Anxiety

You know how four out of five dentists recommender sugarless gum for their patients that chew gum? I’m the kind of person who would listen to the fifth dentist.

As you know, I was in the hospital overnight for a pleural effusion on Tuesday. I had already bought my plane ticket out of town for Friday. So naturally one of my first questions was whether this would cause a problem.

The first ER doctor was encouraging, saying once the fluid was out I would likely be OK. I asked the technicians who actually did the procedure, and they said there should be no problems. The assistant to the oncologist is been seeing came in and I asked her about it. She said Friday was probably the best time to do it because I’d have the maximum effects from the procedure by then.

All encouraging, right? Except my brain likes to focus on certain words. Like “likely.” “Should.” “Probably.”

I like to hear “will be.” “Guaranteed.” “What are you an idiot? Nothing can go wrong!”

But the overall message was positive, and my anxiety level, while elevated, wasn’t in panic mode yet.

Yet.

I pushed my luck. The attending physician — let’s call him Dr. Downer —  came by in the morning to check on me. I asked about flying.

He just about slammed the lid on my coffin. “I wouldn’t do it. If there’s a problem at 30,000, it’s over.”

Anxiety Level: DEFCON 1.

I was out of the hospital Wednesday night. I rested as much as I could physically on Thursday, but my brain kept on cranking out signals. Probably. Should. 30,000 feet.

I have never been a nervous flier. The first flight, maybe, but after that never.

Now a two hour flight, probably one of the shortest I’ve ever taken, had become Twilight Zone fodder to me. “Look, on the wing! It’s my lungs!”

I had a mini breakdown talking with my brother in law. For the first time since this whole health thing began, I had tears. I told him I was scared to death. I said I knew he had my best interests in mind because a two hour flight was going to be easier on my still-painful leg than a nine-hour drive, but I was terrified that if I got on the plane I could die.

He did his best to reassure me, but I don’t envy his having to suddenly deal with an irrational person who had had two days to work up a full steam of neurosis. His strength is logic, and anxiety takes to logic like fish take to skydiving.

Seeking what i figured to be a voice of reason, someone who would get me off the plane long enough to figure out another way, I texted my friend Donna. She had gone through cancer treatment, and her pieces of wisdom from the experience were reassuring to me.

I spilled out my fears, told her I was deathly afraid, didn’t want to get on the plane. I asked her what she thought.

She told me I needed to get to my family and that I spent too much time inside my own head for my own good. There was more danger driving on I-4 than on the plane.

Boom. If there was such a thing as a gentle mic drop, I had just been served one.

She was right. I haven’t been able to let myself get distracted since this thing began. I let my anxieties have a party and my emotions were suffering from the hangover.

I apologized to my brother in law, though he said it wasn’t necessary. I promised I would try to get on the plane.

Friday, I was boarded onto the flight. I tried to stay distracted with a word game on my phone, but it didn’t always work. We had a good deal of turbulence flying out of Tampa, and it was almost a relief because it took my mind off the fear.

Two hours crawled like two months. Then I heard the landing gear lower.

We had made it. I had made it.

I wish I could tell you I felt elated, that if I was capable of jumping for joy I would’ve gotten a gold medal for gymnastics. But I didn’t. I was too tired emotionally to feel relieved.

But I’m trying to take something away from this: to not let my life be hampered by what-could-bes There’s a lot of those in my future as I face treatment for cancer. If I let myself be guided by the worst  possible outcome, then that’s what I’ll receive.

I put my trust in God, but I didn’t put this part in Him. It’s time I do.

My testimony

I’ve mentioned my Christian revival a few times in other entries and how I came back to God while I was lying flat on my back. Seems to me like a good time for me to offer my testimony.

My mother made me go to the nearby church when I was little. Her belief was I learn about God but make up my own mind when I was older.

Valley Baptist Church was a Southern Baptist congregation. We would have Sunday school, then they would troop us into the big hall for the adult service. I remember trying to grasp the things Rev. Gage was saying, but not always succeeding. 

Every service would end with the doxology (Praise God from whom all blessings flow ...) and a call for anyone who wanted to accept Christ as their savior to walk up to the front of the church and meet with someone. A lot of times no one would walk up.

When I was about 10, I made the walk. I remember the hymn was “How Great Thou Art.” It seemed like time. I had absorbed lots of instruction, memorized a few verses. I believed in Jesus, the Old Testament, the 10 Commandments. 

