My Cancer in Bullet Points #7 (Aneurysm and Allergic Reaction)

* I bet y'all are in festive Thanksgiving mode. I hope each of you had a grateful day with family and friends. I'm sorry I have to bring you some eventful (and not in a good way) news.

* The contrasted CT scan on the 26th was a breeze. However, the after-effects were a nightmare.

* My brother Vince (yes, the one who watched me do a somersault down the stairs when I was eight) and his pup arrived from western North Carolina. Carl and I were happy to see them.

* I had been told to drink plenty of water after my scan to flush out the iodine which was infused into my body.

* It was a gorgeous fall day and we sat outside while I drank water like it was going out of style.

* Suddenly, I was seeing split images of Carl's and Vince's faces. I tried to tell them a story about my cousin, but instead of following my words, Carl asked me to raise my arms above my head and smile. They were convinced I was having a stroke or an allergic reaction to the contrast.

* My head pounded. The pressure was extreme. Yep, it was the worst headache of my life.

* Most allergic reactions from iodine don't wait two hours to attack, but 1 in 85,000 do. I'm one in 85,000.

* The next thing I knew, I was in the Emergency Room at Duke Medical Center.

* The triage nurses agreed with the unprofessional diagnosis of my husband--it was either a stroke or an allergic reaction.

* They wheeled me into the CT scan room and administered the CT scan without using any contrast.

* They discovered I had an aneurysm. (From the Mayo Clinic: An aneurysm is a bulge or ballooning in the wall of a blood vessel. An aneurysm can break open. This is called a rupture. A ruptured aneurysm causes bleeding inside the body. It often leads to death. Some aneurysms cause no symptoms. You might not know you have an aneurysm even if it is large.)

* Since there was no blood leakage, they ruled out stroke.

* I was wheeled into a room with the neurosurgeon and the attending physician.

* The aneurysm brought so much confusion. I kept my eyes closed nearly the whole time and my head down.

* They discussed the options with my husband, saying this might require immediate surgery.

* For some reason, it seemed this all boiled down to whether or not I had shortness of breath. At one point I must have told someone I had shortness of breath. I have no recollection.

* When the attending decided I did not have shortness of breath, I was given masses of intravenous drugs to counteract the allergic reaction.

* Finally, the head pounding subsided; I was able to open my eyes and look at the doctors.

* An additional scan was needed to determine the severity of the aneurysm.

* By this time it was 9 PM. We'd been there since 6 PM.

* The neurosurgen said I was next up for an MRI, and she would formulate a plan. She told Carl and my brother that emergency neurosurgery was most likely off the table, but she needed to see the scan results to be sure.

* I was told I couldn't have anything to eat or drink because I might have to go into surgery.

* The hours passed; Carl sent my brother home to our house. Carl and I waited four hours for my turn in line.

* At last, the MRI was done! The attending said we could go home, but not without a slight fight. One doctor said I had to stay overnight; another told me I could go home after the scan. Carl and I yearned for our bed!

* We were told the neurosurgeon's office would call Monday for a treatment plan for the aneurysm and that we could salvage what was left of Thanksgiving day.

* Turn back the clock to 3:39 PM . . . . . Prior to the allergic reaction and the aneruymsn, thirty minutes after we got home, my oncologist had called to say the CT (the CT that used contrast which I now know I am allergic to) results showed signs of metastatic cancer.

* I listened as she talked, talking notes on paper we use for our grocery lists. There were nine papers of scribbling.

* The oncologist said she'd schedule a PET scan and another biopsy in the next two weeks.

* I'd thought I wouldn't have any CT updates until Monday, so was surprised to hear so soon.

* After I was wheeled out of the ER and secured into our Jeep, Carl and I were home by 3:15 AM. We got three hours of sleep, and had that beautiful turkey ready for the Thanksgiving table that afternoon.

* What a treat to be with family! What a gift to be alive!

* My neck muscles and upper chest muscles are sore. My neck feels like someone is squeezing it. Yet, I feel an improvement from when I first got home two days ago.

* Lesson made very clear----We are all just one breath away from death.

* I ask God to let me clean out my bedroom closet first. No one should have to suffer through it, but me. After all, it's my mess.

***Before posting this, I've asked Carl to make sure everything I've written is clear and correct. Sadly, there are approximately 7 hours of my life where I remember nothing.*** P.S. If this has any misspellings, I'm sure you'll give me a break.***

My Cancer in Bullet Points #6

* Yesterday I didn't go to the sanctuary I usually attend for Sunday worship.

