Two Years Ago Today (September 18, 2010)

Two years ago today, the cat was out of the bag. Cancer. I had it. And now it was time to figure out all the details. The first order of business was to see if I could relieve some of this backed up fluid in my gut. If we proceeded with surgery right away, the chances of my getting an infection after surgery were very high. Dr. Ramos told me that he wanted to see if Dr. Sial could place a stent next to my tumor so that the fluid in my belly could go through the stent, past the tumor, and down to the rest of my colon and out…well, you know where. Before I knew it, I was being wheeled down the hallways of Good Samaritan Hospital again, this time being led to a different procedure room. I was given fentanyl and versed again, but it didn’t knock me out nearly as much as it had the day before. Essentially, the procedure would work like this: Dr. Sial would try to snake a stent – a tube-like device – up my you know what and until it could be placed directly next to the tumor. I was awake the entire time, calmly listening to Dr. Sial communicate to his helpers, and thinking positive stent thoughts. But that all stopped when I felt pressure…the undeniable pressure of having to poop. But how could I possibly manage this situation when sweet Dr. Sial was directly downstream from me? I mean, his face was right there. But I really had to go. I decided that I should say something, awkward as it may be. It certainly wouldn’t be as awkward as the alternative. “Dr. Sial?” “Yes, Gloria.” “Um…well…I feel the urge to poop. I feel that pressure. You know? I have to poop.” “That’s okay.” Wait a second. That’s okay? What the hell did that mean? It’s okay that I feel the pressure or it’s okay that I have to poop or it’s okay that I actually poop?! I asked another question. “It’s okay? I can poop? It’s okay if I poop right now?” “Yes! It’s okay! Go ahead!” Two years later, I still have no idea about whether I pooped or not, but I released the pressure, nobody shrieked, I didn't hear the sound of poop spilling anywhere, and I felt a lot better. But the stent didn’t work. The tumor was too big. And now we knew that I wasn’t dealing with Stage I colon cancer. Dr. Ramos thought it could be Stage II or III, but he felt fairly sure it wasn’t Stage IV. Stage IV colon cancer? It couldn’t be. But we’d know tomorrow. Tomorrow, Dr. Ramos would operate. Two years ago today, my mom asked me a question. One of the most important, most meaningful, most pivotal questions of my life. She asked me, after all my friends and family left my hospital room for the night and I finally lowered my hip hop-bumping iPod speakers, what I would do if my cancer wasn’t Stage II or III. She asked what I would do if, in fact, I had Stage IV colon cancer. I didn’t hesitate in responding. “I’ll beat it.” Two years ago today, I looked my mom in the eye and told her the truth. Two years ago today, I uttered those words: “I’ll beat it.” Two years ago today, I said the words that would define the rest of my life. Tune in tomorrow for more. I'll be writing "Two Years Ago Today" until my cancer anniversary, a day that I was not expected to live to see, September 19th, 2012.

Two Years Ago Today (September 17, 2010)

Two years ago today, I couldn't have been more enthusiastic about getting a CT scan. It wasn't a normal thing to get excited about, but these weren't normal days. The only thing that stood between me and finally an answer on what had been plaguing me for the last weeks (and months, really) would be this scan. I knew that the results would tell the story. I knew that the results would solve the mystery. And I felt like the results would bring me much closer to getting out of the hospital and returning to my regularly-scheduled life.

After much of the morning had passed, the resident on call came to my hospital room. He was fairly surprised to hear that I hadn't gotten my scan yet, and he dutifully checked my chart to confirm that it had been ordered yesterday. I assumed that residents were fairly surprised about a lot of things and refused to be annoyed at the delay and my perception that only Dr. Ramos actually got stuff done efficiently. Even though he wasn't Ramos, I liked this young guy. He was smart, articulate, and confident that I was going to be alright.

"It seems fairly clear to me that you don't actually need this scan. I bet it's food poisoning compounded by an ileus. But hey, we'll make the other doctors feel better and get it done."

I loved his enthusiasm and I quickly adopted his "let's just do this to appease the others" approach. 

Soon, though, as I was resting in the CT scan machine cocoon, I let my mind consider the possibilities. What if this was a bowel perforation? What if it was worse?

The answer came quickly and just as sure as my next breath.

Nobody has a stronger will to live than you. Nobody will work harder to get well -- and survive -- more than you will. Just relax and take it as it comes.

I listened to that inner voice and resolved to never forget what I had just told myself. I knew that I would handle whatever challenge came my way. And in that moment, I felt abiding peace and overwhelming confidence in the fact that I would live, and that my life would continue to be incredible. It was a relief. Almost on cue, I released my held breath just as the automated CT scan woman's voice instructed. 

Dr. Ramos entered my hospital room only about an hour after I finished my scan. He was not smiling.

"Well, we have an answer. You have an intestinal blockage. We're going to need to do a sigmoidoscopy."