I continued to go to church until I hit 13. Yep, puberty came between me and God.

Suddenly getting up early on Sunday seemed like a waste of a weekend. My mother said I was old enough to decide for myself whether I wanted to go to church or not and let me stay home.

I continued to pray every night. On occasion I’d dust off the Bible and read some Scripture. I thought of it as preventative maintenance; God would understand. He would know I was trying my best. And He would accept a half hearted faith over none at all, right?

When I was about 17, I had a brief revival of faith when my uncle started preaching at a local church. I realized that I had not been baptized, and I thought it was important that I do. After all, Jesus thought it was important enough to be baptized by John before starting his ministry. If it was good enough for the Son of God, it must be a requirement.

My uncle baptized me, and while I didn’t go to church, I did watch his services on TV.

It didn’t take long, however, for me to drift again. I don’t want to blame liberal teaching in college, but I started growing more cynical and sarcastic about this time.

Suddenly believing in Adam and Eve made little sense when you have evolution. And really? A boat large enough to get two of every kind of animal on board? Let’s not even get started on God stooping the world from rotating so Joshua could win a battle.

I eventually told myself the Bible is a book of folklore, legends to illustrate morality. But it contained as much fact as Tolkien.

Then I learned about secular humanism. I was told you could be moral without believing in a Supreme Being. It seemed so simple. I could live a life without being held responsible but still be a good person! 

Over the years, I redefined my beliefs as I went along. Along with a secular humanist, I considered myself an agnostic, a skeptic, nondenominational. At one point I considered myself an agnostic Christian, if you can believe such a thing. I decided I followed Christ’s teaching without being tied to believing he was God incarnate and had risen from the dead.

Yep, my faith was contorted into a moral pretzel.

Throughout it all, believe it or not, I kept praying. Even while I was an agnostic. It was a backup plan, just in case I was wrong. In my defense, I prayed for God to be with other people, not me. I thought I still would get the brownie points from God.

That went on until August, when my life came crashing down around me.

In a nutshell, I broke my leg, found out I had Stage 4 cancer and was walloped by complications from not taking care of my diabetes for years.

I have one or two memories of going to the ER, but after a couple of tests and calling my sister, it was like I blacked out. 

It could not officially be a coma because I had some response to stimuli, I guess. People who saw me say I would nod, even speak. The fiancée of one of my visitors said she was sorry she didn’t get to see me. Don’t worry, he told her. I don’t think he would remember It anyway.

He was right. I can’t tell you what happened for a week. I don’t remember eating or using the bathroom. I vaguely remember visitors, but how often and how many I don’t know. 

My first coherent memory was lying in the bed in the middle of the night. I couldn’t move because I was so weak. I saw the ceiling tiles, and that was about all.

I didn’t know about the diabetes issues. I remembered I had broken my leg and had cancer. But it was clear something was very wrong.

The next day my sister came in and filled me in. While I was out, I had  been treated for  pneumonia and a blood clot in my lung. 

The rest of the day was a blur, like the days before. But the news has sunken into my head.

I had come close to dying. 

That night, again unable to sleep, I stared at the ceiling tiles, creating patterns with the holes. It was about all I could do in my condition.

I started thinking about my life. Not in a life flashing before my eyes sort of way, just in a way of considering what I had done with my life.

I realized I had spent a good deal of it alone. By choice. 

I thought of how I could have better spent that time. Mostly by helping others. Making more use of my potential.

I also realized that I had been spared.

I had stopped believing in coincidences long ago when I met Deb when everything in the universe seemed to be against it. I put it down to destiny. I didn’t name it.

I realized whatever force that had guided me to her, that had guided me had guided me to that moment as well.

I was not angry at my situation. I was glad to be alive.

I was grateful to God.

After years of a half hearted faith, of pretending I could be a Christian without putting in the
emotional commitment, I had come back to God.

I prayed very hard for the rest of the night. I prayed that Jesus would come back into my heart. I prayed that I would get the chance to find the reason I had been spared for. I prayed that I would be cleansed body and soul.

I didn’t try to make a deal. I knew it was up to God what was to happen to me, not anything I could promise. Like salvation itself, I couldn’t earn His mercy. It was a gift made possible by the blood shed on the cross by Jesus.

I felt relieved afterwards. I knew I had been heard.

