Back on my feet after a couple of days sleeping off the after-effects of anaesthesia, I'm still processing the post-surgical news. Or lack thereof.
The Dutchman and the BFF pow-wowed while I was resurfacing in recovery on Thursday. I seem to be a tough nut to crack in more than the obvious ways. Remember the third biopsy? The one they did 'cause they were looking for invasive cancer, but which didn't provide the evidence that turned out to be there, once I was on the table? Well, it turns out my node sample proved just as inconclusive. I seem to have a knack for the equivocal.
The Dutchman plays by the book -- yet again, my kinda guy -- so, when the pathologist reported that the sample was uncertain on first examination, he opted not to remove the nodes. Don't take 'em if you can't be sure, he figured. So, I left OR without a definitive verdict -- clean or cancer -- on the lymph nodes. Which means it'll be the 18th before I'll know for sure what they found. Or didn't.
And if there's cancer in the nodes -- you guessed it -- I'll be back for round three with The Dutchman. So, twelve more days before I know whether the Gold Floor is behind me. Hope for the best; brace for the worst.
I'll practice saying "shit", just in case.
Showing posts with label lymph node. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lymph node. Show all posts
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Three Close Shaves in 24 Hours
Checking in at Princess Margaret's Short Stay Unit is not like the Fairmont Gold experience. Bypass the rabble in the lobby, and head straight for the penthouse. Whip out your membership card, and the concierge confirms your reservation. Luxuriate in the well-appointed club lounge until your private room becomes available. If it wasn't for the lack of honour bar and the abundance of linoleum, you wouldn't know the difference!
This morning's check-in time was a very civilized 10:00. Unheralded for the BFF, we arrived early -- likely an indication of how keen I was to get on with it. Or how little shampoo I require after my pre-surgery haircut saw me leave the salon, last night, looking like a baby seal. Between that and the freshly shaved 'pits, I feel virtually bald from the waist up!
Right on time, the BFF and I were escorted across the bridge to Mount Sinai and the nuclear medicine department. Yes, nuclear medicine as in those yellow tricorn signs reminiscent of The Simpson's. Homer's younger, smarter sister ushered me into the business end of the facility, where I came face to face with a scanner that looked way too much like an MRI for my liking. But, on closer investigation, it featured a shorter tube and an open side, and turned out not to be in any way scary.
My notes from Booby School reminded me that the injection of the tracer for the sentinel node scan would sting, but I lucked out, bigtime. It turns out that the upside of having lost sensation in my right breast is that I didn't even feel the two(! -- I swear they never talked about two!) injections next to my nipple. Thirty minutes on the scanning bed -- no, not the tanning bed; I'm still as pale as ever -- and the tracer had done its work and highlighted my sentinel node as a pale white dot on the green computer screen. With an X to mark the spot, we headed back to the PMH penthouse to await my date with The Dutchman.
On returning to the Gold Lounge, we were escorted to the Presidential Suite -- er, Room 206 -- a private room featuring a lake view, an ensuite, a wet bar and a handy call button for my butler. No room service menu was in evidence, however, and I still haven't found the spa; I must remember to complete a comment card when I'm next in the building.
Again on time, my ride appeared to take me to surgery, pimped out with toasty warm blankets and institutional green linens. It was oddly relaxing to discover that the same Grim Sleeper was on duty, though the rest of my surgical entourage -- or are they The Dutchman's? -- were all new to me. It wouldn't be my surgery without a little Sharpie action, so when the man himself showed up, it was time for the big reveal.
This morning's check-in time was a very civilized 10:00. Unheralded for the BFF, we arrived early -- likely an indication of how keen I was to get on with it. Or how little shampoo I require after my pre-surgery haircut saw me leave the salon, last night, looking like a baby seal. Between that and the freshly shaved 'pits, I feel virtually bald from the waist up!
Right on time, the BFF and I were escorted across the bridge to Mount Sinai and the nuclear medicine department. Yes, nuclear medicine as in those yellow tricorn signs reminiscent of The Simpson's. Homer's younger, smarter sister ushered me into the business end of the facility, where I came face to face with a scanner that looked way too much like an MRI for my liking. But, on closer investigation, it featured a shorter tube and an open side, and turned out not to be in any way scary.
