BadAssJen

Experiences with rectal cancer.

Tag Archives: colorectal cancer

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The Scar

Ya wanna see my scar?

(Please, I’m not going to show you my scar on the internet for the whole world to see.  Or am I? After all, I tell you everything and you never seem to get queasy.  I guess we’ll just see how I’m feeling by the time I finish this blog post.)

Weirdly, I’m not that self-conscious about my scar.  I don’t think of it as ugly.  I think it’s kinda cool.  It’s a badge of courage.  It’s a piece of art made by a gifted surgeon.  It’s actually a miracle.

I’ve been seeing some really good things about body image lately.  Have you seen some of the same?  Like this lovely music video that moves me and helps me form a new definition of physical beauty.

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Or how about this TED talk during which a woman undresses on stage.  Now that has got to get your attention, right?  I love her.  I love some of her comments like, “It’s an absurdity that we get caught up in all of this.”  The “this” that she is objecting to is our excessive grooming and our obsession with our own physical appearance.  She speaks to women, and there is no doubt that this is a quite particular issue for women, but I don’t think anyone should obsess about their appearance. We certainly shouldn’t be spending our time feeling we don’t “measure up” physically because of things beyond our control.

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This does not mean that we shouldn’t strive to be as healthy as we can (or, unfortunately, as healthy as time and resources allow).  Check out this great video with dozens of very real looking women getting their healthy on.  I think that’s pretty much me running up that hill.

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But do it for your health, do it because it feels good, no matter what you look like!

I lost some weight during my cancer journey like everyone says you will.  I kinda looked forward to that little cancer perk, that little pearl in my cancer oyster.  There is definitely such a thing as a cancer pearl, like the bagels at the cafe in the Lemmen-Holton center and all of you.  I watched the weight come off week by week during radiation.  Then, in what I have to admit is a healthy turn of events, it all came back with a little interest, like everyone says it will.

So since New Year’s Day I’ve advanced on a lifestyle change.  It involves free weights, walking the track at school and less wine and chocolate.  The results, shall we say, are less dramatic than during radiation.  Sometimes I would swear that we don’t have any control over this at all, it’s all genes.  But I’m not giving up yet.  As John told me today, “Just keep exercising more and cheating less.”  It’s a process.  It might be a lengthy process.

In the meantime, however, I’m about done looking at myself in the mirror and feeling self-hatred.  (That funny little form in there has been through a lot and has hung in there with me pretty good.)  Even when I see this…

(alright I’m chickening out, mainly because it doesn’t photograph well – you’re welcome).

Only love, only love can leave such a mark - But only love, only love can heal such a scar, Magnificent, U2

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ThankCancerversarygiving

Hi!  I’ve missed you!

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So I see my last blog entry was early August.  Geez, yeah.  Well here’s what happened.  I’m teaching a sixteen week 300 level college course, and I have not ever done anything like that before.  And I invented this one, selecting every reading, designing every assignment, etc. etc.  I’ve really enjoyed it and I already hope to teach it again.  They say its easier the second time around.  Torturing (no, enlightening) college students has been excellent therapy.  But it has pretty much soaked up my free time like that paper towel that waitress in the 70s used to call the Quicker Picker Upper.

With a four day weekend and just two more classes to go before finals week, I’ve caught up enough to write something that’ll make it look like my blog is still active.

It’s getting to be that time when we reflect on the year – you”re doing it too, right?  This time last year, I had recently finished chemotherapy and was trying to recover my energy.  My hands and feet looked like this:

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and I was going without makeup since the drugs made my face red and sore.  I felt a bit rushed with my Christmas prep as I faced my second significant cancer surgery.  And I’d been wearing an ileostomy bag for nearly six months.

But I had the idea that once I got to the surgery, all the cancer crap was going to bow out gracefully.  I’d have a couple weeks off right at Christmas.  I’d get to sit in my jammies, gazing at my tree and sipping cocoa while the world went on without me for awhile.

Instead, as you know if you’ve read my blog, the ileostomy reversal actually led to the hardest part of the struggle.  I was miserable and scared for a good long while afterwards.  I really couldn’t enjoy Christmas much at all.  Those memories are very clear.

I can’t believe that was almost a year ago now.

And I’m feeling pretty great these days.  Take, for example, the fact that I can teach a college class, a three hour night class, which means that I put in a twelve hour day once a week.  And I don’t have any problem with that.

