Recovery X2 (Part 1)

I haven’t written in a while because, well, I have been recovering x2. One of these recoveries was planned, and the other was not. What I have learned about myself is I can’t really write during recovery; I just need to focus on getting better. As I look around my condo full of flowers from my amazing friends and family, I am so appreciative of their generosity, but I just can’t wait for the glum recovery phase to be over.

***

About two weeks ago, I went in for an appointment at Dana Farber. The appointment was to get labs done and then my Zometa infusion – the medicine for the bone loss the Lupron and Letrozole have caused. I had a really tough time making the decision about going on the bone drugs or not, but finally came to the conclusion that my life is more important than an unborn child right now. (My main reservation about taking the medicine is that the doctors don’t know how it affects children. I likely can’t have them but always hold onto a tiny bit of hope.)

After waiting an hour for labs to come back and meeting with a woman who coordinates the Young Adult Cancer Program at Dana Farber – cause I need to get more involved ha – I was back up on the sixth floor for my Zometa infusion. Most people take a pill form of these bone drugs but because of my acid reflux they said they would give me this one-time infusion. Great! My nurse Kerry (WHO I LOVE) comes in and we chat it up about boys, her new Anna Beck jewelry from the boyfriend, and shoes, of course. She puts in my IV and sets up the 30-minute infusion. The doctors told me that the only potential side affects were MILD flu like symptoms for the first 48 hours and I really shouldn’t worry about it. So I get my meds, pack it up and head into work.

Later that night I was living the typical single life, picking up dinner at Whole Foods. I started having this weird chest pain, but just ignored it and thought it would go away. I get home and can’t even finish my dinner. The pain was pressing so hard on the front and back of my chest that I would grunt when I tried to breathe in and out. Then came the chills…I just couldn’t warm up. I put on that new Nicholas Sparks movie, The Best of Me and just tried to get into bed. It would just go away, right? I don’t need this right now. I called my parents because I started to panic and well then, they did too. After about an hour of chest pain and my mom calling me every five minutes I started hysterically crying because I realized I needed to go to the ER. Fuck. That moment when you realize you have to go to the hospital? It just sucks. My parents and I suddenly shifted into panic mode and were trying to quickly figure out who could take me to the ER. I didn’t want to go in an ambulance. I texted my wonderful neighbor downstairs and he immediately came up. I was already dressed with my winter hat on, hysterically crying, gasping for air, and snot all over my face.

My neighbor got me right in his car and drove me to Brigham and Women’s Hospital. While trying to breathe, I was sending my parents phone numbers for my doctors and friends so they could come be with me.

We pulled into the ER and my neighbor asked if I was okay to walk in. I said, “yes, yes.” The minute my feet hit the pavement, everything started to go fuzzy and dark and I got hellishly dizzy. Then, noodles. My legs were noodles. Luckily I was able to grab onto one of those large silver poles where you pull up to the ER, so I didn’t go down. I started screaming my neighbor’s name and full on panicking, hanging from the pole. My neighbor jumped out of his car and came to help me, while some guy slowly walked up behind me with a wheelchair and casually asked if I needed it. Yes I fucking need a wheelchair; I just collapsed IN FRONT OF AN EMERGENCY ROOM. AREN’T YOU SUPPOSED TO HELP ME?

They wheel me in and some miserable woman asks for my blue medical card, with NO urgency. Meanwhile, I was shaking, crying, gasping, and all of the above. I rifle through my purse and yank out the card, mumbling under my breath, “of course ‘cause this is fucking America.” Yeap – I was upset. Then they ask me if I have been to Africa and finally bring me into a room to get vitals. This nurse with a bad dye job and a scrunchy, yes a scrunchy, asks me about every medicine I am on which takes forever to go through. I try to tell her that I have Sarcoma and think I am having a reaction to a medicine. Bruce – the medical assistant is in there too with a smug look on his face, chomping on his gum, and not even cracking one leak of compassion. I even tried to joke with him about my bear named Bruce – but nothing. After that I got to spend even more time with Dick, I mean Bruce, as he hooked me up to an EKG. It is highly uncomfortable having an asshole man you don’t feel comfortable put monitors on your boob. When he was finished I said, “do I need to keep the leads on?” He says, “Those aren’t leads, don’t believe everything you see on TV. And yes, keep them.”

After the EKG, I thought they would bring me right back. I mean I was having extreme chest pain and trouble breathing! Right back is not where I went, I went to the waiting room for TWO HOURS. The ER is probably one of the worst places on earth.