My notes from Booby School reminded me that the injection of the tracer for the sentinel node scan would sting, but I lucked out, bigtime. It turns out that the upside of having lost sensation in my right breast is that I didn't even feel the two(! -- I swear they never talked about two!) injections next to my nipple. Thirty minutes on the scanning bed -- no, not the tanning bed; I'm still as pale as ever -- and the tracer had done its work and highlighted my sentinel node as a pale white dot on the green computer screen. With an X to mark the spot, we headed back to the PMH penthouse to await my date with The Dutchman.
On returning to the Gold Lounge, we were escorted to the Presidential Suite -- er, Room 206 -- a private room featuring a lake view, an ensuite, a wet bar and a handy call button for my butler. No room service menu was in evidence, however, and I still haven't found the spa; I must remember to complete a comment card when I'm next in the building.
Again on time, my ride appeared to take me to surgery, pimped out with toasty warm blankets and institutional green linens. It was oddly relaxing to discover that the same Grim Sleeper was on duty, though the rest of my surgical entourage -- or are they The Dutchman's? -- were all new to me. It wouldn't be my surgery without a little Sharpie action, so when the man himself showed up, it was time for the big reveal.
The rest of the afternoon ticked away without my knowledge; two hours later, I was back in recovery, but this time with no mambo heartbeat. It wasn't long before I headed back upstairs to reunite with the BFF... without a drain, and with all but a thin slice of my lymph nodes intact.
A little apple juice, a few laps around the Gold Floor and some time in the ensuite, and it's off home. Just another day in Cancerland.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Ups and Downs on the Cancer Coaster
The Dutchman’s assistant called, yesterday, with a fist full of information. First – and most fabulous – a surgery date: January 26. Sooner than I’d expected, which is dynamite. And more than two weeks in advance of my planned Olympic departure, which is even better.
Second – and far less exciting – an order for another biopsy. ANOTHER biopsy. A THIRD fucking biopsy. Four months in on Monday, and they're still sticking pins in my breast-shaped voodoo doll. If the strategy is to perform a lumpectomy five cores at a time, they’re on the right track. I thought we’d done all of that we needed to, but this go-round they’re apparently looking for evidence of invasive cancer (i.e. something other than DCIS). If it’s found, my surgery will be adjusted to include a sentinel lymph node biopsy (http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/factsheet/therapy/sentinel-node-biopsy), in order to determine whether the cancer has spread. My third date with The Dutchman is set for January 7; no dinner and a movie, just biopsy results and a confirmed plan for surgery.
So, back on the table, but this time at Princess Margaret Hospital. I’ve now sampled the biopsy suites at three facilities: PMH wins, hands down. They were able to squeeze me in (pardon the mammographic pun) today, rather than make me wait ‘til the new year. I hated that idea, yesterday, but now, on the other side of the procedure and a lousy night’s sleep, I’m glad it’s over.
Third – and most annoying – I’ll be scheduled for a do-over on the dreaded MRI. But, this time, I’ll go armed with a sedative. Crap, I hope it’s a strong one.
Second – and far less exciting – an order for another biopsy. ANOTHER biopsy. A THIRD fucking biopsy. Four months in on Monday, and they're still sticking pins in my breast-shaped voodoo doll. If the strategy is to perform a lumpectomy five cores at a time, they’re on the right track. I thought we’d done all of that we needed to, but this go-round they’re apparently looking for evidence of invasive cancer (i.e. something other than DCIS). If it’s found, my surgery will be adjusted to include a sentinel lymph node biopsy (http://www.cancer.gov/cancertopics/factsheet/therapy/sentinel-node-biopsy), in order to determine whether the cancer has spread. My third date with The Dutchman is set for January 7; no dinner and a movie, just biopsy results and a confirmed plan for surgery.
So, back on the table, but this time at Princess Margaret Hospital. I’ve now sampled the biopsy suites at three facilities: PMH wins, hands down. They were able to squeeze me in (pardon the mammographic pun) today, rather than make me wait ‘til the new year. I hated that idea, yesterday, but now, on the other side of the procedure and a lousy night’s sleep, I’m glad it’s over.
Third – and most annoying – I’ll be scheduled for a do-over on the dreaded MRI. But, this time, I’ll go armed with a sedative. Crap, I hope it’s a strong one.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