Did we know what was the culprit for this blockage? No. Could it have been food or some strange poop? Possibly. Could it be a tumor? Possibly. Could the tumor actually be cancer? Maybe. We wouldn't know until the sigmoidoscopy (a procedure almost identical to a colonoscopy), which was going to take place in a couple of hours. Things were finally moving fast. 

The sigmoidoscopy moved fast, too. After I was wheeled into the procedure room, the ever-so-sweet nurse reassured me that everything would be fine as she pushed the fentanyl and versed through my IV and into my bloodstream. She wasn't kidding. I knocked out immediately, feeling not entirely asleep but as relaxed and dreamlike in my perceptions as a human being could. I saw my colon on the big screen and marveled at it before closing my eyes again. And then, it was over. The doctor who had performed the procedure -- Dr. Sial -- was now holding my hand and saying something to me that I could not remember even as he said it. The nice tech who wheeled me back to my room took my hand earnestly and said "God bless you" before he left the room.

I raised my eyebrows as he left, realizing that "God bless you" meant something way, way more than just "God bless you."

I looked at my mom, dad, and Will. They were standing side by side, at the foot of my bed.

My mom, always my champion and an everlasting source of strength and support, was the one to speak.

"They found a tumor, and it's probably cancer."

I smiled. Immediately.

"Well, that just seals my political career. Who votes against a cancer survivor?! A real son of a bitch, that's who!"

We laughed. And for the first time, but certainly not the last, I laughed in the face of cancer. Surgery would soon follow, but I was ready.

Two years ago today, I found a wellspring of courage within myself that was just waiting to be tapped. Two years ago today, I knew that I had cancer but had no idea about the staging or the prognosis. Two years ago today, I was relieved that we finally had some answers and were working on a master plan. Two years ago today, I was calm, confident, and ready to triumph.

Two years ago today, I took a big, big step in my path of becoming WunderGlo.

Tune in tomorrow for more. I'll be writing "Two Years Ago Today" until my cancer anniversary, a day that I was not expected to live to see, September 19th, 2012. 

Two Years Ago Today (September 15, 2010)

Two years ago today, I thought I was close to getting out of the hospital. I thought my strange and painful medical episode was almost at an end and that doctor-free days were ahead and coming soon. I thought wrong. I was really getting a handle on these vomit sessions and my big belly was now only semi-big. I was feeling far less pain, flying up and down the hospital hallways, and even taking showers when I could coax my nurses into unhooking my IV. The results of my blood work looked good and my stool sample came back with white blood cells detected -- a sign of food poisoning or irritable bowel syndrome. Yup, I thought I was going home. But Dr. Ramos was far from convinced. "Before I let you go, I want to do one more x-ray," he told me as I tried to grimace at him. Ramos was my buddy at this point and I couldn't even pretend-grimace at him for long. Even though he wasn't a fellow patient and even though he only spent about an hour total with me on any given day, I felt that he was the only person who really and truly knew what I was going through. When he walked in the room, my eyes lit up. Ramos was nobody to me days earlier and he'd become a huge part of my world days later. We had a strong bond, and I trusted him completely. If he wanted another x-ray, I wanted another x-ray. Instead of heading to the x-ray room, it came to me. A couple of techs slid a firm board under my back, positioned the x-ray machine just over my belly, and pushed the buttons they needed to push. The results of the x-ray foreclosed my foray back into the real world. It revealed "free fluid" in my gut that might indicate an intestinal blockage or a bowel perforation. This was serious business, and another CT scan was ordered immediately. My first scan, taken just days ago, showed nothing, but it was becoming clearer and clearer that that scan hadn't told the whole story. Ramos was in surgery that night but I was assured by the nurses that someone would come soon to take me to my scan. I was getting a little antsy now, knowing that answers were likely just one more test away. Nobody came that night. I had never been a patient person. Not even close. But these were the times of trials by fire, and I was learning. Tune in tomorrow for more. I'll be writing "Two Years Ago Today" until my cancer anniversary, a day that I was not expected to live to see, September 19th, 2012.

Two Years Ago Today (September 14, 2010)