Shortly after my EKG my BFF Jennie came to relieve my neighbor. Did I mention the ER is the worst place ever? Everything takes FOREVER. After finally going back and getting a bed, they put in an IV and took labs. Two hours to get those back. Then they wanted to do a chest CT – oh and had to put in a different IV because the first one was in the wrong place, excellent communication ER staff. Two hours for the CT results. They were pretty sure I was having a rare reaction to the Zometa but had to rule out a blood clot or PE. Oh, and when I say rare reaction to Zometa I mean my expert doctor had to look up case studies for this reaction. SERIOUSLY, BECKY? YOU ARE HELLA SPECIAL! Six a.m. rolls around and THE amazing Jennie is still with me. The doctor comes in and says they saw a spot on the chest CT that could be something or “just an artifact,” and they want to do another type of chest scan and a leg ultrasound to be sure. At this point I had to let out a little cry because I just wanted to go home and wanted my parents who couldn’t get to me because there was a BLIZZARD that was about to start.

Another two hours later and they transferred me to observation, which is between the ER and getting admitted. At this point the fever started and Jennie and I were eating sub-par breakfast sandwiches from the hospital cafeteria. At around 10 a.m. Jennie was relieved and Ryan and Amanda came to take the day shift. (I don’t know what I would do without my amazing friends). Amanda took over secretary duty from Jennie and talked to my mom and doctors as I was in and out of sleep. Each time I woke up “transport” was there to wheel me (on my stretcher) to the next test. Finally after everything came back negative they determined with certainty I had a terrible reaction to the Zometa. My endocrinologist felt terrible and was baffled by the reaction I had.

By 5 p.m. on Saturday (I went into the ER 11 p.m. Friday) Amanda and Ryan had me back at my condo to rest. It was recovery time. Tylenol every four hours for the fever, fluids, and lots of sleep and TV for three days…

And here I am two weeks later on the couch recovering again…to be continued…

Laugh Always

Thanks Momma for inspiring this post and reminding me of a hilarious story from one of my surgeries. As much as I have cried, screamed, pouted, you name it, I have laughed MORE! Laughing, crafing (crying and laughing – my friend Jennie and I named it), whatever! – it’s what gets me through and lifts me up. Here are some fun stories of laughter.

**

I was recovering from my first surgery at home in Albany. I spent most of my time in my dad’s recliner because it was THE only thing that felt comfortable. I couldn’t lay flat in a bed and would have to sleep in the chair. My family would have to help me out of bed, down the stairs, into the chair, and into my nightgowns (yes this was all I could wear for weeks and those AMAZING stretchy hospital underwear). This help also included showering me. I couldn’t bathe myself and just standing in the shower for five minutes took all the energy out of me. It was a huge task to go upstairs and clean my little tushy. Well, one day when my sister was bathing me, (thanks Allie J) I noticed how heavily she was breathing – she has allergies so tends to breathe heavy, but since she was so close to me it sounded like a rhinoceros! I said, “You are breathing like a rhinoceros.” Next thing you know we were both CRYING laughing. I was actually crafing because laughing hurt like hell with the pressure of the 32 staples down my tummy.

**

After my third surgery I was back at my old apartment in Boston with my delirious mother. Delirious because she never left my side in the hospital and brought me back to life. I was relaxing – or trying to – on the couch and of course my mom was running around the apartment cleaning anything and everything she could find. My mom could find dust where dust doesn’t exist. All of a sudden I see her with the Swiffer and she slips and does a full out split. I started cracking up which then turned into grabbing the pillow for my belly and yelling at her because it hurt so much! She was rolling around on the floor laughing too.

**

Panic attacks happen. They actually happen a lot on my drive home from work, which is definitely not the best time because I am DRIVING a “potential death machine” as my mom called it when I first got my permit. They happen on my way home because I have likely been holding in my emotions all day at work. So it basically starts with hyperventilating, my whole face tingles, then comes the crying, then comes the muscles getting all tight, and the anger and the flailing in my seat and the screaming. At some point during all of this I call my parents. Sometimes my mom is so upset to hear me upset that she says hold on and throws the phone at my dad. SOMEHOW he manages to make me laugh by saying the stupidest thing!! “So I saw Casey M. working in Stewart’s can you believe that. He dropped out of college.” What?!! So random of my dad to say – Casey graduated high school with my brother but was always a little bit of a question mark as to whether or not he would go to college or just end up staying in our home town. The randomness made me laugh and completely distracted me. I did my little I am still crying but also laughing and you are ridiculous laugh/grunt thing. Thanks, Datty. (My dad has many names – Little Ronald, Faja, Datty, Mr. Sir…)

**

My second surgery I had this adorable redheaded Irish nurse for one of the night shifts. Her name was Mary and she was just a gem. As with every nurse, my mom (a nurse) watched her every move. Some got the evil eye, but Mary was a keeper, she got an A. It was probably somewhere around 3 a.m. when Mary came in to give me my heparin shot (blood thinner shot into my thigh that stings like a biatch). Mary tiptoed in and explained what she was doing in her little Irish whisper. My mom was sleeping on the chair to my left. Then, poof, my mom was up and at ‘em standing right next to Mary, like the sneaky guy with the foot fetish in the movie Mr. Deeds. Mary got very startled and in her Irish brogue said, “Oh, I didn’t even see ya there.”

**

Surgery number two, back at the apartment again with my mom recovering and I was on the toilet – sure you wanted to know that. The reason I tell you that is because from the toilet I could see into my bedroom. (I was just peeing for the sake of this story, don’t worry. My mom would help me onto the toilet then leave me alone for a few then come back to help me off. Dignity, shmignity.) I look up and there is my 50-something mother trying to walk around in a pair of my three-inch Nine West stilettos. Okay, now let me define what trying to walk in these looked like – she could barely lift up her feet, was wearing her pajama pants that always manage to shrink and look like flood pants, and was concentrating very hard. I said, “WHAT are you doing?” We both looked up at each other and starting crying laughing.

**

Those are just a few stories of laughter for now. One note I have to end with is that my dad is very attached to his recliner I mentioned – it is his buddy. Of course he didn’t think twice about giving it up for me for a month because it was all I could get comfortable in, but I know he missed that thing like a fat kid misses cake. When I was starting to feel better and was able to get comfortable in other places, I came downstairs one day and there was a piece of paper taped to the recliner that said “Eviction Notice. This chair is now being returned to the care of Ronald A. Sail.” Very funny, Datty! J

Being that it is February 11th, I have to give a Happy Birthday shout out to my one and only rhinoceros, my sweet chinchilla, my other half -- Allie Wik.

The Receiver

I was in seventh grade and was going through that awkward middle school stage with friends. I was trying to fit in with the “cool crowd,” but was too naïve to realize they were treating me like shit. To my mom, it was very obvious, but I unfortunately had to learn it on my own.

I remember I had a group of the girls over to my house and we were planning Christmas presents for each other, secretly whispering to one what we were getting the other. The next thing I knew they were all faking stomach aches and called their moms to go home. I was so disappointed and didn’t understand what I had done. While they were there I had told one that I got another this awesome Clinique lip gloss set and she promised to keep it a secret. I was so excited about this gift! It was the brand-new sparkly Juicy Tube set.

The next day at school, the girl I was giving the lip gloss set to came up to me in the cafeteria and said, “Becks, I have a lot of lip gloss.” I was so upset. Not only had my other friend broken my trust, but this friend didn’t like the gift I was going to give her. As soon as I walked in the door after school that day, while I was still throwing my backpack on the floor and yanking off my coat, I said to my mom, “I have to get her another present. She said she has a lot of lip gloss.” In my young, naïve mind I didn’t see the immaturity in the situation and that these girls were not being very nice to me. That was when my mom drew the line and she said, “Becky, you are not getting her another present. The lip gloss set is a very nice gift.” I stormed upstairs and slammed the door and the pout session in my room commenced.

***

Although seemingly very trivial, this story is actually fairly significant. It was the first time I learned the hard “receiver” lesson and that you need to pick and choose your friends and the people you surround yourself with wisely. Now that I am 27, I think I have learned quite a bit about this lesson and have surrounded myself with amazing people. Unfortunately, it is a lesson that takes a lifetime to learn and there are always going to be people that disappoint me. The thing is, I see the best in people and I am just hoping for them to respond they way I want them to – or the way I would.

In my last post I talked about having confidence when telling my story; which I have learned is SO important. But, here is the thing, who am I telling that story to? Who is the receiver?

This is a very complicated question for me because I have a hard time telling my story to begin with – so, when do I tell it? To who? The rule of thumb that I have come to follow is, I tell it when I am ready, and feel comfortable telling it (to the receiver). In the past I have “let the cat outta the bag” and received a horrifying response. One particular time I can remember I wanted to just puke and run away. The person made a joke, was completely insensitive and made me feel like an idiot. He was obviously too immature to handle the information and I had not built the relationship with him that I thought we had. Looking back at the situation, I now know that this receiver was not ready, if ever, to receive this information. I wanted him to be, feel and act in a way that he was not capable of. I wanted to return the lip gloss set, buy a different present, and hope for the response I expected.

I recently told my story to two different co-workers. After knowing both of these people for a good amount of time, I got to know what kind of people they are, what they stand for, how caring they are, and was confident they would respond positively. I chose correctly. The first individual simply said, “I know I am supposed to feel bad for you, but that isn't my instinct here. You handle this so incredibly well I just want to say that I am amazed.” That really made me so happy because that is how I aim to live my life. Look fab, exude happiness, kick life in the ass and oh, wait there is that thing going on in the background.

The second individual was just so great. I knew she would be because I just felt that comfort level with her. To be honest, I didn't even get the sweaty palms, heart racing anxiety before telling her. She is already one of my biggest supporters; wanting to come to any speaking engagements I have, help me with my volunteer efforts and read this blog J.

Everyone goes through the “receiver” lesson with friends from middle school, to high school, well into their adult years. I now realize even more so why it is important to surround yourself with amazing people. Life happens. The right receivers won’t even flinch when you tell them something serious and will do everything they can to support you.

Note: To the girls involved in the lip gloss “thing” if you read this I love you dearly. We were in middle school J. Thank you for the lesson and you are among my biggest supporters today – and I of you.