Lymphedema and Me

I'm not big on self-pity. Never have been. I've always figured you just have to take what you're dealt with and make the best of it. Hopefully this blog has reflected that attitude.

Well, I'm having a hard time keeping that 'tude while blogging about my latest cancer adventure. And yet it wouldn't be complete without it. I actually wrote a blog entry several weeks ago, but it was too depressing, so I didn't post it. But while I'm sitting here in my LAST CHEMO SESSION!!! (Hoo-Ray!!!) I figured it's time to get to work on it. And meanwhile things have gone from icky to double-ick. So keeping up a positive attitude has gotten even harder.

Without further explanation, let the pity-party begin. Here's the deal: I've officially had a new diagnosis to add to my lovely medical regimen. It's called Lymphedema, and is fairly common after lymph nodes have been removed. Basically when the lymphatic system gets messed up, the lymphatic fluid in your body tries to find new pathways, and it ends up like a big traffic jam in your arms or legs and they swell up, like this:

Fortunately I don't look like that lady. My arm is only a couple centimeters bigger than it used to be. What's truly depressing is that I was told my good news is that the sooner it is discovered the better, so treatment can begin immediately. And I literally found it on the first day and called to make an appointment with a specialist. Well, the regimen is mind-blogging. I wear an ugly brown compression sleeve that goes from wrist to elbow, along with a "gauntlet" of the same color on my hand. Plus there is weekly "drainage" sessions with a therapist, and twice daily self-drainage sessions that I do on my own for about 20 minutes each. Plus deep breathing exercises and "pumping" my hand while holding it in the air several times a day. But despite all that the condition has gotten worse. It's moved into my torso, so now I also get to wear a lovely compression camisole, and all other treatment times have been upped. And even worse news is that the radiation I'll be starting next month focuses right on the damaged area, and is known to either trigger or worsen lymphedema.

When I first got the diagnosis I looked up the word and got this depressing little tidbit:

Lymphedema is a notoriously debilitating progressive condition with no known cure. The unfortunate patient faces a lifelong struggle of medical, and sometimes surgical, treatment fraught with potentially lethal complications.

I was sighing in an earlier post about my tattoos (there are six, the most noticeable of which is a nice blue dot right in the middle of my chest, by the way.) But this is where the real sigh comes from, if you'll allow me. Sigh. Sigh. Great Big Heavy Sigh.

There's only one upside I can find to this thing, and that is it beats being dead.

But I guess that's a pretty big upside.

A Visit With Ethan

I know everybody thinks their grandkids are great. Super great even. So it's kind of cliche to say it. But my little nine-month-old grandson Ethan has made "loveable" into an art form.

Here's what a visit from the little guy is like: his dad carries the car seat in and pulls him out of the convoluted contraption. He looks around the house, obviously expecting the rush of greeters that are always there for him. He puts out his arms to the first one (usually me), gives a hug, rests his head on your shoulder (in which your heart promptly melts), then pops the head up and looks for the next greeter. Once he's greeted everyone in the circle, he's ready to get down and explore the house from one end to the other.

I dropped by his house yesterday, and he was in his high chair being fed his goo that passes as food by his loving Mama. He began to fuss when I came in the room, and Mom asked if he was done. I stooped over to give him loves, and he hugged me as best he could, let me kiss his cheek, then turned his attention back to his food. I was ready to leave about the time he finished up and his mom pulled him out of the high chair. He began to fuss again, and again his mom asked what was wrong. I stepped close again to say goodbye, and he reached out for me. I took him into my arms, accepted his sweet little hug, kissed his little cheek, let him play with my keys, and after a few minutes he was ready to go back to his mom, as happy as can be.

How can you not fall seriously in love with that?

(Did I mention that we've determined he says 'Grandpa'? Really, Grandpa! And 'doggie' and 'hi'. And 'Da Da Da'. Mom is still anxiously waiting for a 'Ma Ma Ma'. And I wouldn't mind a 'Grandma', but 'Grandpa' at nine months is pretty darn impressive in my book.

Update: Ethan's Mom would like me to clarify that when I say "we've determined" I'm talking about my silly grandmotherly friends and I. She is NOT convinced he's saying DaDa, in any meaningful form, let alone Grandpa. But whatevs. We all know who has more experience with this kind of thing.

True Story

Last night Brandon went on a special field trip with his cub scout group. They had the opportunity of visiting the sheriff's station to learn about the emergency communication system. He called on his way home, about 9:00, to say that they'd had a little "unexpected" delay, but they would be home soon. Kind of late for a fifth-grader on a school night, but I've done outings like this and wasn't surprised there was a delay. I just told him I loved him and looked forward to seeing him.

Well, he busted through the front door over the top with excitement. The story that came out of his little excited mouth was pretty convoluted, and took a while to sort out, but here's the sorted version: their leader had just pulled off the freeway and was at a stoplight within view of the sheriff's station, when they were rear-ended. They didn't have to call 9-1-1 because three emergency vehicles saw the accident and immediately put on their lights and headed to them.

Once they determined that the six scouts and their leader were uninjured, they ushered them off to the sheriff's station. On the way there the boy's decided the two people in the other car looked awfully suspicious, and speculated at how cool it would be if the other car turned out to be criminals, ex-cons, drug dealers maybe, each boy topping the other. Ha! Ha! Yeah, wouldn't that be too funny?

Well, their tour guide had planned to play them some actual 9-1-1 calls, but instead let them listen to the radio of what was happening outside. And as it turns out, the car was stolen, and the driver bolted. Canines were called into the search. There was apparently a gun, but Brandon wasn't sure if it was in the car, on the running man, on somewhere in between. There were drugs in the car, however. And another passenger, who didn't run. He was hand-cuffed, but as of Brandon's report last night the driver hadn't been caught.

So how cool of a field trip is that? Of course the down side was that Brandon had a heck of a time getting to sleep. He was keyed up to begin with, then started to get nervous picturing the guy on the run with a gun. We assured him he would be caught quickly and had no interest in the little scouts in the car. And he knew that on a logical level, but still had a hard time getting it out of his mind.

I called this a true story, despite the fact that it didn't show up in the news this morning (and how could they miss a story of a group of cub scouts being rear-ended by drug dealers right in front of the sheriff's station?) If he made it up I'll let you know - right after I see about getting him nominated for an Emmy of some kind.

Round Five...at last.

Reporting from the lovely chemo room and pleased to report that icky stomach thing is behind me and I'm back on track. Have Pandora playing in my earphones, poison dripping in my veins, (swimming, swimming, find those last tough cancer cells please!) and plenty of blog entries to catch up on! Stay tuned....