Two years ago today, I dove headlong into a world without food and painkillers, not knowing that I had a bowel obstruction caused by a massive tumor in my colon. All I knew back then was that my stomach felt like it was filled with toxic acid, I was itching like crazy from Dilaudid withdrawals, I couldn't get comfortable in my hospital bed, and that fire-hose vomit sessions every hour or so had become my new normal. Despite all the pain and discomfort, I had as much fun as I could. Especially with the vomit-fests. It's hard to describe well enough to give you a true sense of how out of control this vomit was, but I'm going to try. I would know immediately that it was time to get out of my hospital bed. Even linked up to an IV and sick as a dog, I was still pretty spry. I would hop out of my hospital bed, slide on some socks, and take the dozen or so steps to the bathroom. Instead of the shallow dish-like receptacle for vomit that one of my nurses had given me ("Honey, please. This is not going to work," I thought to myself when she handed it to me), I went for the big guns. My trash can. Not a heavy duty gigantic take-the-trash-out-the-trash-guy-is-coming-tomorrow-sized trash can but one that you'd see in an office setting. It seemed like it could hold a good amount of fluid. That would be essential. So I'd make my way to the bathroom, sit down, place the trash can in front of me, lean over, and simply open my mouth. No wretching, no heaving, no nothing. Once I was in position, my body did the rest. There was no stopping the vomit. And why would you want to? That greenish, then brownish fluid had no business staying in my body for so long. After about three or four fire-hose projectile vomiting mini-episodes, I'd be done for the moment. My mom would slowly let go of my hair, which she had lovingly held back for me, and would hand me a tissue. I'd wipe my mouth, throw water on my face, and pull up my hospital gown to see if the purging had helped de-bloat my gigantic belly. Every time, it had. Slowly but surely, I was looking less and less pregnant with a fluid baby. Maybe I could vomit my way out of the hospital, I thought to myself as I eased my body back on the hospital bed. When I passed Ramos in the hallway that night, I made him look at my belly. "Smaller, right? Aren't you happy?" I grinned at him jubilantly as I squeezed his shoulder. "Well, I'm happy that you're smiling and walking up and down the halls." I stopped squeezing his shoulder and smacked it instead. "Come on, man! Give me a little positive reinforcement here! Give me something, dude! This is progress, Ramos!!" Ramos kissed me on the forehead and sent me on my way. There were still no answers and there wouldn't be for a while. It didn't really matter that much to me at this point, though. I was starting to ease into this new version of reality. Whatever it was that I was facing, I'd do it with humor and toughness. No matter how long it took to weather the storm, I would weather it. And regardless of all the fluid in my belly, swishing and writhing and cramping and bloating, I would vomit it up or poop it out or get rid of it somehow. I got through those 24 hours without Heavenly D, I was forbidden from food but having a good time with my ice chips, and I was adapting quickly to life as a hospital patient -- making friends with my nurses, nodding knowingly at patients down the hall, and acclimating to the three or so channels that my outdated TV transmitted clearly. I was on my Blackberry, assuring my colleagues that I would be back in the office soon. I was on my iPhone, telling my friends that it was probably an ugly mix of food poisoning and ill-chosen meds. I was on my iPod, bumping Jay-Z and Lil' Wayne and making sure this hospital stay seemed more like a party than anything. It was pain-filled and vomit-laden, but it was still a party. A really messed up party, but a party. I was more than hopeful. I was confident. My body had given me a grand total of zero reasons to be confident, but I was. And thank God for that confidence, because I would need it. Tune in tomorrow for more. I'll be writing "Two Years Ago Today" until my cancer anniversary, a day that I was not expected to live to see, September 19th, 2012.

Two Years Ago Today (September 13, 2010)

Two years ago today, I spent my first full day at Good Samaritan Hospital and met my first doctors. The first wasn't that impressive, but the second was. Let's just focus on the positive and talk about my second doctor. Dr. Hector Ramos. He would be my first surgeon, but he didn't know it two years ago today. Two years ago today, Ramos was a stranger to me and I was just a strange case to him -- a seemingly healthy 28-year old with no sign of blockage but a backed up GI system and a belly full of fluid. "When I heard about you, I had to see for myself." This was one of the first things he told me as he warmly shook my hand. I proudly displayed my bulging belly to him, slowly gaining confidence in my mystery status. If I'm going to vex all my doctors and puke all over the place, at least I should have some kind of strange pride in my ability to endure it all. Ramos pushed and knocked around my belly, not noticing anything out of whack except for its size. He listened to my bowel sounds with a stethoscope to my gut. Or to put it more aptly, he listened to my lack of bowel sounds. After he was finished examining my belly, he looked me dead in the eye. "I want you off food and off Dilaudid for the next 24 hours. You're going to hate me, but it needs to be done. We'll get closer to some answers by tomorrow." My first doctor, the not impressive one, was beyond puzzled by my case but had started me on a diet of clear liquids and continued my doses of Dilaudid (Ramos told me that the sinfully delicious painkiller was called "Heavenly D" on the streets). Ramos knew that Heavenly D would only stall the function of my GI system even more, and that adding liquid to my already liquid-filled gut just didn't seem like a good idea. I gave Ramos one of those high fives that turns into a handshake and told him that I'd go off the food and the drugs without a problem. "I got this," I said, as I slapped him on the shoulder. Ramos was short, fiery, smart, and Latino. I felt a kinship with him immediately. Even during that first 20 minute exchange, I already felt like we were buddies, going at this mystery illness together. It made me feel safe. Even though he didn't have all the answers, I never doubted that Ramos would find them out. Two years ago today, I embarked on a physical challenge that promised to be excruciating. Two years ago today, I dove headlong into my doctor's orders, wanting more than anything to find a resolution. Two years ago today, I was unafraid. But I had no idea what was in store for me. Tune in tomorrow for more. I'll be writing "Two Years Ago Today" until my cancer anniversary, a day that I was not expected to live to see, September 19th, 2012.