Since then, I have tried to follow the right path. I read the Bible every night and listen to sermons online. When I am stronger I want to go to church to worship with others. I want to find ways to help others.

I even think by writing this blog I am doing His will by sharing my story, how I’m turning my fears over to God and trusting in His plans for my life.

Do I think I will have days when my faith will waver? Yes. But I must try to remember that God does not waver in his love for us.

I don’t expect to be a perfect Christian any more than I expect to be a perfect human, but I am trying to be a better one. I hope I will succeed.

So long, Tampa

The time has come to depart.

It’s hard to believe I’ve been a Tampa resident for 15 years. When I came here to work at The Tampa Tribune, the future seemed so bright. Newspapers were flourishing so much I was actually flown out for an interview. I had gotten married only a couple of months before.

It all seemed ahead of us.

Then Deb got breast cancer. She died in 2006.

The Tribune took longer to expire, but it’s gone now too.

It hasn’t been all bad. I made some friends, had some good times. Learned about life, tried a few things. You know: lived.

You can’t be somewhere for 15 years and not have it rub off on you. Besides my birthplace, I’ve spent the largest chunk of my life here. I’ve gone to Rays games, stood in front of Dali masterpieces, watched dolphins romp.

Now it’s time for me to go. Hopefully not for good, but that’s up to God.

To all of you here who have made my life better, thank you and may the Lord protect you till we meet again.

Adios, Tampa.

Time for change

I have been holding off on this announcement for far too long. It’s not a secret and more than a few know. Maybe I’ve been holding back because of the pain this decision has caused me, even though at the same time it is a source of pride and a sign of the greatest love.

I will be leaving Tampa and moving in with my sister and her family while I get my treatment.

I need the support system you can only get from your family. They have opened their home to me, helped me schedule medical appointments, and helped me plan for the move.

I hope this is a temporary change. I have so many friends here and I enjoy everyone at my work. It’s been great being here the past 15 years. Coming back to Tampa is a dream.

But for now, this is the best call.

It was an easy decision on one hand. I love my sister and her family so much, and I want to be with them as much as possible. When they volunteered to take me in, I realized more than ever what a blessing they are to me. Without their help, I would not have made it this far.

I believe God is working a miracle for me through them. And if you ask them, they will tell you that it’s God, not them, who is at work here.

It hasn’t been easy getting rid of a lifetime of accumulated stuff. But once this crisis hit all my priorities changed. God made it clear I am not my possessions, I am the unique soul He created that he knew from before the womb. He cares for me and watches out over me. And I believe He is preparing a miracle for me.

I’ve been reading the Scriptures a lot, and the part about the lilies of the field applies here. Matthew 6:38.

I won’t be able to personally say goodbye to everyone I know here, and that’s for the best. I don’t have the emotional energy to do that. Each and every one of you have made a positive change in me. The way you reached out to an apparently emotionally  reserved person like me and took the time to discover the lunatic underneath is a gift I can never repay.

I wish I could hug all of you, tell you individually what a special person you are. When some of you have contacted me by text or email, I have tried to tell you what you have meant to me. I hope that in a small way it has helped to break down the emotional walls I spent my life building. I promise to keep doing that.

I said this in an earlier post: I don’t accept or make Facebook friend requests lightly. If you are my Facebook friend, it’s because you made a real impression on me. You’ve made my life brighter with your presence, you’ve made my days more bearable, you helped me along the way. Thank you.

There’s not a lot else to say on the subject. I will be blogging as I get used to this new life and keeping everyone apprised on how I’m doing. Thanks to this modern gadgetry, we are as close and as instantaneous as neighbors taking across a backyard fence. Keep the messages, emails and texts coming. If you would like my number, send me a PM.

Time for a change.

Hospital Hijinx

Don’t take breathing for granted. I’ve learned my lesson.

I was released from St. Joe’s this afternoon after the doctors drew off still more fluid from my chest. I can breathe again, but when I do it feels like I hit a wall when I get going. It will probably take a day or so for the lungs to get closer to normal size.

Last night in the hospital wasn’t as bad as I feared it would be. Sure, I was woken up at 4 am when my roommate apparently pulled out his catheter and it took a while to clean him up, but the nursing staff was very kind (heck, one of them was named Angel) and attentive. Plus having access to the good pain medication for a night was a blessing.

Plus the hospital food is so much better than the frozen dinners I’ve had recently. With my leg, it’s not so easy to whip up a decent dinner, so I’ve been relying on icy entrees. Bleh. So a breakfast of scrambled eggs and home fries, then a lunch of chicken parmy and grilled vegetables tops whatever imitation food stuff that comes out of the microwave.

Yes, I just praised hospital food. I almost wish I’d stayed another night.

Even the bed was comfortable. The one from my previous stay had a bad crease right where my butt would go when I sat up. Not this one. 

There was a big bummer when I turned on the TV and realized I had cable for a night, only to find Comedy Central was airing episodes of The Office from after Michael left. It was like being told you won tickets to a concert by a former Beatle and it turns out to be Pete Best.

So I’m back home. For now. I expect this won’t be my last trip, even my last brush with pleural effusion. Just hoping it will take a while. I could use a timeout.

Drained

So the breathing problem got worse overnight. I was not only gasping for air after walking a few feet,  but lying down I could only inhale a second’s worth of air.

I didn’t want to go to the hospital because I had an appointment for bloodwork in the morning and figured if there was an issue I’d go after that. Plus the last time I went to the hospital I lost a week of my life to amnesia and woke up with more health problems than a dog has fleas. And I had read shortness of breath was a chemo side effect, so I figured it would wear off.

But it was clear something was wrong. If it was chemo related or not, I needed help. Now.

My brother in law drove me to the ER, where I was placed in the lowest, most uncomfortable wheelchair ever made. Between gasps for air, the Seinfeld where George gets the busboy fired played in the waiting room.

My mind ran over several scenarios. My pneumonia was back. Another blood clot. Just a chemo side effect.

There was one diagnosis I was hoping it wasn’t. Even though it was probably the easiest to fix.

Finally after bloodwork, Xrays and a CAT scan, the diagnosis was in, and it was what I was afraid of.

Pleural effusion. Fluid collects around the lungs, pressing in on them, causing them to shrink.

This was not my first experience with it. Deb had it several times.

I knew there was an easy remedy: draw out the fluid by sticking a needle through the back. It’s not as bad as it sounds because you’re given a local anesthetic and the hole is small.

I just hoped it wasn’t that because I’ve already had enough callbacks to Deb’s ordeal, thank you very much.

But there it was. No doubt about it.

So they numbed a spot in my back and jabbed a needle in, and I watched as fluid filled one bottle, then part of another. There’s still more fluid in there, but the doctors will decide tomorrow whether it needs to come out.

For now, I’m spending the next night or so in the same hospital where I lost a week of my life and went from an ordinary guy to a cancer patient. Not where I hoped to be again.

On the other hand, it is where I reconnected with my belief in God, so the sweet is mixed with the bitter.

As it is in the rest of my life recently.

Still Me

What’s up? Not me.

The breathing issue continues. I can’t cross the room without wheezing. I haven’t stepped outside for a few days. I’m all right lying still, but trying to sit up takes an effort.

But I’m still here.

I’m fortunate enough to have a few friends who have been through cancer, and their advice has been helping me through this. Their best advice, however is the hardest for me to follow.

“Listen to your body. It’s telling you to rest.”

That’s fine when me and my body agree. Right now we’re barely on speaking terms.

I’ve always prided myself on my self reliance. Except for my marriage, I have lived alone all my adult life and not regretted it. I’ve never been annoyed by a roommate. If I wanted spaghetti at 2 am, I made it. Watch TV till 6 am? As long as I don’t bug the neighbors, why not?

But now I’m finding myself in a position where I have to ask for and accept help. And I loathe it.

And it’s my body’s fault.

My mind wants to take charge, to get up and rehab my knee. Go to the kitchen and eat, even if it is healthy food. Take a hot shower.

Be me, in other words.

My body is telling me, “Just try it, and I’ll cut off your air supply.”

Stupid body.

Doing Time

Feeling blah today.

I got up at the usual too early after the usual not enough sleep. I’m still winded from walking across the room.

I tried to watch TV for a bit, but my attention span is about the length of a puppy. I’m spending way too much time lying down instead of trying to walk around.

I had hoped the chemo effects would be wearing off by now and I’d be working on rebuilding my strength. Hoping that process begins soon.

Got a visit from a friend. I remembered he visited me when I was in the hospital, and I even remembered he brought a carrot cake for the nurses on my floor, but I honestly can’t tell you how many times he was there.

