Home Sweet Home

Last Thursday afternoon I realized that my surgical pain was worsening, not improving. "I'm just pushing myself too hard," I thought. After all, it went away when I lied down ... every time. Friday morning I felt pretty good, and headed off to school to help with the Mexican Independence Day celebration. By the end of the three hours I was in pain again, so I went home and took it easy. Saturday morning I awoke to make Bill his birthday breakfast of eggs benedict. By the time we had eaten and the dishes were done, I was in pain yet again. "Call your Dr.," Bill said. "He wanted to be kept informed of any changes."

Yeah, I thought. But it's Saturday ... I don't want to bother him ... And besides, we had a sitter for that night and Bill and I were going on a real date. I didn't want anything to spoil that.

Then the little voice spoke up. "That's ridiculous Page, you're in pain and your doctor should know about it." So, I called him. He was very concerned and called in an antibiotic prescription immediately. He also asked me to take a picture of the incision area and email it to him (how very high tech), so I did. I didn't see anything fishy but it's kind of hard to carefully inspect your own chest, isn't it?

A few minutes later the phone rang and it was him. "It looks like an infection," he said. OK, me thinks. I'm taking antibiotics so that should take care of it. But then he kept talking.

"Page, I'm a pretty conservative guy. Because your skin is previously irradiated and we're trying to get you ready for chemo in a week and half, I'd like to admit you to the hospital for some IV antibiotics. They're much stronger and will get to work much more quickly than oral meds."

"Well that's really going to ruin my weekend," I said, but dilligently took down the details of what I needed to do ... go to the ER ... see the Hospitalist on staff ... etc.

"So this will just be an overnight thing, right?"

"Well no. I'd like you to get several doses of two different antibiotics. I'll come in and see you Monday morning and will likely send you home then."

After I hung up I had my own personal mental breakdown. I was mad ... No, I was pissed. I didn't want to go to the hospital. I didn't want to tell my kids that mommy has to go away for a few days. And I didn't want to not be home for Bill's birthday. So I did what all overwhelmed 40-something superwomen do ... I cried. For about three minutes. Then I pulled myself together, wiped my eyes, and got on with it.

I told Bill first. He was, of course, completely understanding and wonderful. Then I gathered the kids. "Mommy has something to tell you guys, can you come here?"

Wrong thing to say. Rosie gave me a terrified look, said "Not something else bad!" and ran upstairs. Tess didn't run away but was crying ... no bawling ... on the couch. "I just want this to be over. I didn't know cancer would take this long. We were going to bake a cake today!"

Rosie came back, also in tears. I, of course, started crying again too. It wasn't pretty ... at all. Bill wisely distracted the girls with thoughts of heading to the annual YMCA luau and each bringing a friend. That redirected everyone to the telephone to see who was available on short notice.

I headed upstairs and packed a few things ... jammies to avoid the humiliation of the hospital gown ... books, knitting, and my computer, to provide entertainment ... and of course, ear plugs in case my roomate snores (learned that lesson the last time around).

I drove myself to the hospital so we wouldn't have to subject the kids to the unknowns of a Chula Vista ER (which turned out to be a good thing. The 91-year old woman in the bed next to me called out "Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa" very loudly about every 90 seconds). All things considered, everything went very smoothly. I hardly had to wait before being given a bed, and within just a couple of hours I was heading upstairs to my room.

Bill and the girls arrived just in time. They headed straight to the room to wait for me to be delivered from the ER. Of course hospital policy required that I be wheeled up in a wheelchair. When Rosie saw me, she burst into tears again. I pulled her to me to give her a hug. "Honey, mommy's just fine," I said. "Really."

"Then why can't you walk?" she wailed. Oh the mind of a young child. Apparently before I arrived she had seen a woman walking through the hall using a walker and rolling her IV along with her. Apparently she made quite an impression on Rosie.

I stood up immediately and reiterated "Look, of course I can walk!" but she was inconsolable. Ultimately Bill took her down to the lobby to wait for Sofia and Tess to have a visit before leaving. She refused to come back and see me again, which I understood, but which also cut deeply ... A situation which I cannot control has made my children scared and sad, and there's nothing I can do about it but move forward and try to help them make sense of it. How do you make a six-year-old understand that?

I was discharged this morning and am happy to report the pain is completely gone and the redness has diminished too. I've got three weeks worth of antibiotics to take and will also be receiving hyperbaric oxygen therapy to aid in the healing. We're pulling out all the stops to assure I'm as healed as possible prior to starting chemo.

Certainly wasn't the way I wanted to spend my weekend, but it was yet another step forward in this journey.