* I spent the beautiful, cloudless morning at the sanctuary of Daniel's Place, i.e., the cemetery here in Durham, NC.

* Daniel's Place is a calm space to walk, think, contemplate, pray, sing, and write.

* Before leaving the house, Carl provided me with a roll of toilet paper in case I had to make my way into the woods. He knew I'd had two mugs of coffee.

* The grassy lawns of the cemetery are serene, breezy, and filled with stories. Seated on Daniel's terrier blanket, I saw a yellow butterfly (yes, in November!).

* This was my first visit since being diagnosed with breast cancer.

* I had a little chat at the smallest grave marker of Our Darling Boy. "So, looks like I have cancer and you had cancer," I said. "What a thing to have in common!" I brushed a leaf away from where it landed on his name. "Only God knew that your life and death would be instrumental in helping to prepare me for what God has for me now."

* No mother can sit by her son's grave without shedding a few tears after that.

* "I miss you; I love you," I said.

* I did all the talking. Daniel remained quiet; he always does.

* He's joyfully experiencing all the wonder, majesty, and magnitude of Heaven. He told me when he was on Earth, "There are no tears in Heaven."

* I wiped my eyes, and then got moving.

* As I made my way around the loop that circles the cemetery, I thought: This could be the last time I walk here with all of me --- if you know what I mean.

* I'm coming to terms with the reality that I could be having bilateral breast surgery very soon.

I walked 2.8 miles in 36 minutes.

* I still got it! (I used to walk 4 miles a day, but lately I have been slack.)

* There is always traffic from Interstate 40 on the other side of the cemetery. A low din of noise.

* The traffic beckons me, reminding me that there is still life to be lived. You can't stay in the quiet and serene forever.

* Just like that infamous line in Robert Frost's poem, the one I had to memorize in fourth grade --- "I have miles to go before I sleep."

* Ignoring the traffic and the need to get back to my other life, I meandered among the graves and found Solomon's tomb; it's just a few rows up from Daniel's.

* In my memoir, Life at Daniel's Place, I've written about how the scripture verse from 2 Timothy on this stranger's marker ministered to me about life (be it short or long in years) and faith. "I have finished my course, I have kept the faith." I like the way it is tweaked to say "my."

* I want to keep running (or in my case, walking because I am not coordinated enough to run) the race until Jesus tells me it's over and I get to go to my eternal home.

* "It is a glorious day," I spoke into my phone where I often record my thoughts and ideas in Google Docs.

* My phone, which doesn't always understand my English, transcribed my words as "glorious dead."

* This shows me that my phone has a sense of humor.

* And for those curious minds, I made it home in time so the toilet paper was not necessary.

* Thank you to all who are keeping me in prayer for Wednesday's CT Scan at Duke.

* I'm sure I won't find out the results until after Thanksgiving, so this will be my last post until then.

* Happy Thanksgiving to each of you!

My Cancer in Bullet Points #5

*The bones in my body are old, but they are clear of cancer!

*I just got the report from Duke concerning yesterday's Full Body Bone Scan. Part of it reads: There are no suspicious foci of increased radiotracer activity to suggest osseous metastatic disease.

* Grateful!

* I knew I had cancer before the mammogram and ultrasound of 10/24. I knew the left armpit housed a rather large lymph node. All my symptons were quite evident.

* But I had no clue if the cancer had matasticized to my bones. When the oncologist wanted to make sure before making a treatment plan, well, we had to make sure.

* For those who are 55 or under, old people's bones and joints creak, groan, and are worn. We've done a lot of living. Fact of life. And, perhaps, one of the trademarks or badges of growing older is a creak, or twinge, or ache, or something from an old injury that lets you know when it's going to rain.

* So I must confess I did think one of the aches could show up as a cancer-ridden rib. I was preparing for that news today.

* "Whatever God has for me, let me receive it." That's been my prayer. It was my prayer this morning before the results came in.

* This acceptance of "whatever" has brought me Philippians 4:7 peace---that God-gifted peace that passes all understanding.

* Next up is the CT Scan on November 26th for the chest, abdomen, and pelvis.

* Then, onto a treatment plan which should start with surgery next month.

* Thanks for reading! And just so you know, I read every one of your comments here.

