. This is the minimum level of acceptable saturation, and so she wrote that one down. We waited a little while and then I saw a new member of the team - a nurse practitioner named Lindsay, who listened to my actual complaints and looked concerned. She listened to my lungs. They sounded okay. She listened to my heart. My labs came back and everything was low, which was pretty normal for me - except for my CEA number (tumor marker), which had almost doubled in a month (but that's another story). She looked like she was going to suggest a cough medicine of some kind and then send me on my way...but my husband happend to tell Lindsay that my original oxygen level had been low when I arrived for my vitals. She perked up, suggested a walking O2 test. I agreed. Within about 100 yards, Lindsay turned me around and steered me back to the exam room - my O2 levels were only at 79%, and walking was causing me some chest pains. 'How about some oxygen?' she asked kindly. It was a mark of how poorly I felt that this suggestion didn't upset me at all - it sounded like a great idea. 

Soon, Lindsay had bundled me off to the ER so that I could get a CT scan to see my lungs. They did an x-ray pretty quickly, but then ran into trouble - first of all, the x-ray showed pneumonia, and secondly, I have a mild allergy to the contrast dye they use for CT scans, which meant a scan wasn't in my near future. Argh.

The pneumonia and low oxygen was enough for them to admit me to the 11th floor (oncology), or as I like to call it, the UCH Fun House. I was not prepared for this. I didn't even have my iPad mini with me! I hadn't packed a snack and left the house without sunglasses! The worst part is that a little niggling part of my brain had urged me to take these things along, because you just never know. But I didn't listen. Why didn't I listen? I mean, the good news is that I DID listen - to my body. I knew there was something definitely wrong with me, which was why I was at the clinic in the first place, even though the other RNP had basically not taken me seriously last week (I've blackballed her. This is the third time she's suggested that I'm neurotic and tend to overreact - one of those times, I had an ovarian cyst and the other time? TWO broken ribs. Boo.). So! Let this be a lesson unto you. Just like I said a few weeks ago: YOU are the expert on YOU. Especially if you spend a few minutes a day checking in with your body, you'll know darn well when something is amiss!

Someone asked me if it hurt, the pneumonia and the coughing. I just stared at them, not realizing this was a legitimate question. Had it hurt? Had coughing hurt? Not being able to breathe, had that hurt? I mean, I guess it hurt. But when you're almost two years into an advanced cancer diagnosis, it's all relative. It didn't hurt like the time I almost died from a blood clot and gained almost 40 pounds of water weight in 6 days. It didn't hurt like having to wear a wound-vac for 6 weeks hurt. It didn't hurt the way my face hurt when I was undergoing chemo last spring and basically couldn't touch my skin. So, yes. No. I don't know! Don't ask me these difficult questions! 

I was in the hospital for two days. Why? Well, they gave me IV antibiotics, but it also took that freaking long to get the damn CT scan. Don't even ASK me about that right now - I'm still so mad about the whole situation that I think I've single-handedly exacerbated the global warming crisis this month - but rest assured that the scan was finally completed in the dark of night, the results were read the next morning and the good news was that I did have pneumonia, that there weren't any new malignancies noted, and that the existing nodules in my lungs had only grown a little bit. In the meantime, I got to take advantage of some serious cancer perks: visits from friends and family, new pajamas and a robe that I might never take off if I don't have to, an hour to color in the most exsquisite and enlightened cat picture that you've ever seen. I also met some lovely people: Nick, known for his Christian modesty; Mariah, who made me laugh until I cried a little (and vice versa); and Bryan, who single-handedly talked me off the proverbial ledge with a well-timed "Jess, it's going to be okay" when the CT scan business was going south. And those were just the nurses! 

Of course, now it's the cold light of Easter Monday and I am basically impersonating the helium balloon guy you see at the zoo, toting around a giant tank of oxygen (which isn't helping the old broken ribs, I might add); meanwhile, the midterms that I promised to have finished grading last week are still not finished. (Turns out, it's hard to grade when you're taking oxycodeine.)  But here's the thing: it's a good life, my life, and I'm now pretty sure that I can have fun any damn place I please. Why wouldn't I, right?

So, get out there. Have some fun, wherever you are. You deserve it.  And soon, I'll let you in on the details of my new hospital initiatives: therapy ducks and mini-manicures! (Not to be enjoyed at the same time, of course. Far too many feathers.)