The hospital stay was a blur to me. I remember driving myself to the ER early Monday, then having to call out to an orderly on a smoke break to bring me a wheelchair because I wasn’t going to make it on crutches. He wheeled me in, and I went straight back. No one else was around. I was already in the system because I had come in a couple of weeks before because of my knee pain. That’s when I got the crutches.

I remember getting the X-rays while lying on the bed they had put me on. I remember the doctor coming in and giving me the cancer diagnosis. I vaguely remember calling my sister and telling her the bad news.

And after that I remember waking up in the hospital bed, barely able to move, and a week had gone by. I had had surgery and Chemotherapy, but I only found that out after people told me.

I have flashes of events in between, but they’re almost like dreams. I saw coworkers’ faces. I remember trying to make patterns out of the holes in the ceiling panels. I remember looking at the clock and the crucifix next to it. It’s all a hazy blur. It’s the closest I think I’ve been to being comatose.

I’ve heard I would stare and nod at people even though I was clearly out of it. I apologize to any visitors who had to witness it.

It wasn’t until a week into my stay that I think I was able to regrasp reality. The memories start to be less fuzzy. I can tell you who visited and that I was getting shots all the time. I remember turning on the TV to watch Friends and poker just to keep from watching the clock because I couldn’t sleep.

As far as hospital stays go, not being able to remember most of it is an approach I recommend, though there must be an easier way to accomplish that than a cancer diagnosis, a diabetes crisis, a blood clot, pneumonia and a broken femur. Just saying.

Unfortunately, I remember much more of the rehabilitation facility I was sent to after they discharged me from the hospital. I was taken by private ambulance to the facility, and I think the driver didn’t miss a single bump. Plus the facility was near a college that is always busy traffic-wise. It was not a comfortable trip.

They wheeled me in, then slid me over into an uncomfortable old hospital style bed. The one in the hospital was a Rolls Royce compared to the Ford Pinto I was now expected to sleep in.

I lay there about half an hour, wondering whether they even knew I was there, before someone came in to register me. And then I was signing insurance and indemnity forms I barely understood in my condition. And then I was left alone.

At first I had the bed next to the door, which meant I had the lights on and all the corridor noise. I was still not getting much sleep because of my leg pain. And my new roommate (in the hospital  I got were single rooms) had a lot of visitors.

The first night was a horror. I pressed the button for the nurse for a bedpan, only to wait a long time. I was kept awake by the unanswered calls for other nurses in the hallway.

I complained to the nurse, who didn’t apologize. She matter of factly told me the noises were normal and that she had other patients. The end.

In the morning, I asked to speak to someone in charge. I was expected to spend two weeks, maybe three, at the center, and I wasn’t going to be silent. Never mind that it was only one of two facilities the insurance would cover and that alienating the staff on the second day was not a good strategy. I was going to complain.

I complained about the lights, the noise, the long response times, the nurse’s response. I was calmly told there was little they could do. I clearly wasn’t the first to give them these complaints.

For what it was worth, however, I was switched to the bed by the window, which caught less light from the door. It wasn’t much quieter, but it was more private.

And the next time I saw the nurse she was more polite. She explained there was one nurse for 21 patients. I took that to being as close to an apology for the wait times as I was ever going to get.

Things settled into a routine.

6 am - pre breakfast shots
715 - breakfast
10 - the physical therapist would come in and tell me it was time, even though I hadn’t had my pain meds and morning pills.
1001- the therapist goes searching for a nurse to give me my meds.
1030 - I get my meds
11 - Actual physical therapy
1215 pm  - lunch
130 - More therapy (some days)
4 - More shots
515 - dinner
10 - still more shots
10 pm - 6 am: lie awake in an uncomfortable position until exhaustion forces me to pass out.

The wait times for nurses never improved. The alarms kept me up. The food was school cafeteria quality. It was an ordeal. I can’t help but wonder what the other facility was like considering this one had better reviews.

I will say it wasn’t all terrible. The therapy staff was friendly and was doing their best to help us patients despite the conditions. They took time with us, encouraged us on. By the time I left I wasn’t as far along as I had hoped, but I credit the staff for getting me as far as they did.

Finally after two and a half weeks of incarceration ... I mean rehabilitation, I was sent home. Exhausted.

All because of a fall.