In fact, I’m hardly ever having any problems related to rectal cancer.  And here’s what I’m thinking about that:  Finally!  and Thank You!  Thank you, Universe, and thank you, all my supportive friends and family!  and Now Let’s Do Every Dang Fun Christmas Thing I Didn’t Get to Last Year!

I’ll be pretty busy for the next month finishing out my class, going to my work party instead of sitting home feeling sorry for myself, watching The Sound of Music without running back and forth to the bathroom and crying, baking something without running back and forth to the bathroom crying and swearing…  and, you get the idea, there’s a theme here.  I want to really enjoy the holidays this year.

You have my permission to do the same.  Act like you didn’t get to do it last year.  Or act like you might not get to do it next year.  I mean, none of us know how different things are going to be then.  Spend some time in your jammies drinking cocoa and gazing at your tree.

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When 2015 hits, I intend to still be gloating over the difference a year makes – and I also intend to get back to my blog.  I hope to see you then.

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My Emergency Repair Kit

I’m rather proud of my emergency repair kit because it’s quite practical and it gives me a sense of security when leaving the house.  Of course, I developed the kit through a process of trial.  There were at least two disasters in public places and that does tend to clarify your thoughts about the proper response.  Asking my neighbor if they could “spare a square” would not have sufficed.

Purse:bagI made one kit to carry in my awesome Downton Abbey bag that I take to work every day.  Inadvertently, I once left the kit in a friend’s car, so I made up a second one.  The container is just a toiletries travel case, and rather stylish, don’t you think?   Though the stuff inside it gets a little squished, the advantage of the smaller case is that it fits in my purse; so it gets carried along when the Granthams and their staff are not in attendance.

Twokits

Alright then, shall we take a look inside?

The purpose of my kit is to clean up a mess and then appropriately fit myself out afterwards.  So it contains a paper towel or two and some kind of wet wipe.  Remember that some wet wipes are appropriate to use on yourself, and some are not.  The latter could still be helpful: for cleaning things that are not yourself, such as your clothes or the floor.  Yes, friends, I have survived a few battles.

There should be a couple plastic bags.  The grocery bag works as my trash bag until I can safely exit the stall and the smaller bag is for items I wish to keep but must be entirely isolated for the time being.

And before the process concludes, a clean pair of underpants and a new pad (the latter, for more minor disasters) would be most welcome.  Like your spare tire, the underpants in your emergency repair kit do not need to be your premium set.  Their purpose is just to get you to the appropriate service station.

Openkit

And on the subject of pads: do you fully comprehend the variety available?  I mean, I knew the choices were so myriad that it was difficult for women to get the right package for themselves let alone the poor men we so often send after this necessity.  But I only knew the half of it.

Besides a wall of feminine hygiene products, there is a whole nother (as we so erroneously say) bevy of options for folks with other, well, leaks.  Besides Always and Summer’s Eve, there is Poise and Depend and several other euphemisms.  In fact, I think Euphemism would be a great name for a pad itself.

Or no – wait!  I just thought of an excellent name:  Good to Go.  See it works on a couple levels.

Anyway.

The point is, don’t feel limited by your pad options.  If you look in the other corner of the store as well, you are likely to find just the right length, width, thickness and wing extension specifications to suit your own particular situation.  (I’m not even including the third section of specialized products for the collection of bodily fluids – for babies.)

And I hope I am leaving you with some ideas, or perhaps just permission, for carrying some of these things around with you as you venture out into a world that pretends none of us have these problems (Pretends, another dang good name for a pad) when, in fact, based on the stock evident on the market, a considerable segment of humanity is looking for these solutions.  (Oh, Solutions, and that might be the best one yet.  I would totally buy a pack of ultra thin, long, Solutions with flexi-wings and a dri-lock core.)

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The Thrill of Victory (and that other thing)

So do you remember recently when I told you I wanted to go on a bike ride but chickened out?  Well last weekend, I accomplished the feat and it felt great!  I love riding my bike and I don’t believe I did it even once last summer.  John thinks I haven’t been on my bike since January of 2013 when we had an unseasonably warm day and he and I rode between Belmont and Rockford; the short, gentle ride with treats in the middle that we do.

BikeSelfie2

Last friday I started back into bicycling with that ride again. I could feel my muscles working in ways they hadn’t for awhile.  The weather was perfect, actually I think the right word is idyllic.  There were lots of folks on the trail.  I geared down and took my time.  Seeing familiar spots along the way after over a year brought back dozens of memories of accomplishments, welcome resting spots, encouragement from other runners when I was “running”.  And always the trail gives me a sense of freedom from the demands of normal life, a sense of escape from time.

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Just as we were approaching the bridge across the river into Rockford a small girl on a small bike came from out of sight on the left zipping directly perpendicular to the trail and ending up going ass over handlebars into a fortuitous bush to the right where she proceeded to indicate her displeasure at foghorn volume.   Her mother was fast behind saying, “You’re alright,” and “What did mommy say,” alternately.

I managed to stay on my bike except for the little period when I was consuming a brat and a lemon beer in the Corner Bar, thinking “Surely the guys in the royal blue playing football (yes, football folks – that is football) are from France but would the Germans be in white?” or when I was standing at the top of the dam watching a record number of turtles lounging below including a huge one who eventually slid back into the water, taking a medium sized turtle who had rather presumptuously barged up onto his back and one innocent bystander (turtle) with him.

But it wasn’t that long ago that I was literally crying about the direction things were going in my life.  Crying and swearing and throwing (soft) things.  There were weeks when I couldn’t leave the house, could hardly leave my own bathroom.  On one of those days I proclaimed to John that I’d reached the transition when fitness would decline and I would gain weight and health would decline and I would become dependent and his life would change forever too.  He scolded me but it felt like I was just naming the truth.

Also on one of those crappy days, I decided to take a walk, thinking that might change the internal environment for the better.  It was during the hard winter we just had and there was some considerable bundling up to do in preparation.  I made it out the door and past two houses before I had to hastily reverse my steps.

So it was sweet two days after this bike ride to make my victorious return to running.  Yeah I only circled my block twice but my mind definitely flashed on that icy day when I fell very short of the first corner of that block.

As Bono sings, it’s not a hill but a mountain as you start out the climb.

I’m still chickening out of things.  I’m also doing a lot of hand wringing and hemming and hawing and balking and hesitating as I ask the Clash’s question, “should I stay or should I go now” over things that I formerly would not have thought twice about.  Can I go on a bike ride?  Can I go to a play in the evening?  Can I go to a party across town?

Situations that are threatening to me: any time or place where there is poor access to bathrooms; so, outdoor events; travel; crowds which might cause me to have to wait for a bathroom or increase the number of witnesses to any embarrassment I should suffer; ironically then, small intimate occasions where I might find myself in trouble and in the company of people who don’t know or understand and would be more aware of me; being entirely alone and having to negotiate trouble; plans with friends when if I have to cancel, they would be adversely affected.

John and I thought it would be lovely to go and see some fireworks on the 4th.  This initiated an extended period of agonizing and waffling on my part, as well as drawn out and complicated strategizing by both John and I.  Where could we park that would allow us to escape the crowds quickly but not force us to walk very far?  And the problem is that everybody attending the fireworks, including a majority who are not worried about pooping their pants, are already looking for those spots and find them before you do.

Somehow it worked.  I took great pleasure in the flashy lights.  I even enjoyed watching the crowd.  I got a little misty during the finale.  And then I beat it the hell out of there before any damn old ladies or kids could get in my way.

I hope you had a wonderful holiday.  I really did.

 

Awkward selfie of John and I in Rockford on the 4th:DamSelfie2

Nice photo of John and I in Rockford taken by a kind stranger:NiceDam2

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Death and Taxes, Or – wait – no… Jury Duty, Enya and Cat Scans

Alright, having recently had both an MRI and a CAT scan, today’s post shall be a tutorial on these two tests; their similarities, differences and everything (I can think of) you need to know to arrive fashionably dressed and survive them intact.

I don’t remember which one I had first, but I do know that as information was being traded between myself and the person preparing me on the phone, I was asked, “Are you claustrophobic?”

What I really wanted to say at that point was, “Well that depends entirely on just what you’re going to do to me in there.”

So I tried to find a picture of the machine in advance.  But there’s a lot of variety on the internet.  Google images is like a spastic dog: you ask it for a stick and it brings you all kinds of sticks and also all kinds of balls and quite a few squirrels, newspapers and old shoes, and a can of Spam and the Eiffel Tower and a famous politician.

In other words, I couldn’t tell if this was going to be scary or not.  But as soon as I walked in the room, I was relieved (emotionally, although you do usually get one last chance to have a pee).

As it turns out, in my own opinion which I am very happy to share as you probably know by now, you’d have to be significantly claustrophobic to have a problem with either test.  And some people are.  We think of this as an irrational fear, which it sometimes is, but it can also be a post traumatic response.  For such folks, having an MRI is dang frightening.

The CAT or CT is the less claustrophobicy of the two machines.  It’s shaped like a giant inner tube and you lay face up on a bed that moves in and out through the hole in the center.  Very little of your body is going through the hole at any given time.  Also there’s lots of space between you and the machine on all sides.

CAT_scan

The MRI, on the other hand, is more like a giant barrel on its side with a tunnel going through it lengthwise.  Most or all of your body goes into the tunnel (again, you lay face up on a bed that moves in and out).  But the tunnel is open on both ends, the openings slope rather than being a hard edge and there’s a good six inches between your nose and the ceiling of the tunnel.  Since they were aiming at the middle of me, I could go in feet first and my head was just at the opening.  (See I was imagining this tight little cave with my head deep inside and against a solid wall…)

MRI

 

You have to lay very still and intermittently hold your breath in both machines, but the CT takes ten minutes tops and the MRI takes more like forty.  A voice tells you when to hold your breath.  Staff can talk to you while you’re in the machines and you can talk to them.  On the CT, there’s a little happy face that holds its breath when you do, which I guess is to emphasize the instruction rather than being for moral support.  There’s also a count down.  I, myself, find it very helpful to know how long I am expected to hold my breath.  It was taking too long for comfort on the MRI and I was a little afraid I was going to pass out from politeness.  Then finally one of the nice techs mentioned that it would never be longer than a count of twenty and I could perform that in my head and that was way better.

The MRI is loud.  It’s a bit like being near a construction sight, not loud enough to actually hurt your ears but definitely impossible to ignore.  Stuff is going on inside of it and you get clanking and knocking in various and sometimes quite funky rhythms.

So they give you headphones and take your music requests.  They came through for me with Enya.

Enya

I don’t know what you think of Enya, but you could never deny that she is relaxing.  I had to drive my niece from Ludington to Grand Rapids once when the child was about two.  Not being a mother myself, this was a unique experience and I imagined the worst (you know, screaming, getting the doors open on the interstate, all those things that mothers get to worry about more routinely).  So my mom and I double teamed her.  We played running games all morning and as soon as my car doors were closed with her inside, I turned on Enya.  My niece was asleep before I backed out of the drive and didn’t wake up until we got on the S curve.

I’m serious, people, try it.  Enya = sleep medication.

You get to hold a “panic button” during an MRI, in case you just can’t stand it for some reason, and they will back you out of there.  However (pronounced like Jim Carey would), if you stop the test, you have to start it all over again from the beginning.  So one way or another, you’re going to put in your time in the tube.

Thus, the one time that the MRI really did scare me, was since I’ve been going through Lars (see my other blog posts on this delightful condition) and I had to choose my words as carefully as possible to explain my concern that I might, you know, be pooping in there.  Ah, the male tech was unexpectedly so unconcerned and reassuring.  (Let’s, by the way, all treat each other just like that guy did right then because life is hard, you really don’t want to poop in the MRI machine and if you absolutely can’t help it – it’s so super to hear someone tell you we will just deal with it.)  I didn’t, by the way.

This is also why I’ve been scared of jury duty.  I don’t like being in situations where the forty minute test would have to be restarted, or you would be in contempt of court, if you had an uncontrollable urge.  So I postponed my jury duty for a year and just now I’m doing that thing where you have to call four nights in a row to see if you have to go in the next day.  So far I have escaped two opportunities and have two more to go.  Wouldn’t it be fun to tell a lawyer in front of all assembled that I have to be excused from jury duty because, well, because I have to be excused…

Anyway.  At this point in the story, you’re thinking the CAT scan is the nicer, easier test.  So there are just a couple other considerations I have to mention before I finish my tutorial.  For the CAT, you have to drink a good, healthy quantity of really crappy, icky, bad stuff called oral contrast.  It’s thick and milky and sour and totally yucko.  Even holding my nose, I struggle.  But (fortunately there’s a but) the last time I had contrast, there was a triple berry option.  Yeah, they tried flavor.  There was a picture of a nice basket of berries next to the usual diagram of the human digestive system on the label.  And folks, triple berry wasn’t bad.  This is significant medical advancement.

Contrast

And finally, during the CAT, they put something in your IV that gives you, shall we call it, a little goose. You can get a strange, metallic taste in your mouth but the most famous effect is a little ball of heat shooting around your veins.  It hits you in your extremities, including some very personal places.  It hits, peaks, and then disappears quickly so just as you’re thinking, “woo, stop that” it fades – kinda like a firework if it were in your blood vessels.

And there you have it, now you know.  Oh, fashion, we didn’t cover fashion.  They’ll tell you what to wear and not wear.  Be assured that you’ll get some time on the runway in those fabulous gowns that tie in the back and/or super sized scrub pants.

Update: No jury duty for Jen – yay!

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Lars: The Denouement

I cast about rather frantically in the days right after the surgery to discover just the right formula of food and drink that would cause Lars to cease.  Decisions about food seemed portentous.  Since nothing made it better, I was suspicious of everything.  Anything really good seemed strictly off limits – right through the Christmas holidays when such things are normally enjoyed.  I was focused intently on what I put in my mouth.  I kept a careful food/drink diary for three months.

They tell you to do a test.  Introduce new foods one at a time to see how you react to them.  I could not ever figure out how to do that.  Would you eat just carrots for seven days?  Then on the eighth day, eat carrots and that donut I love at Marg’s with half peanut butter and half chocolate frosting?  On the third week would you add a third item, or an alternative second item to go with the carrots?  I found it generally impossible to tell how or when food and drink were affecting me.

120px-13-08-31-wien-redaktionstreffen-EuT-by-Bi-frie-037                        Marg

It was difficult for me to give up the diary, but after three months I decided this:  no food or drink I consume has either an immediate or a consistently pronounced affect on me.  Medicine does.  Raw tomatoes, mac & cheese, an apple a day, garlic shrimp, etc. do not.

(Okay one exception:  If I indulge in an espresso drink in the afternoon which I do once or twice a week for a treat, then have a glass of wine or two in the evening, I am pretty ensured of setting in motion what I call a purge before the end of the day.  Its like hitting the gas and then jamming on the breaks; something in that vehicle is going to move.)

It was actually a considerable relief to be able to relax about food and drink.  I felt liberated.  I had wound myself up in a  ball of stress and self-guilt over that.  While I continue to give it an appropriate amount of attention, the diary is done and I now eat and drink anything I decide I want.

Completely independently of Lars, but because I do not want to get cancer again, I am eating more plants.  Beet and feta salad, grilled sweet peppers and zucchini, raw snap peas.  If you have a favorite or a suggestion, I’d love to hear it!

Somewhere along in there, the bouts of feeling like I couldn’t leave the bathroom turned into swings.

I wanted to return to work after three weeks.  The first Monday loomed and I think the right word to describe my feelings about that would be ‘terrified’.  The distance between my office and the bathroom at one of my work places is about a half a football field and takes me through multiple crowded public spaces.  I would rather have faced a group of charging linebackers.  (Linebackers do charge, don’t they?)

FootballField

But a rather nice thing happened the Sunday evening before my show down.  It began to blizzard.   I was watching the season opener of Downton Abbey and wondering if lots of money and a large estate and troop of servants could improve the situation of someone like me.  I mean, you would have your own bathroom for one thing, and a cook and you could force your lady’s maid to make excuses for you (“Regrettably Lady Jennifer cannot come down as she is reading Homer, or completing an embroidery piece.”)

School was cancelled for Monday.  That was potentially my favorite snow day ever.  Especially because it was followed by a second.  Then, despite the fact that Dave Ramsey would definitely write a disapproving column about my decision, I called it a week.

One more week of at least privacy in my suffering.  And then what happens, of course, when you defer a huge challenge, is that you face another scary Sunday night.   At least I had Downton Abbey to distract me again.

So after a full month of Lars, I set my alarm and took a shower and headed off to work.  It felt very weird and wrong to be in my office instead of in my jammies.  Lars was not resolved, but I brought a pack of supplies and this time, deliberately aimed for just half a day despite the fact that Dave Ramsey-in-my-head now had a red face and bulging eyes.

And it went okay.

I had to run down to mid-field two or three times but I was able to make it.  I probably spent half my time watching the clock but I met my goal for the day.  What I did not fully anticipate from this accomplishment, was the enormous burst of confidence it would give me.  I did it.  I did not spontaneously combust or humiliate myself.

I worked the rest of the week.  I haven’t missed a day since.  Imaginary Dave Ramsey has backed off.

Epilogue

I do have to say that first week was probably a combination of stress (which can have a rather helpful physical manifestation in this case) and beginner’s luck.  I had some pretty miserable work days in the following few weeks when I would try to force myself to wait an hour between bathroom visits and couldn’t.  I had to explain it to two bosses.  Sometimes I would rotate between different bathrooms so my issue would not become obvious.  I alternately carried a legal pad and writing utensil with me to give the impression of someone off to an important meeting.  Ironically and thankfully, I didn’t have a lot of meetings because I probably couldn’t have sat through them.

I kept hoping for my body to recover – but I will never “recover” in the sense of returning to my pre-operative normal.  Ultimately Immodium became my savior (my own personal linebacker and lady’s maid rolled in to one).  Generally now, I can have a normal day at work.  My body and I prefer to go home after but if I’m compelled by preference or obligation, I can successfully do other things.  In return, I give my body one full 24 hour period (usually Sunday) a week off from Immodium and being social.

I had a nightmare once in which I was chased by a bear.  I think I got myself up a tree, and tried other things to get away, but in the course of the dream, the bear kept getting smaller.  My Lars bear is still chasing me, and sometimes it still wins the fight – but sometimes now, I win the fight and I’m rarely scared of it anymore and it has gotten much much smaller.

Bear               Bear               Bear

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LARS Four

(Or Lars and the Goblet of Fire if you will indulge my tendency of borrowing famous sequel names) (I had to move beyond famous trilogies)

Alright, when we last left Jenny Potter, she was in the clutches of Lars with both jury duty and a return to work looming, while she tried in vain to discover the right magic to get her out of the situation…

HPBookCover

So, let’s talk, that feeling that you’re full of stuff but cannot go can be miserable, right?  Lars often feels like that because you can only go a little bit at a time.  The goblet of fire that worked for me after too much Immodium the night I got back from the hospital contained Milk of Magnesia.

I began to take some comfort from Milk of Magnesia from time to time.  (Hm, are you seeing the makings for a disturbing after school special?)  M of M sped things up and finished them off.  It left me empty so I could go awhile without going.  Unfortunately it is not a remedy for someone who wants to leave the house unless doing so is optional and absolutely on your own terms.  Also, Milk of Mag did not always work.  When it did, the timing was not in any way uniform or predictable.

Ultimately I had to seek a second deferral from jury duty.  I had already delayed once as the first request came just about the time I was having my first surgery.  I was told I couldn’t delay a second time without a note from my doctor.  I was now willing to go after a note.  But when I called the jury information line, she simply set the date back again saying I was allowed to delay a year, and we had only delayed six months the first time.  Whew.

In the meantime, I continued to press the surgeon and his staff for suggestions for relief.  Their strong recommendation was fiber: both the kind in your food (dietary) and the kind that supplements your diet (supplementary, see why they call it that?).

Let us now turn our attention to fiber.  And this is for everyone, not just folks with cancer or folks who don’t want to get cancer (well, actually, that’s probably everyone then).  You need to consume fiber.

We don’t eat well.  In fact, we eat a lot of stuff that is specifically and particularly toxic to human bodies.  Cancer is on the rise (the World Health Organization says cancer is going to increase 57% in the next twenty years) and lots of smart people think that has much to do with what we eat and drink.

When I was first diagnosed with cancer, we asked the doctor why I got it.  Three things came out of his mouth fairly easily.  I don’t remember the exact order.  1.  Smoking.  Well, I’ve never smoked.  2.  Western diet.  3.  It’s random.

So #3 indicates there’s still a lot we don’t know.

But there is a great deal of evidence for #2.  And #2 says, we all need to eat more plants.  We need to eat quite a lot more plants.  And we should eat less things that are not plants.

There’s actually lots and lots of good reasons to eat more plants and less things that are not plants; like our economy, the future of the planet, not exploiting people and animals – but I should probably save all that for a future blog article.

So, social justice in another post, celery and Metamucil for now.

A couple weeks (of suffering) after the surgery to reverse my ileostomy, the surgeon recommended a fiber supplement. They don’t want you to take it before that, maybe you need to heal a little.  Specifically, he recommended sugar free Metamucil powder because his patients were getting the best results with that.

I already had the Meijer version of Benefiber, so I started with that.  Benefiber was a cinch to take.  It dissolved without a trace. I put it in my soup and never noticed the difference.

But I continued to suffer.  Looking back, there probably was no cure for me except time and what I desperately sought was instant relief.  But I switched to Metamucil.  I continue to take a teaspoon and a half dissolved in water every morning.

Metamucil is a little more noticeable a swallow than Benefiber.  It would not “pair well” with soup, or other delicacies.  The powder grows into soft, mossy filaments in water.  So it feels a little slimy going down and I usually take it in gulps over the course of getting ready for work.  But it tastes fine, in fact, I’d have to say it tastes good.  I’ve liked the orange and the triple berry and I don’t know if there are other choices.  Using an expression from the medical community, I find it “very tolerable”.

And as for effectiveness:  I’m not sure I’m sure.  What it is supposed to do is help you literally get your shit together.  Or if you’re more polite, which I will strive to be: get your poop in a group.  It bulks you up.  (Yeah, I just heard that in Arnold Schwarzenegger’s voice).  (And yes, I had to look up the spelling of Schwarzenegger as my computer refused to offer any suggestions).

400px-Arnold_Schwarzenegger_in_Sydney,_2013

So why would any sane person wish to “bulk up” in that way?  Well, you may not have thought a lot about this before – or you may have thought quite a lot about it before – but here’s what you want from your poop: you want it to be soft and full and formed.  You want it to assert itself with confidence and consideration, to exit the premises easily and completely – all together in a nice group.

I’ve taken the fiber daily for months now and things have improved toward that goal.  I don’t know if that’s Metamucil or time.  I think its the two in cahoots.  I was doing the Metamucil twice a day and decided to abruptly cut back to once to see what the dif would be.  There was no noticeable dif.  I’m not sure what to make of that.  I’ve thought about further experiments but as I will confirm as I now switch the discussion to dietary fiber, experiments are tricky outside of the lab.

Oh goodness, I have gone on a bit this time and you know what that means – another post.  I’ll get to celery/diet next time and write a little more about Lars for anyone who is following the story.  So stay tuned to see if the Phoenix will rise from the ashes… or to see if I can continue to be able to stretch my Harry Potter or other multi-sequel pop culture references.

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The Return of Lars

Hey, that works as a title, doesn’t it?  Because I’m returning to my discussion of Lars after a short break and because it’s the third installment (like the third Star Wars movie was the Return of the Jedi).  Did you know they were originally going to call it the Revenge of the Jedi?  But Lucas decided revenge was a negative concept.  I’m not sure if revenge or return would work better for my story.

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So taking four teaspoons of Immodium the night I got home from the hospital did allow me to sleep.  Sleep is good.  But it did not otherwise work out well for me.

I did not move my bowels the whole next day.  That was Friday.  When the same was true on Saturday, I began to feel significantly uncomfortable and nervous.  There is such a thing as a blockage.  A blockage would be bad.  I would end up back in the hospital, perhaps having more surgery.

So finally on Sunday I called the doc.  Here’s your choices if you, or a loved one, or a family pet, has a physical problem on a Sunday.  You can hope that it is really all probably going to be just fine, or you can go to the emergency room.  If going to the emergency room seems a tad extreme, well then you can do the hope thing.

John and I were tempted to drive back to the hospital, and walk up to the unit where I had been a patient a few nights earlier to see if they might remember me and be willing to offer just a little more advice.  But in the end we chickened out on that idea and did the hope thing.

On Monday the doc’s nurse suggested a small hit of Milk of Magnesia.  Small.

Here’s a great tip:  if you’re trying to slow things down or speed things up in the ol’ GI tract by using an over the counter substance with a little plastic cup that has the portions measured out (I do much prefer the liquid myself) GO WITH ONE AND A HALF TEASPOONS.  Give it a nice long chance to work and if you’re really really sure it isn’t going to, take a little more (but LESS than the original 1 1/2 tsps).

I had 1 1/2 tsps of Milk of Mag on Monday.  Glorious relief ensued.  I think I felt pretty darn good for almost a day.

(About now you should be hearing the ominous Jaws music…)

And then Lars bared his teeth.

This is how Lars operated on me (which is common), and early on it was especially bad: It caused what I later learned was termed fragmentation and clustering.  An urge would go through my whole body.  It was impossible to ignore.  But once in the bathroom, only a tiny piece of stool could be coaxed out.  I’d give up and come out and fifteen minutes later, be running back to the bathroom.

This would go on for hours and hours and hours.  My skin would be raw and incredibly painful.  I couldn’t leave the house.  Heck, going down in the basement was risky.

And as long as I’m telling all in the hopes of reassuring someone else in this position; since resistance was futile, I was finding myself unable to get to the bathroom on time on a daily basis.  So when the doc told me “that’ll happen” after I explained that I had an accident my last night in the hospital, what she should have said was, “Yeah, honey, you may well discover that you’re going to be pooping your pants from time to time in the next few weeks.”