* Sometimes I am in awe at how compassionate, concerned, and prayerful y'all have been.

* Always I am humbled.

Can You Tell That Harley Is Relieved to Know My Body Scan Results?

My Cancer in Bullet Points #4

Today is Bone Scan Day.

* Bone Scan Day should be captitalized because it is an event, like Independence Day and Thanksgiving, although generally not celebrated.

* I have never had a bone scan before.

* I read they inject you with some stuff; and then scan to take a peek into the skeletal components of your being. All that you hide with skin, muscles, and clothes is exposed while proffesional strangers montitor the scanner.

* But I am not a medical expert, so let me give you a defintion from a source that knows more than I do.

* The Cleveland Clinic defines a bone scan like this: A whole-body bone scan is a nuclear medicine test to check your bones for issues or changes. You receive an injection of a substance called a radiotracer. The radiotracer collects in areas of irregular activity and highlights these areas on an imaging scan. It’s painless and safe for most people.

* Daniel had a bone scan. He was three, newly diagnosed with neuroblastoma.

* While on the table, he created a song.

* The song went like this: "Heaven, Heaven, Heaven is a good place to stay."

* I am sure I will not be that uninhibited to sing amoung professional strangers today.

* Unless, they inject something that rhymes with gum into my veins.

* Otherwise, I will be still and follow the instructions.

* I wonder what my bones, which I like to keep hidden, look like?

* I have never broken a bone, so I am not well-versed in scans or x-rays.

* Nearly six decades ago, during the summer when men walked on the moon, I almost broke a bone.

* If you have a few minutes between thinking about the sides you plan to make for your Thanksgiving meal, please read the tale below.

* I call it The Thirty-Two Dollar Somersault.

~*~*~

The Thirty-Two Dollar Somersault

If you've never broken a bone, there are times when you know you came close. A slip, a fall, a wrong move, many of us have had near-bone-breaking experiences. The first one I had was the summer they put a man on the moon, 1969. I was eight; my brother Vince was five, and we were bored.

Now there was a wide yard at my grandparents' split-level home in Sandston, Virginia where we spent that summer. The yard even had a swingset. There were croquet mallets, balls, wickets, and the whole outdoors. This was back in the day when children were permitted to play outside without supervision.

But instead of heading outside, Vince and I were indoors. Grandma Patsie might have been in the kitchen, adding lima beans to her vegetable soup. My parents and Granddad were in the den, talking about things kids don't understand.

"I can do a somersault down the stairs," I said to Vince as we sat at the top of a set of stairs that led to the living room. I can guarantee I used a prideful tone. I was, and still am, three years older and older sisters are notorious for boasting.

My brother's eyes dared me.

"Yeah, I can do it. I bet you can't." I was not a scaredy cat.

Vince made no attempt to roll down the upstairs landing into the living room.

So it had to be me. Like an Olympian gymnnist, my turn was up. My boast was about to be cemented in reality.

I got into position. Crouched down. (When I googled somersault just now; something no human was capable of doing back in the pre-Doom-Scroll era of 1969, here is the definition that was presented: "An acrobatic stunt in which the body rolls forward or backward in a complete revolution with the knees bent and the feet coming over the head.")

And even though I had never read that definition, that is exactly what I did down the six or eight carpeted stairs at my grandparents' house.

I don't know if I screamed when I landed or cried; most likely both. The adults came running.

I don't recall anything about the car ride to the doctor's, but I do remember this: My wrist was not broken. The bone had popped out from where it belongs. The doctor adjusted the dislocated bone back into place. One or two moves and I was cured.

The doctor smiled, obviously pleased with his work. Then he charged my dad $32.00.

I saw my future-self seated at a desk while patients stood in line so I could tug at their wrists and put them back into place. For thirty-two dollars a pop, I could be rich.

But I didn't take the route of medicine. I avoided anyone in a white coat. I didn't take the route of gymnastics either.

Even though the humilitation of that summer day is embedded in the recesses of my mind, I try to overcome it by thinking, "Well, at least I didn't break a bone."

And up until now, I haven't. Yet.

~*~*~*~

If you have read this far, thank you! I appreciate your support and prayers for Bone Scan Day. I will post again when the results become available. The main question is: Has my breast cancer metastized to the bones or will all be clear and clean?

Verse of the Day (that came into my in-box just now)

1 Thessalonians 5:18

. . . give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus.