Just when I thought I was going to lose my sanity, after a full week in the hospital, I was finally freed. I held my breath all morning on that last day as I told each nurse and technician I was going home until confirmation came, via the medical director, and my discharge papers were presented.
So I washed up as much as I could, using the bathroom sink, a bar of soap, and a washcloth, got dressed in the jeans and t-shirt I'd come in wearing a week before, packed my belongings, and waited for my boyfriend to pick me up. When he texted that he was waiting outside, I was wheeled downstairs by an orderly and slowly clambered into his Jeep. He never looked better to me. I wanted to hold on to him forever...and keep my distance at the same time, all too aware of the fact that I had diarrhea, hadn't showered in days, and had leprous scabs covering my face (a side effect of one of the chemo drugs).I felt hideous, and didn't want to be seen by anyone (let alone the man of my dreams).
I couldn't wait to be home, alone in my apartment. Finally, freedom: privacy (no annoying roommate) and no late-night beeping, light flicks, and 3 AM blood-pressure checks. I wasn't completely free of nurses, however. But that was a good thing. A visiting nurse arrived the next day and opened my new-patient case, updating my medication list and going over my hospital discharge instructions. Over the next few days, I was assisted by a series of nurses who provided invaluable services, helping me change my colostomy bag and contacting my doctor's office on my behalf to question if diarrhea was a normal post-surgical problem.
No one seemed concerned about the cramps and diarrhea, which became unmanageable and forced me into diapers, except me. My surgeon assured me that it would end within a few days. But it didn't. It continued unabated for a week, leaving me weak, bedridden, and depressed. I didn't know how to respond to my well-wishers (family, friends, and colleagues) who sent me messages, cards, and flowers and said they hoped I was "feeling better every day." I wasn't. I was feeling increasingly hopeless and fearing a return to the hospital with dehydration.
Finally, a week later, having reached my limit, and not wanting to wait another day for a nurse to intervene, I called my surgeon's office and scheduled an appointment with him for the following afternoon. The next day, having thrown a few essentials into a bag (just in case I was hospital bound), I went to his office, prepared to beg, and unwilling to leave without a solution. Fortunately, he took my complaints seriously and explained that the only way to stop the digestive issues was a surgical tweak. I heaved a deep sigh and said, "OK." I couldn't go on like I was, so there was no alternative to another hospital stay. My surgeon scheduled the procedure for the next day, a Friday afternoon.
Everything moved quickly after that. I left his office and went to the nearby hospital for pre-op testing, then went home to pack and toss and turn instead of sleeping. My mom drove me into surgery the next day, and I was in a surgical bay before I knew it. The last thing I remember before surgery is the anesthesiologist saying he was giving me something to help me relax. That's it. I have no memory of going into the operating room. I woke up post-surgery, back in the bay, and was wheeled up to a private room on a quiet floor a few hours later. I still didn't sleep well, though, even without a roommate, as the nurses and technicians passed out pills and checked vitals on the hospital's designated timeline throughout the night.
My surgeon had said I could go home the next day, but honestly, I didn't want to leave until the diarrhea ended. He and the nurses assured me it would be over within a few days, but I had heard that before and I wasn't sure if I believed it. I just didn't want to go until I knew the problem was solved. I don't know if post-surgical depression is a clinical diagnosis, but it's common for me. And it hit hard in the hospital as I pondered if I would ever get better. Would I survive cancer? I'd started doubting I would.
I reluctantly went home on Sunday afternoon even though the diarrhea persisted. Finally, a few days later, it ended, taking my hopelessness with it. After two rounds of surgery and two weeks of severe digestive issues, I could start coping with having cancer and a colostomy bag and contemplate resuming chemo and returning to work.
Friday, April 24, 2020
Friday, March 20, 2020
Surgery
It was a long weekend, waiting for an unwanted but necessary colostomy. I was admitted to the hospital on Thursday evening and not scheduled for surgery until Monday afternoon. That's probably too much time to think, especially when a TV-loving roommate, vital-checking nurses, and uncomfortable nasogastric tube prevent you from sleeping through it.
It was almost as if I willed the tube out of my throat when I randomly sneezed ("quite a sneeze," according to the stunned medical personnel) in the middle of the night, two days before surgery, and found the end of the tube in my hand. I sat holding it, in shock for a few minutes before I punched the call button, gradually realizing that although I felt so much more comfortable without it, I probably needed it. To my surprise, a PA gave me a now-or-later reinsertion option (my choice!). Naturally, I chose later, and finally dozed off for a few glorious hours while watching TV. When I woke up later, I asked the nurse if I could possibly take a bath before the tube was reinserted. Even better, I was gifted a real, long, hot shower, my first in days. I washed my hair, brushed my teeth, and hesitated before finally emerging from the bathroom to a clean bed. I felt human again, clean for the first time since I was admitted.
After that shower, I knew it was only a matter of time before the dreaded tube replacement, but I was grateful for the break. A couple hours later, after consulting with my surgeon, three kind, gentle, merciful women trooped in to apologetically reinsert the tube. It was just as terrible the second time. My eyes teared up and I whimpered as they pushed the tube from my nose down to my throat. It took me several minutes to recover, physically and emotionally, from the painful ordeal, but my consultation prize was a potent shot of morphine in my IV that allowed me to drift from pain into gradual sleep.
Monday, my fourth full day, the big day, was a waiting game. Surgery was not scheduled until 2 PM. I gasped, gulped, and gradually accepted the news. I watched Keeping up with the Kardashians for hours, which allowed my mind to drift away from my sorry life and my brain cells to rot while a series of doctors, nurses, and technicians drifted in and out of my room. I banned visitors, not wanting anyone to see me at my worst: in a hospital gown, with a tube, and a crusty, leprous rash-ridden face (broken out by a chemo drug), and not wanting to talk with a sore throat. Nothing really happened until noon when a nurse informed me they would move me downstairs soon for surgery, then probably to a different room after, so I packed my meager belongings and prepared to go.
I was moved soon enough out of my precious private room, but the waiting continued after, as I was wheeled down to the surgical prep unit and waited past 2 PM for my surgeon (though the nurse and anesthesiologist were prompt), half-watching TV in an attempt to distract myself from bloated discomfort and fear of the pain and potential bodily and lifestyle changes to come. Torturous waiting. Then, finally, at maybe 2:30, I was pushed down the hall into a cold, sterile operating room and transferred to a narrow table, strapped down, and then...nothing.
I woke up back in the surgical unit, in pain, and deeply drowsy. My mind was fuzzy and my eyes were glued shut, half-conscious and loopy from 4:30 to 7 PM. After I woke up, I was transferred to a shared room with yet another roommate who watched TV all night, starting with Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, until 12:30 AM, when I'd lost hope of ever sleeping again. I caught up on messages, retrieving my phone at 8:15, for the next few hours and successfully shuffled down the hall and back to my room with a nurse and IV stand at 10 PM before I retreated back to my bed.
I slept only intermittently, spending most of the night combing the internet on my smartphone and listening to music through headphones. I was rewarded in the morning, though, when my NG tube was removed (much less painfully than it was inserted) and a nurse brought me a cup of cold water and a popsicle. Then, just when I thought hospital life couldn't get better, a breakfast tray arrived. After nearly a week without food and drink, it was a feast: chicken broth, decaf coffee, apple juice, Jell-O, and drinkable yogurt. I was full until lunch when another magical tray arrived bearing pureed Italian wedding soup, oyster crackers, pureed fruit cocktail, cranberry juice, and more coffee. Dinner was even better: a bagel, peanut butter, applesauce, strawberry Boost, milk, and coffee.
My roommate was discharged around 7 PM, and I was finally alone and hopeful for a more restful night. I dozed off around 10:30, then was jolted awake by a commotion at 11:45. All the room's lights were flicked on, blinding me, and a team of medical personnel swooped in with my new roommate. That was bad enough, but after falling asleep again, I was startled awake by a technician standing at the foot of my bed and yelling my name. I had to wake up for a 3 AM vitals check, of course.
Uninterrupted sleep continued to elude me through my remaining hospital stay, but there were some improvements. My IV was unhooked two days after surgery, and my surgeon allowed me solid, low-fiber food. The hospital's ostomy care nurse taught me the basics and helped me change my bag. I was struggling with all of it. Just the thought of learning how to take care of the colostomy was overwhelming. Looking at it, let alone cleaning and changing it, grossed me out. I honestly didn't know then if I could handle my new reality (or how).
It was almost as if I willed the tube out of my throat when I randomly sneezed ("quite a sneeze," according to the stunned medical personnel) in the middle of the night, two days before surgery, and found the end of the tube in my hand. I sat holding it, in shock for a few minutes before I punched the call button, gradually realizing that although I felt so much more comfortable without it, I probably needed it. To my surprise, a PA gave me a now-or-later reinsertion option (my choice!). Naturally, I chose later, and finally dozed off for a few glorious hours while watching TV. When I woke up later, I asked the nurse if I could possibly take a bath before the tube was reinserted. Even better, I was gifted a real, long, hot shower, my first in days. I washed my hair, brushed my teeth, and hesitated before finally emerging from the bathroom to a clean bed. I felt human again, clean for the first time since I was admitted.
After that shower, I knew it was only a matter of time before the dreaded tube replacement, but I was grateful for the break. A couple hours later, after consulting with my surgeon, three kind, gentle, merciful women trooped in to apologetically reinsert the tube. It was just as terrible the second time. My eyes teared up and I whimpered as they pushed the tube from my nose down to my throat. It took me several minutes to recover, physically and emotionally, from the painful ordeal, but my consultation prize was a potent shot of morphine in my IV that allowed me to drift from pain into gradual sleep.
Monday, my fourth full day, the big day, was a waiting game. Surgery was not scheduled until 2 PM. I gasped, gulped, and gradually accepted the news. I watched Keeping up with the Kardashians for hours, which allowed my mind to drift away from my sorry life and my brain cells to rot while a series of doctors, nurses, and technicians drifted in and out of my room. I banned visitors, not wanting anyone to see me at my worst: in a hospital gown, with a tube, and a crusty, leprous rash-ridden face (broken out by a chemo drug), and not wanting to talk with a sore throat. Nothing really happened until noon when a nurse informed me they would move me downstairs soon for surgery, then probably to a different room after, so I packed my meager belongings and prepared to go.
I was moved soon enough out of my precious private room, but the waiting continued after, as I was wheeled down to the surgical prep unit and waited past 2 PM for my surgeon (though the nurse and anesthesiologist were prompt), half-watching TV in an attempt to distract myself from bloated discomfort and fear of the pain and potential bodily and lifestyle changes to come. Torturous waiting. Then, finally, at maybe 2:30, I was pushed down the hall into a cold, sterile operating room and transferred to a narrow table, strapped down, and then...nothing.
I woke up back in the surgical unit, in pain, and deeply drowsy. My mind was fuzzy and my eyes were glued shut, half-conscious and loopy from 4:30 to 7 PM. After I woke up, I was transferred to a shared room with yet another roommate who watched TV all night, starting with Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy, until 12:30 AM, when I'd lost hope of ever sleeping again. I caught up on messages, retrieving my phone at 8:15, for the next few hours and successfully shuffled down the hall and back to my room with a nurse and IV stand at 10 PM before I retreated back to my bed.
I slept only intermittently, spending most of the night combing the internet on my smartphone and listening to music through headphones. I was rewarded in the morning, though, when my NG tube was removed (much less painfully than it was inserted) and a nurse brought me a cup of cold water and a popsicle. Then, just when I thought hospital life couldn't get better, a breakfast tray arrived. After nearly a week without food and drink, it was a feast: chicken broth, decaf coffee, apple juice, Jell-O, and drinkable yogurt. I was full until lunch when another magical tray arrived bearing pureed Italian wedding soup, oyster crackers, pureed fruit cocktail, cranberry juice, and more coffee. Dinner was even better: a bagel, peanut butter, applesauce, strawberry Boost, milk, and coffee.
My roommate was discharged around 7 PM, and I was finally alone and hopeful for a more restful night. I dozed off around 10:30, then was jolted awake by a commotion at 11:45. All the room's lights were flicked on, blinding me, and a team of medical personnel swooped in with my new roommate. That was bad enough, but after falling asleep again, I was startled awake by a technician standing at the foot of my bed and yelling my name. I had to wake up for a 3 AM vitals check, of course.
Uninterrupted sleep continued to elude me through my remaining hospital stay, but there were some improvements. My IV was unhooked two days after surgery, and my surgeon allowed me solid, low-fiber food. The hospital's ostomy care nurse taught me the basics and helped me change my bag. I was struggling with all of it. Just the thought of learning how to take care of the colostomy was overwhelming. Looking at it, let alone cleaning and changing it, grossed me out. I honestly didn't know then if I could handle my new reality (or how).
Friday, February 28, 2020
Obstructed
I had no idea what to expect after my first round of chemo - my doctor and nurses explained all the possible side effects, which differ from patient to patient - but I never would have imagined everything I would go through over the next few weeks. In hindsight, I'm glad I didn't know.
I returned to work the following day after my first infusion, trying to continue my regularly-scheduled life despite my fatigue and discomfort, and told my coworkers, some of whom I hadn't seen during the college's three-month summer break, about my diagnosis and treatment plan. I asked for their patience and flexibility and promised I would be there as much as I could, letting them know in advance if I needed to take medical leave. They responded with hugs, questions, and encouraging words, for which I was grateful. Afterwards, I felt drained but relieved. I'd wanted to tell them myself, in my own way, to avoid miscommunication and rampant speculation.
I felt worse in the days after treatment, weaker and uncomfortably constipated. The nurse who came to my home to unhook the chemo pump that was connected for 46 hours advised me to try a laxative, which helped slightly. But not long term. My discomfort increased and my abdomen bloated and swelled, making me look and feel pregnant, as my appetite faded and nausea advanced. I took the anti-nausea pill my oncologist had prescribed and struggled through a day and a half at work before I left early after lying on the floor, managing to consume nothing more than an Ensure during my 30-minute lunch break, then gagging, dry-heaving, and spitting into an office garbage can. I went home and napped briefly, but I couldn't get comfortable, couldn't eat, and couldn't sleep that night.
The next morning I threw up the Jell-O and juice I'd tried to eat for breakfast and packed an overnight bag with essentials before carefully driving myself to my oncologist's office for a scheduled check-up. I knew I would probably be going to the hospital at least overnight. A Food Network baking show was playing on the waiting-room TV, worsening my nausea, before I went in for blood work, a vitals check, and a visit with a nurse practitioner. I told the medical staff the truth: that I was weak, maybe dehydrated, nauseous, constipated, and severely bloated. In response they gave me fluids in the infusion room and wheeled me into the adjacent hospital for an abdominal X-ray.
Afterwards, my oncologist appeared and delivered her verdict. She was having me admitted to a larger nearby hospital, one with colorectal surgical specialists, for a consultation. The result would probably be an enema and possibly surgery to relieve my bowel obstruction. Unfortunately, that didn't include an ambulance ride, so I had to find alternate transportation. I managed to drive to my boyfriend's house, about 30 minutes from the cancer center, and asked him to take me the rest of the way, another 20 miles from there. Fortunately, he was working from home that day, so he was able to drop everything to rush me to the hospital's emergency room, where we sat for an uncomfortable hour before my name was called and I was taken back to a private room with a bed and bathroom.
A male nurse, whom I will love forever, offered me morphine, which I gratefully accepted. The dose relaxed me enough to doze off into a desperately-sought peaceful abyss, while I waited hours for a CT scan. (Hospital time, I learned, is loose and mercurial. A fifteen-minute wait can stretch into an hour or more). But I was one of the luckier patients. When I was finally wheeled into radiology for my scan, I passed numerous less-fortunate patients who were parked on beds in the hallway, without privacy or comfort. I don't know why I was given more comfortable digs (my comprehensive health insurance, I suppose?), for which I was sheepishly thankful. No doubt I would have preferred to stay in that private ER sanctuary instead of being moved to a shared room upstairs several hours later. I had a roommate who required frequent medical assistance, including every time she used the toilet, and ran her TV all night, starting with Law and Order and continuing through the late-night talk shows and Three Stooges DVD infomercials, while I laid awake, unable to block out the noise.
And even if and when I was able to briefly doze, the nurses insisted on waking me for vitals checks every couple hours. A couple times I was startled awake when a nurse came in, flicked on the lights, and stood over me, shouting my name until I woke. Nothing relaxing about that room during my stay. So when I was moved to a private room the next afternoon, I was thrilled.
I was less enthusiastic about the nasogastric tube that was painfully inserted down my nose and throat to clear out the accumulated gunk. I couldn't eat or drink anything more than ice chips in a styrofoam cup. Which, of course, is when my appetite returned with a vengeance. I thought of all the food in my fridge at home, food that had been unappealing before like a tuna sub and a cheese calzone. Lying in that hospital bed, hearing other patients' meal menus, there was nothing that didn't sound appetizing to me. It was a long weekend, waiting for surgery - a temporary colostomy, my worst-case scenario, to relieve the bowel blockage - and food, and fearfully pondering all the changes ahead of me.
I returned to work the following day after my first infusion, trying to continue my regularly-scheduled life despite my fatigue and discomfort, and told my coworkers, some of whom I hadn't seen during the college's three-month summer break, about my diagnosis and treatment plan. I asked for their patience and flexibility and promised I would be there as much as I could, letting them know in advance if I needed to take medical leave. They responded with hugs, questions, and encouraging words, for which I was grateful. Afterwards, I felt drained but relieved. I'd wanted to tell them myself, in my own way, to avoid miscommunication and rampant speculation.
I felt worse in the days after treatment, weaker and uncomfortably constipated. The nurse who came to my home to unhook the chemo pump that was connected for 46 hours advised me to try a laxative, which helped slightly. But not long term. My discomfort increased and my abdomen bloated and swelled, making me look and feel pregnant, as my appetite faded and nausea advanced. I took the anti-nausea pill my oncologist had prescribed and struggled through a day and a half at work before I left early after lying on the floor, managing to consume nothing more than an Ensure during my 30-minute lunch break, then gagging, dry-heaving, and spitting into an office garbage can. I went home and napped briefly, but I couldn't get comfortable, couldn't eat, and couldn't sleep that night.
The next morning I threw up the Jell-O and juice I'd tried to eat for breakfast and packed an overnight bag with essentials before carefully driving myself to my oncologist's office for a scheduled check-up. I knew I would probably be going to the hospital at least overnight. A Food Network baking show was playing on the waiting-room TV, worsening my nausea, before I went in for blood work, a vitals check, and a visit with a nurse practitioner. I told the medical staff the truth: that I was weak, maybe dehydrated, nauseous, constipated, and severely bloated. In response they gave me fluids in the infusion room and wheeled me into the adjacent hospital for an abdominal X-ray.
Afterwards, my oncologist appeared and delivered her verdict. She was having me admitted to a larger nearby hospital, one with colorectal surgical specialists, for a consultation. The result would probably be an enema and possibly surgery to relieve my bowel obstruction. Unfortunately, that didn't include an ambulance ride, so I had to find alternate transportation. I managed to drive to my boyfriend's house, about 30 minutes from the cancer center, and asked him to take me the rest of the way, another 20 miles from there. Fortunately, he was working from home that day, so he was able to drop everything to rush me to the hospital's emergency room, where we sat for an uncomfortable hour before my name was called and I was taken back to a private room with a bed and bathroom.
A male nurse, whom I will love forever, offered me morphine, which I gratefully accepted. The dose relaxed me enough to doze off into a desperately-sought peaceful abyss, while I waited hours for a CT scan. (Hospital time, I learned, is loose and mercurial. A fifteen-minute wait can stretch into an hour or more). But I was one of the luckier patients. When I was finally wheeled into radiology for my scan, I passed numerous less-fortunate patients who were parked on beds in the hallway, without privacy or comfort. I don't know why I was given more comfortable digs (my comprehensive health insurance, I suppose?), for which I was sheepishly thankful. No doubt I would have preferred to stay in that private ER sanctuary instead of being moved to a shared room upstairs several hours later. I had a roommate who required frequent medical assistance, including every time she used the toilet, and ran her TV all night, starting with Law and Order and continuing through the late-night talk shows and Three Stooges DVD infomercials, while I laid awake, unable to block out the noise.
And even if and when I was able to briefly doze, the nurses insisted on waking me for vitals checks every couple hours. A couple times I was startled awake when a nurse came in, flicked on the lights, and stood over me, shouting my name until I woke. Nothing relaxing about that room during my stay. So when I was moved to a private room the next afternoon, I was thrilled.
I was less enthusiastic about the nasogastric tube that was painfully inserted down my nose and throat to clear out the accumulated gunk. I couldn't eat or drink anything more than ice chips in a styrofoam cup. Which, of course, is when my appetite returned with a vengeance. I thought of all the food in my fridge at home, food that had been unappealing before like a tuna sub and a cheese calzone. Lying in that hospital bed, hearing other patients' meal menus, there was nothing that didn't sound appetizing to me. It was a long weekend, waiting for surgery - a temporary colostomy, my worst-case scenario, to relieve the bowel blockage - and food, and fearfully pondering all the changes ahead of me.
Wednesday, January 29, 2020
Starting Treatment
I left my oncologist's office with a list of preparatory tasks to complete before my first round of chemo two weeks later.
First on the list was a colonoscopy to biopsy my mass and check for polyps, which came with printed forms of strict pre-procedure instructions that I read carefully and repeatedly before I bought the laxatives, Gatorade, and non-red Jell-O I needed for my liquid diet. Everyone says the prep is the worst part of the whole experience. For me, the fasting was the toughest part. Nothing but Gatorade, water, Jell-O and clear broth for 24 hours before. But once I got through that, I was promised "the best sleep" of my life by friends who'd had and survived colonoscopies.
Unfortunately, that didn't happen. I was given a sedative prior to entering the procedure room, but I was awake and alert for the entire, nearly hour-long procedure, hearing every conversation, seeing it on the screen over my head, and feeling the uncomfortable probing. I didn't fall asleep until later, after I'd left the hospital and gone home, when I dozed off unexpectedly and woke up an hour later feeling disorientated (as if my sedative had finally kicked in), unsure of the day and time.
Two days later, feeling like a human test subject, I returned to the same hospital for an abdominal and pelvic MRI. I changed into a pair of purple scrubs, stretched out on an examining table, and was sucked feet-first into the tube while a Led Zeppelin CD, courteously provided by the hospital, blared through a pair of headphones. My doctor had prescribed Ativan for anxiety, which is common for people like me who are prone to claustrophobia, but I didn't need it. The toughest part of the procedure wasn't lying in an enclosed tube but having to fast beforehand and avoid moving for five to ten minutes at a time before I was pulled out, injected with fluid, and sucked back in for another round.
The following week I was back at the hospital, now truly a frequent flyer, for Mediport surgery, the final step before my first round of chemo. I arrived by 6 AM and was moved into an ASU bay fairly quickly, my vitals taken and IV started by a nurse who understood what I what going through because she had undergone her own port insertion and survived breast cancer while working through and after her chemo treatment, as I hoped to do. We were ready to roll by 7:30, but my surgeon was nowhere to be found. My anxiety worsened as each minute without him ticked by. The nurses told me, "He's never late...," and I worried what would happen if he didn't show up. I'd have to come back and go through the whole hullabaloo all over again, plus my treatment, scheduled to start two days later, would be delayed. I was so ready to get started, I couldn't think of anything worse than more waiting.
Fortunately, in the midst of panic, my surgeon breezed in at 8:05, marked my chest, strolled out, and I was wheeled into the operating room at 8:30, which is the last thing I remember before waking up in recovery, a bit sore and drowsy (apparently my surgeon stopped in for a quick post-surgical chat, which I didn't remember), but ready to go home. I rested there all afternoon, sleeping better than in previous weeks.
Two days later I had my first chemo infusion. My mom drove me there and waited alongside me as I was moved from a blood draw, using my new, perfectly-functioning port, to a vitals check, then a visit with my oncologist (who encouraged me to eat whatever I craved to maintain my weight), and back to a recliner for the main event. It started with "pre-meds," including Benadryl, which made me feel stoned and longing for sleep. But my mom talked incessantly, and a nurse was always within 10 feet of me, asking questions, administering drugs, and offering snacks, all of which kept me from napping. It was a full day, arriving at 10 AM, eating soup and a sandwich for lunch, and listening while my mom talked to the nurses, before another nurse arrived to hook up my chemo pump, which I would wear for 46 hours until it was removed at my home by another nurse. I left with a box of supplies for the visiting nurse and a warm hug from my chemo nurse, and was dropped off at home at 5 PM, ready to rest after an exhausting day.
First on the list was a colonoscopy to biopsy my mass and check for polyps, which came with printed forms of strict pre-procedure instructions that I read carefully and repeatedly before I bought the laxatives, Gatorade, and non-red Jell-O I needed for my liquid diet. Everyone says the prep is the worst part of the whole experience. For me, the fasting was the toughest part. Nothing but Gatorade, water, Jell-O and clear broth for 24 hours before. But once I got through that, I was promised "the best sleep" of my life by friends who'd had and survived colonoscopies.
Unfortunately, that didn't happen. I was given a sedative prior to entering the procedure room, but I was awake and alert for the entire, nearly hour-long procedure, hearing every conversation, seeing it on the screen over my head, and feeling the uncomfortable probing. I didn't fall asleep until later, after I'd left the hospital and gone home, when I dozed off unexpectedly and woke up an hour later feeling disorientated (as if my sedative had finally kicked in), unsure of the day and time.
Two days later, feeling like a human test subject, I returned to the same hospital for an abdominal and pelvic MRI. I changed into a pair of purple scrubs, stretched out on an examining table, and was sucked feet-first into the tube while a Led Zeppelin CD, courteously provided by the hospital, blared through a pair of headphones. My doctor had prescribed Ativan for anxiety, which is common for people like me who are prone to claustrophobia, but I didn't need it. The toughest part of the procedure wasn't lying in an enclosed tube but having to fast beforehand and avoid moving for five to ten minutes at a time before I was pulled out, injected with fluid, and sucked back in for another round.
The following week I was back at the hospital, now truly a frequent flyer, for Mediport surgery, the final step before my first round of chemo. I arrived by 6 AM and was moved into an ASU bay fairly quickly, my vitals taken and IV started by a nurse who understood what I what going through because she had undergone her own port insertion and survived breast cancer while working through and after her chemo treatment, as I hoped to do. We were ready to roll by 7:30, but my surgeon was nowhere to be found. My anxiety worsened as each minute without him ticked by. The nurses told me, "He's never late...," and I worried what would happen if he didn't show up. I'd have to come back and go through the whole hullabaloo all over again, plus my treatment, scheduled to start two days later, would be delayed. I was so ready to get started, I couldn't think of anything worse than more waiting.
Fortunately, in the midst of panic, my surgeon breezed in at 8:05, marked my chest, strolled out, and I was wheeled into the operating room at 8:30, which is the last thing I remember before waking up in recovery, a bit sore and drowsy (apparently my surgeon stopped in for a quick post-surgical chat, which I didn't remember), but ready to go home. I rested there all afternoon, sleeping better than in previous weeks.
Monday, December 16, 2019
First Oncologist Visit
I allowed myself approximately a day of shock and an hour or two of tears and unbridled fear before I forcibly pulled myself together (in true stoic nature) and moved into fight mode. I went back to work the next day and started notifying my closest colleagues, the ones who needed to know now: my boss, her boss, and his secretary (who would likely be saddled with at least some of my job duties if I went on medical leave). Thankfully they were supportive and encouraging (and shocked and saddened by the news). I reminded myself (and continue to remind myself) that this affects more than just me. And life and work go on even though I'm sick.
My next stop was the library, where I headed to the medical section and chose to confront my fears head-on, checking out four relevant books: the American Cancer Society's Complete Guide to Colorectal Cancer (which, based on my symptoms, I most likely had), Colon & Rectal Cancer: From Diagnosis to Treatment, Before and After Cancer Treatment, and Fighting Cancer with Knowledge and Hope. I started reading as soon as I got home from work, finding the information scary but the information-gathering process empowering. Facing my worst-case scenario fears, in this case, a colostomy and possibly the permanent loss of my health, was how I wanted to deal with my diagnosis. I could accept having cancer with a positive but realistic attitude while simultaneously fighting to regain my health.
The toughest part, even harder than receiving and gradually accepting the diagnosis and learning the potential challenges in the journey ahead, was waiting. Over a week passed between learning I had cancer on July 23 and meeting my oncologist for the first time on August 1. For a type-A planner like me, that was an eternity. I needed to know the next step.
To my immense relief, my oncologist, a young woman approximately my age, was a good match for me. She immediately informed me, upon entering the room, shaking my hand, and introducing herself, that she would not "sugarcoat" my diagnosis. "Good," I responded. "I don't want you to." As my heart pounded, she thoroughly went over my PET scan results and delivered the devastating details: stage three rectal cancer that had spread to my lymph nodes.
The tumor was too large to remove, so I would start with aggressive chemo every other week to shrink it to a more easily-extracted mass before surgery. My new doctor answered all of my questions and brought in a chemo nurse who handed me a packet of information about my upcoming treatment (FAQs and drug interaction warnings) and gave me a tour of the onsite infusion room, with comfortable recliners, TVs, snacks, and stacks of magazines, before I left.
None of it was easy to hear, see, or believe, but I felt like I was as prepared as I could be because of my copious reading. I was frightened, of course, but I couldn't wait, despite my fear, to start chemotherapy.
It was ironic to me when I thought of previous years of my life when I didn't really want to live. Now that my life was threatened, I wanted nothing more.
My next stop was the library, where I headed to the medical section and chose to confront my fears head-on, checking out four relevant books: the American Cancer Society's Complete Guide to Colorectal Cancer (which, based on my symptoms, I most likely had), Colon & Rectal Cancer: From Diagnosis to Treatment, Before and After Cancer Treatment, and Fighting Cancer with Knowledge and Hope. I started reading as soon as I got home from work, finding the information scary but the information-gathering process empowering. Facing my worst-case scenario fears, in this case, a colostomy and possibly the permanent loss of my health, was how I wanted to deal with my diagnosis. I could accept having cancer with a positive but realistic attitude while simultaneously fighting to regain my health.
The toughest part, even harder than receiving and gradually accepting the diagnosis and learning the potential challenges in the journey ahead, was waiting. Over a week passed between learning I had cancer on July 23 and meeting my oncologist for the first time on August 1. For a type-A planner like me, that was an eternity. I needed to know the next step.
To my immense relief, my oncologist, a young woman approximately my age, was a good match for me. She immediately informed me, upon entering the room, shaking my hand, and introducing herself, that she would not "sugarcoat" my diagnosis. "Good," I responded. "I don't want you to." As my heart pounded, she thoroughly went over my PET scan results and delivered the devastating details: stage three rectal cancer that had spread to my lymph nodes.
The tumor was too large to remove, so I would start with aggressive chemo every other week to shrink it to a more easily-extracted mass before surgery. My new doctor answered all of my questions and brought in a chemo nurse who handed me a packet of information about my upcoming treatment (FAQs and drug interaction warnings) and gave me a tour of the onsite infusion room, with comfortable recliners, TVs, snacks, and stacks of magazines, before I left.
None of it was easy to hear, see, or believe, but I felt like I was as prepared as I could be because of my copious reading. I was frightened, of course, but I couldn't wait, despite my fear, to start chemotherapy.
It was ironic to me when I thought of previous years of my life when I didn't really want to live. Now that my life was threatened, I wanted nothing more.
Tuesday, November 12, 2019
The Diagnosis
There's no preparation for hearing a doctor tell you the life-altering news that you have cancer. Especially when you're an otherwise healthy, fit 37-year-old who reluctantly went to the hospital for a CT scan, then a needle biopsy of swollen groin lymph nodes, although your anxiety typically tells you that every minor ailment is probably fatal. It's ironic to me that this one time I wasn't worried.
But when a woman from my doctor's office called me at work one morning in July and told me I needed to come in, preferably that afternoon, to hear my biopsy results, and encouraged me "to bring a supportive person," I knew my life was now divided: before and after that phone call. My heart palpitated, my mind raced, and partial shock set in. I breathed deeply and tried to stay calm, tear-free, and focused on work (I was at work, after all), knowing that hysteria would not help me. For the next few hours, I alternated between eagerness to end the suspense and dread of hearing the diagnosis. I sent my boyfriend, Mark, a message with the news that my biopsy results were in, and they weren't good. We both knew, without saying the actual word, that it could mean only one thing. When I left work, drove to my doctor's office, and walked into the examining room, it became real.
My doctor came in just a few minutes after I arrived, with an apparent sense of urgency, and gently delivered the news that my biopsy tested "positive for cancer," likely GI in nature. I was stunned, sure there had to be a mistake. Hadn't multiple rounds of recent blood work results been fine? Yes, she acknowledged, but "we weren't checking for cancer." She handed me a tissue, gave me a list of helpfully-scheduled appointments (a PET scan, an MRI, oncology), and encouraged me to cry and lean on friends and family for support. "You're so stoic," she told me, which was partly true. But mostly I was in shock. She hugged me goodbye, and I floated out of her office in a daze and on a mission. I had to keep moving...or who knows? Collapse into a hysterical heap? There was plenty of time for that later.
I drove to a nearby hospital for blood work to check my tumor markers (so much new lingo that would eventually become familiar), then on to a previously-scheduled appointment with a gastroenterologist. The process began about a month earlier when I saw a doctor for what I suspected were hemorrhoids (and oh, by the way, also this lump on the left side of my pelvic area), and she told me I would have to see a specialist if they didn't clear up on their own. They didn't, and I was miserable, having spent a small fortune on soothing creams, gels, and pads without relief.
Now I walked into this new doctor's office and bluntly (as has become my nature) told him that I had just been diagnosed with cancer and would need to schedule a colonoscopy. The poor doctor and his assistant visibly reeled as if I'd struck them. I don't think I believed the shocking words even as I said them. But the doctor said he felt a tumor, proof despite my disbelief, when examining me, so it had to be real, right?
As if all that wasn't enough for one day, I still had a dental cleaning on my way home. (You know it has been a rough day when having tartar scraped off your teeth is not the worst thing you've endured.) When the hygienist asked if I'd had any recent changes to my medical history, I shared my diagnosis. Clearly caught off guard, she asked if I wanted to continue with the cleaning or reschedule. I just wanted, needed, to keep going.
And I did. After finally making it home from all those appointments, my boyfriend came over and we went out for dinner at a local restaurant. We kept the conversation light, and even laughed a bit as we ate, but there was a foreboding undercurrent. He knew, and I knew he knew, but we didn't address it until later, after dinner, after I called my mom and told her (she took the news calmly, but told me later she was "angry" and upset about my diagnosis).
I held it all together until that night when I laid awake and cried, telling Mark, who held me, that I was scared (he said he was, too). How would I handle all of this? What if I couldn't work? What if I lost my health insurance? Would I survive? So many new, viable fears had entered my mind and lodged there for a long, uncomfortable stay.
But when a woman from my doctor's office called me at work one morning in July and told me I needed to come in, preferably that afternoon, to hear my biopsy results, and encouraged me "to bring a supportive person," I knew my life was now divided: before and after that phone call. My heart palpitated, my mind raced, and partial shock set in. I breathed deeply and tried to stay calm, tear-free, and focused on work (I was at work, after all), knowing that hysteria would not help me. For the next few hours, I alternated between eagerness to end the suspense and dread of hearing the diagnosis. I sent my boyfriend, Mark, a message with the news that my biopsy results were in, and they weren't good. We both knew, without saying the actual word, that it could mean only one thing. When I left work, drove to my doctor's office, and walked into the examining room, it became real.
My doctor came in just a few minutes after I arrived, with an apparent sense of urgency, and gently delivered the news that my biopsy tested "positive for cancer," likely GI in nature. I was stunned, sure there had to be a mistake. Hadn't multiple rounds of recent blood work results been fine? Yes, she acknowledged, but "we weren't checking for cancer." She handed me a tissue, gave me a list of helpfully-scheduled appointments (a PET scan, an MRI, oncology), and encouraged me to cry and lean on friends and family for support. "You're so stoic," she told me, which was partly true. But mostly I was in shock. She hugged me goodbye, and I floated out of her office in a daze and on a mission. I had to keep moving...or who knows? Collapse into a hysterical heap? There was plenty of time for that later.
I drove to a nearby hospital for blood work to check my tumor markers (so much new lingo that would eventually become familiar), then on to a previously-scheduled appointment with a gastroenterologist. The process began about a month earlier when I saw a doctor for what I suspected were hemorrhoids (and oh, by the way, also this lump on the left side of my pelvic area), and she told me I would have to see a specialist if they didn't clear up on their own. They didn't, and I was miserable, having spent a small fortune on soothing creams, gels, and pads without relief.
Now I walked into this new doctor's office and bluntly (as has become my nature) told him that I had just been diagnosed with cancer and would need to schedule a colonoscopy. The poor doctor and his assistant visibly reeled as if I'd struck them. I don't think I believed the shocking words even as I said them. But the doctor said he felt a tumor, proof despite my disbelief, when examining me, so it had to be real, right?
As if all that wasn't enough for one day, I still had a dental cleaning on my way home. (You know it has been a rough day when having tartar scraped off your teeth is not the worst thing you've endured.) When the hygienist asked if I'd had any recent changes to my medical history, I shared my diagnosis. Clearly caught off guard, she asked if I wanted to continue with the cleaning or reschedule. I just wanted, needed, to keep going.
And I did. After finally making it home from all those appointments, my boyfriend came over and we went out for dinner at a local restaurant. We kept the conversation light, and even laughed a bit as we ate, but there was a foreboding undercurrent. He knew, and I knew he knew, but we didn't address it until later, after dinner, after I called my mom and told her (she took the news calmly, but told me later she was "angry" and upset about my diagnosis).
I held it all together until that night when I laid awake and cried, telling Mark, who held me, that I was scared (he said he was, too). How would I handle all of this? What if I couldn't work? What if I lost my health insurance? Would I survive? So many new, viable fears had entered my mind and lodged there for a long, uncomfortable stay.
Wednesday, May 22, 2019
Cher-ing a Special Night
Going out with my mom is a rare event. Especially at night, overnight, in the big city (Buffalo). It takes a monumental, miraculous, once-in-a-lifetime kinda occurrence, like, oh, say, the legendary Cher coming to town, as she did last month, for what she swears, for real this time, is her final farewell tour.
The mother-daughter concert was months in the making. I purchased the tickets as soon as they went on sale in September for the April event. It was risky, I knew, spending an entire two-week paycheck on tenth-row floor seats with no guarantee that my mom, who has chronic health issues that often keep her housebound (or close to home), would be able to attend. I added a hotel room with two beds, figuring that in a worst-case circumstance, if she couldn't (or wouldn't) go, I might be out a concert ticket, which I could resell online, but not a hotel room.
Getting great seats turned out to be the easy part. The tough part was not letting on that I had them until I surprised her for Christmas or her birthday a month later. The suspense was incessant. Despite, or perhaps because I'd spent a ridiculous amount of money, I was amped up for the concert, but I couldn't say anything even when my mom expressed excitement while reading about it in the local newspaper. (I might have even mentioned it once or twice to gauge her reaction.)
"I'd love to go," she said more than once. "But I couldn't..."
Oh, but you are, I thought (or hoped she would, anyway).
As the fall months slowly ticked by, I decided to prolong my agony by waiting until her January birthday to reveal the secret. When the day arrived, I folded the printed tickets into a greeting card and presented them to her after we'd eaten a celebratory lunch. She was shocked, as expected. Uncharacteristically speechless, as well. (Fortunately she was sitting down.) But she wasn't about to relinquish those tickets, insisting that she'd hold on to them (securing them in her all-purpose safe-keeping drawer), and I reluctantly agreed, equally hesitant to let them out of my sight.
The wait extended for another three months, during which my mom seemed more anxious than excited about seeing Cher. When I tried to make plans for Mother's Day, she insisted that she had "to get through this" first before committing to anything else. I understood, but I was also disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm and concerned that she'd back out in the weeks, days, and hours before showtime.
Finally the rainy Friday arrived. I had to work all day, but we agreed to meet at my place after work and drive to the hotel from there. I was keyed up with nervous excitement all day, then rushed home to shower, change my clothes, and finish packing for our overnight stay. I expected her to arrive several minutes early, and hoped I'd be showered and dressed before she did, but my anxiety increased with each passing minute as I feared that she'd call to cancel and I'd be flying solo.
Thankfully she didn't, and I didn't. She arrived 15 minutes later than planned, but we still had more than enough time to drive to the hotel and get a Lyft to the arena. But first, a practical consideration. A few miles from home, en route to the hotel, I casually asked my mom if she had the tickets. "Yeah," she answered, a bit too hesitantly for my liking. "I have mine," she continued. And mine?! I swerved to the side of the road and parked the car, opening the trunk to grab her purse, hearts palpitating while she slowly pulled out her ticket, which was securely attached to mine.
We returned to the road, panic slowly abating, and arrived at the hotel about 45 minutes later, checking in, settling our luggage in our room, and eating quickly in the dining room before we made final preparations and waited for our Lyft in the lobby with an elderly couple headed in the same direction.
We arrived in a misty rain shortly after the KeyBank Center's doors opened at 7 PM, and waded through a mob into airport-like security, received wristbands for floor-seat access, and were shepherded by helpful ushers to our tenth-row seats. To my relief, the seats were great, with a clear seated view of the stage and a projection screen to our left, which my mom used when prolonged standing became challenging. The evening's entertainment kicked off with an exuberant reformed version of Chic with Nile Rodgers at the helm, playing dance favorites like "We Are Family," "Let's Dance," "Get Lucky," "Upside Down," "Good Times," and "Le Freak" for nearly an hour, a long set for an opening act, before the stage was vacated and reset for Cher.
By that time, the arena had filled, with only a few visible vacant seats behind us, as we collectively endured the long 45-minute wait between acts. After a false alarm or two, the projection screens broadcast a Cher career - music, movies, and television - retrospective that heightened intensity until the timeless legend finally descended to the stage, in true Cher fashion, in a giant oval birdcage and performed "Strong Enough" and "Woman's World" before launching into a lengthy account of her 40th birthday proceedings, first appearance on David Letterman, and being initially rejected for The Witches of Eastwick because she reportedly wasn't young and "sexy enough."
Well-timed video clip montages, dance performances, and guitar solos allowed her costume-change breaks in between songs (with replica costumes) from every era of her career, including an "I Got You Babe" duet with Sonny (who appeared onscreen), "And the Beat Goes On," "Welcome to Burlesque" (a definite highlight), "The Shoop Shoop Song," "After All," "I Found Someone," "If I Could Turn Back Time" (in black leather jacket and butt-baring black sequined leotard, which she rocked), "Fernando," "Waterloo," "All or Nothing," and ending too soon with "Believe."
I enjoyed the show, of course, and honestly didn't care (for once) if she was singing live or lip-synching (she sounded fantastic either way) because the performance was so incredibly entertaining. I was worried about my mom from beginning to end, though, wondering if she was feeling all right, if she needed to use the bathroom, and if she would be able to climb the stairs to exit the arena. (Maybe the same way she worried about me the last time we were there, more than 20 years earlier, for Tom Collins' Tour of World and Olympic Figure Skating Champions.) It was a different experience, for sure: more rewarding because I shared it with her, but more stressful because, having removed her far from her comfort zone, I felt responsible for getting her back home safely and taking care of her along the way.
After the concert, we slowly shuffled up the stairs, moving among the throng, to wait on our Lyft. Getting to the arena was easy; getting picked up from the arena when surrounding streets were blocked by police was an adventure. It took 30 minutes on the phone with my driver (and several failed street-access attempts on his part) as we walked several unfamiliar blocks from the arena while I worried about our safety and my mom's walking ability. Finally, at midnight, utterly frozen and beyond exhausted, our Lyft driver reached us and safely delivered us back to our room where we thawed out and unwound.
I apologized profusely for the detour and half-jokingly told her I wouldn't blame her if she never went out with me again. She took it in stride, but acknowledged that, though she was homesick, she would never have passed up the opportunity to see Cher. Who would?
The mother-daughter concert was months in the making. I purchased the tickets as soon as they went on sale in September for the April event. It was risky, I knew, spending an entire two-week paycheck on tenth-row floor seats with no guarantee that my mom, who has chronic health issues that often keep her housebound (or close to home), would be able to attend. I added a hotel room with two beds, figuring that in a worst-case circumstance, if she couldn't (or wouldn't) go, I might be out a concert ticket, which I could resell online, but not a hotel room.
Getting great seats turned out to be the easy part. The tough part was not letting on that I had them until I surprised her for Christmas or her birthday a month later. The suspense was incessant. Despite, or perhaps because I'd spent a ridiculous amount of money, I was amped up for the concert, but I couldn't say anything even when my mom expressed excitement while reading about it in the local newspaper. (I might have even mentioned it once or twice to gauge her reaction.)
"I'd love to go," she said more than once. "But I couldn't..."
Oh, but you are, I thought (or hoped she would, anyway).
As the fall months slowly ticked by, I decided to prolong my agony by waiting until her January birthday to reveal the secret. When the day arrived, I folded the printed tickets into a greeting card and presented them to her after we'd eaten a celebratory lunch. She was shocked, as expected. Uncharacteristically speechless, as well. (Fortunately she was sitting down.) But she wasn't about to relinquish those tickets, insisting that she'd hold on to them (securing them in her all-purpose safe-keeping drawer), and I reluctantly agreed, equally hesitant to let them out of my sight.
The wait extended for another three months, during which my mom seemed more anxious than excited about seeing Cher. When I tried to make plans for Mother's Day, she insisted that she had "to get through this" first before committing to anything else. I understood, but I was also disappointed by her lack of enthusiasm and concerned that she'd back out in the weeks, days, and hours before showtime.
Finally the rainy Friday arrived. I had to work all day, but we agreed to meet at my place after work and drive to the hotel from there. I was keyed up with nervous excitement all day, then rushed home to shower, change my clothes, and finish packing for our overnight stay. I expected her to arrive several minutes early, and hoped I'd be showered and dressed before she did, but my anxiety increased with each passing minute as I feared that she'd call to cancel and I'd be flying solo.
Thankfully she didn't, and I didn't. She arrived 15 minutes later than planned, but we still had more than enough time to drive to the hotel and get a Lyft to the arena. But first, a practical consideration. A few miles from home, en route to the hotel, I casually asked my mom if she had the tickets. "Yeah," she answered, a bit too hesitantly for my liking. "I have mine," she continued. And mine?! I swerved to the side of the road and parked the car, opening the trunk to grab her purse, hearts palpitating while she slowly pulled out her ticket, which was securely attached to mine.
We returned to the road, panic slowly abating, and arrived at the hotel about 45 minutes later, checking in, settling our luggage in our room, and eating quickly in the dining room before we made final preparations and waited for our Lyft in the lobby with an elderly couple headed in the same direction.
We arrived in a misty rain shortly after the KeyBank Center's doors opened at 7 PM, and waded through a mob into airport-like security, received wristbands for floor-seat access, and were shepherded by helpful ushers to our tenth-row seats. To my relief, the seats were great, with a clear seated view of the stage and a projection screen to our left, which my mom used when prolonged standing became challenging. The evening's entertainment kicked off with an exuberant reformed version of Chic with Nile Rodgers at the helm, playing dance favorites like "We Are Family," "Let's Dance," "Get Lucky," "Upside Down," "Good Times," and "Le Freak" for nearly an hour, a long set for an opening act, before the stage was vacated and reset for Cher.
By that time, the arena had filled, with only a few visible vacant seats behind us, as we collectively endured the long 45-minute wait between acts. After a false alarm or two, the projection screens broadcast a Cher career - music, movies, and television - retrospective that heightened intensity until the timeless legend finally descended to the stage, in true Cher fashion, in a giant oval birdcage and performed "Strong Enough" and "Woman's World" before launching into a lengthy account of her 40th birthday proceedings, first appearance on David Letterman, and being initially rejected for The Witches of Eastwick because she reportedly wasn't young and "sexy enough."
Well-timed video clip montages, dance performances, and guitar solos allowed her costume-change breaks in between songs (with replica costumes) from every era of her career, including an "I Got You Babe" duet with Sonny (who appeared onscreen), "And the Beat Goes On," "Welcome to Burlesque" (a definite highlight), "The Shoop Shoop Song," "After All," "I Found Someone," "If I Could Turn Back Time" (in black leather jacket and butt-baring black sequined leotard, which she rocked), "Fernando," "Waterloo," "All or Nothing," and ending too soon with "Believe."
I enjoyed the show, of course, and honestly didn't care (for once) if she was singing live or lip-synching (she sounded fantastic either way) because the performance was so incredibly entertaining. I was worried about my mom from beginning to end, though, wondering if she was feeling all right, if she needed to use the bathroom, and if she would be able to climb the stairs to exit the arena. (Maybe the same way she worried about me the last time we were there, more than 20 years earlier, for Tom Collins' Tour of World and Olympic Figure Skating Champions.) It was a different experience, for sure: more rewarding because I shared it with her, but more stressful because, having removed her far from her comfort zone, I felt responsible for getting her back home safely and taking care of her along the way.
After the concert, we slowly shuffled up the stairs, moving among the throng, to wait on our Lyft. Getting to the arena was easy; getting picked up from the arena when surrounding streets were blocked by police was an adventure. It took 30 minutes on the phone with my driver (and several failed street-access attempts on his part) as we walked several unfamiliar blocks from the arena while I worried about our safety and my mom's walking ability. Finally, at midnight, utterly frozen and beyond exhausted, our Lyft driver reached us and safely delivered us back to our room where we thawed out and unwound.
I apologized profusely for the detour and half-jokingly told her I wouldn't blame her if she never went out with me again. She took it in stride, but acknowledged that, though she was homesick, she would never have passed up the opportunity to see Cher. Who would?
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