I wish she had.  I would not have liked that news.  I would have hated it.  But I would have known it was normal.  I would have had real hope that the condition was temporary.

As it was, as you may recall, all the surgeon said is that I might experience some ‘frequency’, that some patients complained of having to go five times in a single day.  I was going upwards of twenty-five times.  I was scared and miserable.

Days and weeks of this ensued.  It was getting time to return to work.  I couldn’t imagine returning to work.  I even had an upcoming date to report for jury duty.  I couldn’t imagine reporting for jury duty.

So what does a person do then?  Well, if you’ll stay with me a little longer, so I can get this story out the way I’d like, all will be revealed.  That means there’s going to be a fourth installment.  If I followed the Star Wars formula, I’d have to call that episode one, but I probably won’t do that.

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Well, We Don’t Officially Know Yet

But I sure feel like I unofficially do.  The doc did not see anything unusual this time (that is, for a doctor who looks in your colon with a camera).  He did take a biopsy from near the place where the cancer (or E) used to be.  We won’t know the results of the biopsy for a week.

In the meantime, I’m going to forget all about E until they call to tell me I’m still clear.  And then I’ll tell you.

I survived the torture.  I drank 7/8ths of the Gatorade soured by the crowded schools of Miralax fiber fish.  I did not puke (and, btw, I did not cry) and I did not make even one mess in my pants, though I did not sleep well.   Everything went great this morning and I was home by about the time I would normally arrive at work.  And then I did sleep well for an hour or two on the couch.

And now I am enjoying my reward – a bath, RedBook and HGTV mag, a nearly finished copy of The Book Thief, my yoga pants, the aforementioned couch, open windows and (oh yum) a chocolate milkshake.  The milkshake is for you, Yesterday Jen, because you were craving it and you deserve it.

Shake

The doc today encouraged me to eat lots of fiber.  I’m pretty sure he said, “starting tomorrow” but then I was still really feeling the Versed.  Thankfully John was along to help me figure out whether I was taking off, or putting on my socks at the end.

I promise to get back to my story about Lars very soon…

Thanks for hanging with me through this adventure.

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Will it Be Back?

What I have consumed today: tea, pineapple jello (I wanted to try something different and it’s not bad), apple juice, a grape popsicle, water, watermelon jello (ehh) and a cup of beef broth.

Jello

I could barely get the beef broth down even though you’d think I would be starving.  Maybe my stomach has its own memory.  It remembers why I drank canned broth the last time.

The last time it was for a fast before my colonoscopy.

And now it is time for another of those procedures.

The last time I had a colonoscopy, the doc told me he saw something he wanted to check.  I received a print out with several views of my colon, including the thinghewantedtocheck.  The latter was labeled E.  E looked gross.  Kinda like when the eyes on a potato grow out of control – if they were made from skin.

A couple days after that the doc left a message on my phone while I was at work at Davenport.  The message was, “I’d like you to call me.”

That doc had to know E was cancer as soon as he saw it.  He had to know all the time we were joking about how the Versed (the happy-juice that makes you forget what they just did to you) turned me into a parrot and how I was able to produce a nice, audible fart like they wanted me to.

Here’s a tip:  Make the jello the night before your fast.  There is such a thing as instant pudding, but I don’t think there is such a thing as instant jello.  Is there?  It takes four hours for jello to form and you don’t want to wait that long when you’re starving.

I had an MRI not long ago for the pancreas guy.  There were some little tiny spots in my pancreas which we would never have known were there if it hadn’t been for the rectal cancer.  Nobody thought the spots in my pancreas were cancer but I was pretty darn happy after this recent test when they called to tell me there was “no change”  in them.

So.  Nobody thinks the rectal cancer will be back.  After all, they’ve had a pretty good watch on that for over a year, using all the tools available to the medical field.  After all, it took five hours to remove E because they had so much trouble finding it after radiation and chemo took their turn on it.  After all they checked something like one hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred lymph notes (did you sing that part) and none of them, not one, had cancer.

But it will be nice to have someone tell me it isn’t back.

And then I’ll tell you.
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Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go submit myself to a little two hour torture regiment.  (I give up!  I give up, Saddam Hussein!  Yes!  It was my grandmother!)  One more hint:  Put the Gatorade in the fridge well in advance.  Warm, orange Gatorade laced with Miralax is way yuckier than really cold, orange Gatorade laced with Miralax.